Double Dog

There’s a saying that goes “The worst day at a ballpark always beats the best day at work.”  I have always found this to be true.

If there is a collection of individuals who is capable of proving that proverb to be incorrect, it is your 2011 New York Mets.  They came damn close on Thursday.  Damn close.  One night after Terry Collins said that the Mets need to go 9-2 from here on out, the Mets responded by taking care of the two in seven excruciating hours at a near empty ballpark.  This puts Collins in a position where if the team does not go 9-0 in their next nine games, he will have no choice but to roam the streets and commit a random felony to make himself feel better about life.

What I saw at Shea Stadium* was a mockery.  A sham.  And it made a liar out of Collins as he was the one who said “we’re going to play the game the right way.”  Really.  You taught Daniel Murphy to try to take third base on a ground ball to shortstop?  While the shortstop is closer to third than second?  That’s the right way to play ball?

And since when are outfielders so scared of the wall that they don’t trust their warning track?  Willie Harris, a professional outfielder, was feeling for the wall miles before reaching the warning track all night Wednesday (yes, the same Willie Harris that is the greatest defensive outfielder in the world when he’s not wearing a Mets uniform).  And Scott Hairston was no better in right field Thursday.  He’s going back on a fly ball in the fifth inning of game one and then he just stops and watches the ball fall behind him.  Throw in his refusal to dive for a ball he had a shot at in the second game and I’m left with the conclusion that Scott Hairston can’t play the damn outfield.  Is the warning track not enough?  Do these guys need an air raid siren?

That was the same outfield corner which cost David Wright a game winning grand slam in Game 1 as he flied out to the Mo Zone to end the game with the bases loaded.  What’s frustrating about that, besides the fact that Seth Smith didn’t seem to have as much trouble as Scott Hairston in the outfield (preventing you from telling me that Hairston is inexperienced in that corner), is that the fly ball Wright hit would have been a grannie in the other ballpark across town.  But here, it’s an F-9 in your scorecard and the Mets lose.  Of course.  The sun shines in the damn Bronx and the only winners in Flushing are the architects that get to put that monstrosity on their resume.

That said: David Wright, how about a f***ing line drive against an Matt f***ing Lindstrom with the bases loaded?  This wasn’t Huston Street who was chased from the game by Hairston’s homer et al, this was Matt f***ing Lindstrom!  He’s throwing the ball all over the place.  And David can’t get a line drive?  I know people get pissed when you say “David Wright isn’t clutch” and I’m not even going to entertain that discussion.  I’m not asking David Wright to reach a state of abstractness such as being “clutch”.  But can you get a hit off Matt f***ing Lindstrom?

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Brad Emaus?  When Daniel Murphy, who has had way less experience playing the position, is outplaying a guy at second base, then maybe that guy should either find another position or another line of work.  Brad Emaus drops a throw from home on a steal that should have ended the third inning in Game 2, but much more egregiously fails to field a potential double play ball from Jorge De La Rosa which should have ended the inning but instead only got one out, leading to five of the six runs scored in that pivotal inning.  Is it asking a whole lot from a second baseman on a team that’s supposed to play the game the right way to turn a simple double play?

Of course if the bullpen could get anybody out we’re not having this discussion.  You know how when teams are winning people attribute it to “a different guy every night”?  Well it sure is that way with the Mets bullpen.  When D.J. Carrasco’s good, Taylor Buchholz stinks.  When Buchholz is good, Tim Byrdak stinks.  And when they’re all good, you can sure as hell depend on Bobby Parnell to bring a gas can to the fire.  He came in to face Tulowitzki in Game 1 and I knew doom was coming.  I just knew it.  The only part I got wrong was that I was going to catch the home run.  But I firmly believe I would have if Parnell’s pitch wasn’t so damn useless … then Tulo wouldn’t have pulled it as much as he did.

Here’s the good news: with Chris Young’s start pushed back to Sunday, Friday’s opener against Atlanta might feature a whole game by the bullpen!  Hoo-ray!!!  At least with a root canal, I know there will be novocaine.

The only comic relief was the guy in the outfield who decided that he was going to heckle Dexter Fowler just because he was closest.  And when you have a double header, that means lots of beer.  And when you have lots of beer, that just means the heckles get weird.  Here now, are actual heckles from Thursday:

“Hey Dexter, how’s that .260 average for a leadoff hitter?”

“Hey Dexter, your mother works at the DMV!”

“Hey Dexter, your mother works at the post office!”

“Hey Dexter, your mother works at the record store!”

“Hey Dexter, I follow your mother on Twitter … and on the street!”

It’s just another example of the ways that enterprising young people are using new media to call your mother a whore.

As you could probably imagine, it got even nastier than that (I believe Denny’s was mentioned), causing a revolt among the outfield stands (or as much of a revolt as you can have with about three rows of people … it was really one guy yelling SHUT UP! SHUT UP! SHUT UP!), and the offender was escorted out of the ballpark.  It was meant as a punishment.  Considering what was going on in front of us, he got the ultimate reward.  He got to go home.  As for Dexter, of course he drove in the winning run and caught the final out.  The only thing that would have made it more fitting was if Dexter had hit a home run to the guy and lodge his sausage and peppers in his throat.

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*In 2007. What I saw at Shea Stadium in 2007 was a mockery.  I, of course, was at Citi Field on Thursday.  See, I was so spittin’ mad I forgot where I was.  Actually, I’m shocked it took two years.