Tom Watson

The Old Wreck

Jamie Moyer is nine months younger than I am, but he's also the oldest player in the majors. The obvious calculation: for the first time in my life as a baseball fan, I'm older than all the players. It shows, of course, just as it does on the aging wreck of a stadium the Mets are "celebrating" this year as they prepare to move into what appears to be a gorgeous but terribly-named baseball shrine next season. They didn't bother painting Shea Stadium this off-season. The seats were filthy. The grass was patchy too. And the old guy, Jamie Moyer, mowed down the younger Mets today - well, that may be a bit strong. He threw lefty junk off an 83-mph "fastball" and the Mets made easy outs, scoring only two runs off the ancient Phillie. Meanwhile, Oliver Perez fell apart in the fifth, the bullpen choked, and the powerful Philadelphia lineup finally broke through, wrecking an Opening Day we were told endlessly marked "the final one at Shea Stadium." I sat up there today, looking at the workers high in the steel of City, er, "Citi" Field and watched the Mets' slow start continue. This team is one big hitter short, especially as Carlos Delgado continues to morph into the late-career pinch-hitting Rusty Staub, slapping heaters to left. They'll miss Pedro. And the middle relief is, to coin a term that will undoubtedly emerge after the first losing streak next year anyway, "Shiti."  Ah well, it's spring.

The Left Wing

Clearly, the photos of the week! [from David Pokress at Newsday]. Ahhhhh.

And Now For Some Real News

The Mets have traded for the fireballing left-handed ace of the Minnesota Twins, Johann Santana, giving them the best rotation in the National League East. According to USA Today:

The deal is pending the Mets and Santana reaching agreement on a six- or seven-year contract extension and that Santana passes a physical; they have been granted a 48 to-72-hour window to do so. Santana has a no-trade clause that he will waive if agreement is reached on a contract extension.

Santana won the American League Cy Young Award in 2004 and 2006 and is 93-44 lifetime. The Mets gave up centerfielder Carlos Gomez and pitchers Phil Humber, Deolis Guerra and Kevin Mulvey. Patience clearly paid off for Omar Minaya.

On to Florida! [Port St. Lucie, of course - what, you thought I meant that  primary today in which a million Democrats are voting - the one that "won't count."]

Valley of the Ashes

Today I had a pleasant and productive meeting in a coffee shop just a fungo shot from the Elysian Fields, that sacred patch of downtown Hoboken where legend tells us the first game of organized baseball transpired. In 1845, lower Manhattan's fields were no longer deemed roomy enough for the Knickerbocker Club, so they ferried across the Hudson and a  year later, took on the New York Nine in what was reputed to be the first game between two rival clubs. Less than a decade later, the National Association of Base Ball Players used the grounds for their new league, and New York Times cricket writer Henry Chadwick wrote this account, before becoming an ardent promoter of the new sport:

"I chanced to go through Elysian Fields during the progress of a contest between the noted Eagle and Gotham Clubs. The game was being sharply played on both sides, and I watched it with deeper interest that any previous ball match between clubs I had seen. It was not long before I was struck with the idea that base ball was just the game for a national sport for Americans."

This account the game's evolution toward professional status has always been a more credible story than the Abner Doubleday "founding" myth from 1876, which had the former Union general from New York formally inventing our pastime. Silly, but then again the Doubleday heirs did own half of the New York Mets until the Wilpons bought them out, so perhaps silly is as silly does.

As I rode the ferry to lower Manhattan (and what a fine afternoon for the ride), it seemed to me that the Mets' story during this long, dark off-season is even less compelling than Abner's mythical founding. The news from Shea is as dreary as this time of year, while in the Bronx the second generation Steinbrenner has resigned A-Rod, and Posada, and Rivera and is in keen pursuit of Johann Santana. The Mets? The big Yorvit Torrealba-Johnny Estrada dance for platoon catcher is all the waltzing we've seen in Queens.

The Mets are moving to also-rans in a division they gave away two months ago, falling behind the Phillies - from Philadelphia, for heaven's sake! Outside of the core Wright-Reyes-Beltran ring of gold, this team is notable for what it lacks, for the gaping holes in its pitching staff. Tom Glavine is back in Atlanta (and good riddance on the lackluster lefty) and the coming stars (the Humbers and the Pelfreys) haven't panned out. Pedro and El Duque are older than Brooke Astor (combined) but more injury-plagued (the grand dame still clocked in the high 80s on the philanthropy gun when she checked out, and hadn't missed a gala start in 82 consecutive seasons), and that leaves two terrific three-four type starters in John Maine and Oliver Perez. The pen, of course, is much worse -it cost the Mets the division title and needs an almost total overhaul.

In the field, outside of the golden three, we've got age and production problems at first, injuries at second, and gimpy 74-year-old Moises Alou in left. Rightfield? Lastings Milledge perhaps, though he remains the team's greatest trade bait - itself a sad story when you're competing for Santana with the young, talent-hungry Twins.

This is a thin year for free agent material and dangling trades of team-changing talent, it's true, but Omar Minaya can hardly use that as an excuse. He has to produce a high-quality team and fast, especially in this last year of Shea Stadium - a thought that depresses me almost as much as darkness at 4:30 in the afternoon. Sure, it's a massive pitted pile of concrete with narrow seats, bad sight lines, and a constant cold wind off of Flushing Bay. Still, I've spent so many pleasant afternoons pondering the deep green grass and Jerry Koosman's prodigious sweat glands, that the notion of the wrecking ball seems like an executioner's song for my baseball childhood.

And then there's the new park. Another short journey last week put me on the train between the city and Great Neck, and I took a gander at the rising stadium. It grows quickly, and the upper deck seating is taking shape.  Citigroup gets the name - to me, it's like spelling the great catcher's name Jeri Grote, but what do I know about brands - and can obviously afford a stadium while laying off up to 45,000 people in the next few months. Which is a hell of an irony because that's exactly how many people the new bandbox will hold! Maybe Citigroup can hold a fired employees day with free tickets as part of its severance package.

The new place is small, and covered in brick. Fred Wilpon thinks of the stadium as a new Ebbetts Field, which was a whole borough over and far away. The rotunda, hard by the Flushing line, will be named for Jackie Robinson, who famously retired rather than play for the Giants. Those were the days - times that flashed briefly during the very early days of the Mets, when Yogi Berra caught and Duke Snider played centerfield. Gil Hodges played a little first base during his last playing days, and later managed the greatest squad in team history, just four years before another National League championship team was graced by the dotage of Willie Mays.

The throwback impulse isn't necessarily a bad one, but the Mets need a perennial contender to pay for it - or they risk being a a kind of Gothamite Seatttle Mariners franchise: nice little team, gorgeous field, never wins it all.

But you know, location is everything in New York real estate and Shea's site - excuse me, Citi Field (shudder) - has quite the literary pedigree. The eyes of Dr. T.J. Eckleburg no longer glare from a billboard near the railroad, but the Valley of the Ashes still shows its smudges at times, especially during rainouts and Aaron Heilman meltdowns. It was here that F. Scott Fitzgerald placed his great symbol of refuse on the ride from East and West Egg (Manhasset and Great Neck) to the city, along the class line from old money to new money to just plain poor. (Has anyone ever plumbed the irony of Arthur Ashe Stadium and its locale?)

These strange connections wander in, given a sports section and bit of time on the railroad to Long Island or ferry from Hoboken. Still, I wonder if the Mets have reached their high point with this particular vintage, if the statuesque pose of Carlos Beltran in the 2006 championship series at its last money will symbolize a team moving into a new stadium with old problems, and older hamstrings. If Citi Field won't be some diamond-shaped nightmarish version of:

"...a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat ridges and hills and grotesque gardens, where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and finally, with a transcendent effort, of men who move dimly and already crumbling through powdery air."

UPDATE: I should have worked this in higher up, but if you're looking for the best off-season baseball rumor site in the world, click here. 'Tis great.

High and Inside

Last night as I sat in the woods with the scouts looking at the stars, my daughter texted me - the Mets were up big, the Phillies were losing and the baseball season we've shared was still alive. Now, after Glavine went out throwing batting practice to the Marlins and the Mets have nearly completed their terrible collapse, that's the worst part of this late baseball season. I'm pretty jaded about professional sports franchises and the reality of highly-paid players' allegiances to their teams; I suspect, at times, that we root for the uniforms and the logo, and our lost youth.

Jerry Koosman wasn't around to put the stop on the Mets' swoon, not Tom Seaver. Hell, the Mets didn't even have a Gary Gentry to hand the ball to. Sure, I rooted 'em on but it's not the same as it is for the kids - I had Cleon Jones and Gil Hodges and Tommie Agee and Tug McGraw. They've got Carlos Beltran's third strike freeze frame, and this year's disaster.

And they've got this year's version of the New York Yankees to contend against - they already knew they were second fiddle franchise types, but the Yanks have put on quite a show in the Bronx this year. And they've finally become A-Rod's team. With Alex Rodriguez putting up the finest season in New York since the days of DiMaggio, the Yanks should go all the way on the breeze. Reyes and Wright suffer by the contrast - especially Reyes, whose exposure to Rickey Henderson has been a horrid experiment.

So, it's wait till next year. And time to clean house - too many aging veterans, too little pitching. At least Mrs. Mannion and Blue Girl are happy.

When Your Team Goes Bad

The days are getting short, the daily schedule is a nightmare (hence the light posts), and the New York Mets are tanking. If they lose tonight - and John Maine just collapsed, surrendering two different four-run leads to the lowly Nationals - they'll be but a game and a half up on the Phillies, that lunatic team from down the Turnpike. They're a whisker from a reverse storybook season, as a Bizarro Bob Murphy might have put it, and it has me in a funk.

At 45, I'm loathe to admit the antics of a bunch of young guys on a ballfield can still affect my inner self - but they can.

Been that way since '69 and it's not going to change. This year's team is an enigma, loaded with talent and a deep lineup and incapable of making a run or playing extended periods of solid baseball. David Wright has come back to have an MVP-type year, but Jose Reyes has faded badly. Pedro's back and fooling hitters with his guile and movement, but the young guys Maine and Perez are anybody's guess. And the bullpen is a hideous charnel house of failure.

During these long days of September as work cranks up and the hours get longer and longer, you look for that ballgame, that good play, that great boxscore. And after a long season in first place, you can feel the anticipation for the post-season - those truly mesmerizing playoff games - begin to build. Yet it might not be there. It's cool in New York this week, and for Mets fans, winter may come early.

But it's worse for Dodgers fans - Brooklyn Dodgers fans, that is. Sam Anderson writes about a half-century's malaise in New York magazine this week. Here's a taste:

“When the Dodgers left, it didn’t rip the heart out of the borough,” says [author Michael Shapiro]. “That’s too much. I think people said that because they couldn’t quite put into words the sense of what was lost. The departure of the Dodgers denied Brooklyn, for half the year, this common conversation—the idle chitchat you have with people on the subway or waiting for the elevator or going to the butcher. Baseball informed so much of that. ‘Can you believe that Furillo last night? Snider’s a bum! Is Hodges gonna get a hit?’ It created a relationship between strangers—you felt close to them, if only for a minute or two. What was lost was each other.”

Or as Rabbi Paul Kushner says of modern baseball: "It’s a private, profit-making corporation taking advantage of the innocent lambs who are foolish enough to be their fans."

Tell me about it.

A Cold Night at Shea

Carlos Beltran is like a living Stratomatic card - filled with possibilities but bland and devoid of emotion. He either hits or he doesn't, and it doesn't seem to matter. Lately, he's been rolling on the hitter's card and right into the power alley. Last night, my daughter and I say in what can only be called a driving mist and watched Beltran drive in five runs, and the Mets give up two leads, en route to a sloppy but satisfying win that left the team with the best record in the National League. The Mets are on the move, finally, after a dissipated mid-season of inuries and men left on base. They're up five on the Phils, six on the Braves and they're driving in runs again. Last night, my breath froze in the air and it was so foggy that nary a plane buzzed Shea on the way to LaGuardia. But we had great seats behind the plate, where we could feel the snap of the catcher's mitt and the good wood crack when Beltran blasted one into the bleachers. Felt like October - late October. Let's hope.

I'm Bill White

Phil Rizzuto was the Terence Aloysius ' Slip' Mahoney of the New York baseball scene, a wiry and pugnacious east end kid as a player and a beloved malaprop champ as an announcer. Fans of my vintage knew Scooter only from the broadcast booth - and we howled in glee at Rizzuto stories, whether Yankees fans or not.

Now, Scooter doesn't hold the place in the pantheon that smooth-talking Bob Murphy does as the voice of my youthful summers, but he did hold a position of both honor and humor in hardball New York - honor as a small man who made it big in bare-knuckled vintage baseball, and humor behind the microphone.

Who can forget the time he opened a broadcast thusly: "Hello everyone and welcome to Yankee baseball. I'm Bill White ... ”

White, the old Cardinals first-baseman, was his longest-running partner in the booth and many of the best Rizzuto stories come out of his straight-man role. Here's a great bit, courtesy of sportswriter Mike DiMauro from The Day in Connecticut:

Scooter and Bill White were, without question, the most entertaining broadcast team in baseball history. Rizzuto called him “White” and White called him “Rizzuta,” and along the way, they talked baseball strategy, broke each other into uproarious laughter, broke us up with uproarious laughter and showed the value of a broadcast booth bereft of any ego.

The one I'll never forget came one day when they were debating which position required more ability: shortstop or first base. Scooter was a shortstop for the Yankees and White was a first baseman for the Cardinals. When Scooter got frustrated, he told White, a black man, “all of you looked alike to me.”

Rizzuto realized what he had said and then hollered, “I was talking about first basemen!”

I have never, to this day, heard anyone laugh harder on air than Bill White did at that moment. He was useless for the rest of the inning. It was Scooter's innocence that made him such a treasure, all the way to his endearing fear of lightning.

I happen to share that fear of lightning, by the way. Here are two more great stories from sportscaster-screenwriter Ken Levine:

The Yankees were playing at Tiger Stadium one night. It was easy to hit home runs down the left field line. It was just a 340 foot chip shot. On the left field wall was a digital clock. A Yankee hit a home run and Rizzuto almost came out of his seat, saying on the air, “Holy cow, what a poke! He had that over the 808 sign!”

And then there was the day where his post game show was interrupted with the bulletin that Pope John Paul I had died after only a month of service. When he got back on the air, the first thing Rizzuto said was, “Wow. News like that could dampen even a Yankee win.”

Scooter Rizzuto, we hardly knew ye.

UPDATE: Memories from my old sports editor, Ernie Palladino (who writes a great Giants blog if you're a gridiron fan).

The Slumbering Mets

The sun and humidity broiled us in the bleachers at Shea Stadium yesterday, just as the hot summer is slowing a sluggish but talented Mets team this season. When Lastings Milledge and Ruben Gotay are carrying a team with Beltran, Delgado, Wright and Reyes on the roster, you know there's a cylinder or two not firing cleanly even while the Mets continue to cling to first place in the National League East.

Yesterday, it was Milledge and Gotay again - with the journeyman second-baseman getting the big hit to bring El Duque home a winner in the noon-time start. We got a great view of Milledge from the friendly bleacher nabe, in the shadow of the rapidly-rising Citi Field; he started in place of the injured (and frustrating) Carlos Beltran, a great player on his good days, but on the whole, a talented but desultory failure for the balance of his career, given his talent.

And really, these Mets mirror the strange and brilliant Beltran - sometimes, he embraces the big contract, the leadership role, the historic mold of a great New York centerfielder. But much of the time, he takes too many pitches, hits poorly with runners on base, and seems to want to blend in - to let others carry the load. And then there are those others, led by the would-be homegrown superstars Wright and Reyes, both of whom received that label before they'd earned it.

When the Mets held a contest to pick David Wright's "walk-up" song this year at Shea, I knew it was a case of too much, too soon. The kid has a $50 million long-term deal, endless marketing tie-ins, his own charitable foundation, and the role of matinee idol. Too bad he's not ugly - maybe he'd have the MVP  numbers to go with the hype. Not that he's bad - .295, 18 homers, 63 runs batted in - but that's Ty Wiggington territory, nowhere near Schmidt or A-Rod in the pantheon of slugging third-sackers.

Reyes is my favorite player. I love the enthusiasm and the talent, the clear love for the game. But like his mate on the left side of the infield, he's been more style than substance over the past month or so. His average has slipped under .300. He's getting thrown out on the bases. And he hits way too many fly balls, big-ass cans of  corn that have driven down his production relentlessly since May.

Delgado is on the down side, no longer a clean-up hitter and frankly, an easy out versus lefties.He's hitting .254, with 17 homers and 54 RBI. Shane Spencer territory, and not much defense. At 35, he's a number seven hitter or a part-time DH. Likewise, Paul LoDuca is showing a big drop-off from last season - .270, 5 HR, 31 RBI. Frankly, Ramon Castro is better.

The Mets are in first place because of their starting pitching, which has been very solid all year. Duque, when healthy, has been terrific (7-4, 3.02); yesterday at Shea, I enjoyed watching him set up the Nationals hitters, and talking with my kids about his guile and baseball smarts. He remains one of the best pitchers to watch in the game. Tom Glavine (in what is almost certainly his last year) has been better than serviceable (9-4, 4.51). The real story has been the rise of John Maine (11-5, 3.04) and the resurgence of Oliver Perez (9-7, 2.84) - two young guys who are now leading the staff. Add a healthy Pedro Martinez on Labor Day, and you can super-charge the rotation. The bullpen's been fine - not brilliant, but well above the average bunch of leaden arms and gopher ball servers that passes for a major league pen these days.

In today's Daily News, John Harper interviews Keith Hernandez, who nails the slumbering Mets. Sums up Harper:

Just when you think the Mets are shifting into a higher gear for the stretch run, they lose three out of four to the Pirates and Nationals, the dregs of the National League. August is only a couple of days away now and you wonder if it is ever going to feel quite like it did last year at Shea.

The pitching is fine, for the most part, but what is supposed to separate the Mets from the other contenders in this league is their ability to murder the ball like an American League powerhouse.

Which they're not doing. After taking the early afternoon game from Washington, the Mets stalled in the night-cap and lost. They seem incapable of building real momentum. And while they're still in first, the only relentless drive I can see in Flushing is on the part of the construction teams on the new stadium.

Dodger Town

As the Jet Blue engines rumbled and warmed, the man with the lighted directional sticks stood on the tarmac at Bob Hope Airport in sunny Burbank and did a boarding gate impersonation of Nomar Garciaparra. Oblivious to his audience along the right side of the jet - and waiting for the pilot to begin the "push-back" from the little terminal - he put his sticks together and stood in against an imaginary hurler. He cinched his trousers, and bandied his legs like one of those old Hollywood movie cowpokes. Took a compact swing. Stepped out. Adjusted wrist guards - pull, twist, nod. Then he stepped back in. Compact swing. This time, a long ball - he watched the flight of the ball, seemingly all the way to Glendale.

Three years after coming to LA as the down-at-the-heels former Boston folk hero who left just as the Sawx ended their legendary drought, Nomar is numero uno in Chavez Ravine, where I watched the Dodgers take on Bonds and the Giants last night, nestled in the second deck that is itself tucked into the hills  of Los Angeles. Garciaparra is the clean-up-hitting first-baseman now, the cool SoCal native who comes to the plate to the funky strains of "Low Rider," and the heavily Latino crowd in Dodger Stadium loves him for his style and production. It's a strange cultural mix really - Angelinos chanting "Nomah! Nomah!" as if they hailed from the streets of Roxbury.

[Photo: Chavez Ravine, originally uploaded by Tom Watson.]

Giants-Dodgers is supposed to be one of sport's great rivalries, but the franchise hatred was on a low simmer at bst last night. Oh, Bonds was booed lustily every time he batted or touched the ball. Two kids in front of me had concocted a makeshift sign that read simply "Steroids." They hoisted it between turns at the nacho tray, and when they heard I was from New York, they talked about their own trip to Gotham in excited terms.

"You been to Yankee Stadium?"

Many times, I answered.

"Yankee Stadium was incredible. What a place!"

Too bad Mayor Bloomberg is tearing it down, I told them.

They looked shocked, as if I'd told them President Bush planned to raze the Lincoln Memorial. So much for tradition.

Besides, I'm a Mets fan, I said. National League, all the way.

"Shea Stadium is a dump," volunteered the man next to me.

I couldn't but agree. Turns out my neighbor, a Mexican immigrant, had arrived in Los Angeles from Chicago two years before the Dodgers. He told mde about the first couple of years at the Coliseum, where they raised a huge screen in right-field to make a homerun down line at that gridiron a bit fairer. He recalled the greatness of Koufax and Drysdale and Campanella and Wills. His friend remembered having Carl Furillo at his house for dinner. "A fine gentleman" whose arm was every bit as strong as Koufax's.

As the less-successful Boston important Derek Lowe allowed the Giants to build a 4-0 lead and the, talk turned to Dodger Stadium itself. Designed by the same architect as Shea and configured in roughly the same layout, it has aged well - much better than the shell in Flushing. The people in Section 148 were clearly proud of their stadium, wedged into the hill at Chavez Ravine and only a freeway exit from downtown LA. The small touches made a difference: polite and uniformed staff, real draft beer, grilled Dodger Dogs, clean rest rooms, an inch or two of extra room in every seat. There was an obvious pride in the old place. Yeah, the fans arrived late and left early. But Dodger Stadium, after 45 years, still seems the place to be. Look, there's Paris Hilton. Hey, it's Larry King. And on the scoreboard: Kirk Gibson and Sandy Koufax. It all felt retro and simple and swell.

When Yankee Stadium is destroyed by Bloomberg to be replaced with a faux near-Yankee model nearby and the ghosts of Ruth and Gehrig have been banished by the Mayor from Boston, Dodger Stadium will be the third-oldest park in the Major Leagues, behind Fenway and Wrigley. There are no plans to replace it.

The former Dodgers owner is Rupert Murdoch - who spoke at the 10th annual Milken Global Conference in Beverly Hills, which I covered for onPhilanthropy. Murdoch went out of his way to defend President Bush, saying "there's a sort of monolithic attack on him every day of the year" and suggesting that Bush doesn't deserve it, that he's merely a bad communicator. In the next breath, he blamed media (other than his own) and the Democrats for creating an era of pure partisanship.

"The atmosphere is absolutely toxic. You can't really expect anything to be achieved in the next 18 months, and it's a very serious, sad problem for this country."

In truth, Murdoch was pretty much the only prominent voice defending the Bush Administration at Milken; even the conservative economists prett much dismissed the President as irrelevant, and suggested that the global markets have already come to the conclusion that the U.S. is winding down in Iraq.

Frankly, it made Murdoch seemed quaint - the angry, conservative media baron still working in his 90s snit. Fox is, of course, the subject of a rather serious boycott by the Democratic Presidential contenders that threatens to instantly rebbrand the network as a pure partisan opinionfest, removing it from the pantheon of "news" on cable television.

By contrast, the former Fox property out at Chavez Ravine has returned to its roots. All the signs and concession items emphasize a 60s era throwback look. The videos celebrate the history. And Los Angeles, which always feels older than New York to me, is Dodger Town once again.

The Second to Last Season

Opening Day 2007, originally uploaded by chilcott.

The cranes soar over the old blue fence in centerfield, and you can see the construction guys working the steel only fifty yards behind Carlos Beltran. Shea Stadium lives on borrowed time. Its replacement rises quickly in left and center.

We sat down the left-field line in the sun field, warm despite the cold April breeze. The usual opening day crowd was there: profane, over-served, and wearing blue pinstripes. "Rollins, you suuuuuuuck!" called the man in the Delgado jersey across the aisle, clearly perturbed at the Philly shortstop's preduction of Philadelphia domination in the National League East. Young Mr. Rollins did oblige, however, in living up the my neighbor's poetic description, booting a couple and keeping as huge Mets rally alive in the eighth.

Mets 11, Phillies 5.

In truth, this is a team that's damned hard to keep down. The lineup is deep and professional, and it's topped by the most exciting player in the game today. Jose Reyes is that rare talent: when he's due up, you don't leave the room. And he's driving Yankees fans crazy by being the best shortstop in New York; WFAN has become Jeter Defender Central - and no one's even attacking him.

I'll be among the few who will miss Shea Stadium when they tear it down after next season. I've spent so much of my life there - know every ramp, every concourse, every corner so well. I can remember the first time I came up a ramp in the upper deck and saw that field - deep, deep green; so different than the gray on our television set in 1970. Brilliant green, with Tommie Agee in center and Cleon Jones in left. Koosman on the mound. Couple of hundred games. Even a couple of Jets games back in the late 70s.

Shea was never really finished. It's the same basic design as Dodger Stadium, and went up the same year - now they're two of the oldest ballparks in the majors. They finished the work at Chavez Ravine, however; in Flushing, centerfield was left open. Now you can see the cranes doing their work. Building Citi Field, just a Dave Kingman blast past right-center.

They had a fly-over today for opening day. Which is hilarious, because they have fly-overs every day at Shea Stadium. Delta. American Airlines. Continental. They all do the Big Shea fly-over. So the Navy jet routine was a little louder and a little faster and a little more patriotic, I suppose. But we're used to the jets. The new stadium will actually be closer to the LaGuardia flight pattern, if you can believe it.

It's a New York obscenity that they're tearing down Yankee Stadium, a travesty engineered by the Red Sox fan in City Hall. But Shea probably deserves to go. It's a very old, very care-worn stadium and the sight-lines are terrible. I'll miss it though.

Luckily, Jose Reyes will be batting lead-off at the new field, game one. And he'll only be 25 years old.

Meet the New Mets

Note: This post goes out to Steve Gilliard, who faces open heart surgery and whose baseball heart, we know, belongs to the team in Flushing.

Nothing to cheer a late winter day in New York but fastballs and over-hyped young soupbones. So while the Yankees spit on tradition and laugh greedily at the best player of their late dynasty while counting the handful of greenbacks they’ll save by keeping Bernie Williams at home on his guitar, we’re turning our attention to the team of true New Yorkers – the Mets, those Metties, Los Mets.

Now, the Mets lineup remains as fierce as ever, although we’re all working to get the image of Carlos Beltran standing there at Shea out of our minds. Reyes has packed on 10 pounds of muscle and will be an MVP candidate again this year. Wright had better quit the teeny-bopper music contests and poster-posing and just hit the ball, especially in the second half. Delgado had off-season surgery but is reported well-healed, and is good for 35-100 falling out of bed. Beltran is one of the top hitters in baseball, despite that called strike.

That’s the top four – after that, we get the questions. Will LoDuca repeat his incredible knack for reaching base and rally-stoking last year, as he looks for a new contract? Does Shawn Green have anything left? Will the newly-acquired Moises Alou be an improvement on the beloved-but-gimpy Cliff Floyd in left? Which Jose Valentin will we get at second? Do we trade the talented Lastings Milledge or try to get him at-bats? Endy Chavez is no question mark – he’s the perfect fourth outfielder: fast, makes contact, super defense.

Of course, the lineup is just the prelude – and it’s pretty well scripted, really. What matters with this team is the pitching, and there are big question marks all over the rotation. Pedro’s out till at least July, and then he’s tender as a newborn coming back. Glavine is well over 40 now, but seems good for 200 innings. El Duque? Let’s just point out that he’s already had a medical trip back to New York this spring – for arthritis.

Now, the soupbones and for once, we’ve got a bunch of ‘em. John Maine looked the most ready last year and pitched in some big spots. Oliver Perez is a lefty, late-developing with good stuff, and was occasionally brilliant, occasionally horrid last season. A pair of number one pick studs are vying for a spot: Mike Pelfrey and Philip Humber – big guys, big futures, probably both ticketed for the new Mets Triple-A affiliate No’leans. Throw in a couple of promising, “could develop” types like Jorge Sosa, Jason Vargas and Alay Soler – and there’s plenty of young starting stuff in Port St. Lucie. Old junk, too. As is his way, Omar Minaya has brought in a couple of retreads in Aaron Sele and Chan-Ho Park to compete.

The bullpen is even more interesting – after Billy Wagner and Aaron Heilman, you’ve got the rehabbing Duaner Sanchez, lefty Dave Williams, veteran free agent Scott Schoeneweis, along with Pedro Feliciano. Plenty of depth, and it doesn’t include Guillermo Mota, who was suspended for steroid use and will return after 50 games.

But the talk of Mets camp may be a couple of Dominican outfielders with no chance to make the team: Carlos Gomez, 21, and Fernando Martinez, only 18. Both have power, speed, and very quick bats and could be stalwarts in the upcoming Citi Field Era.

Too early for predictions, but with exhibition season kicking off today, this year’s team looks deeper than last year’s – and the currently thin starting rotation may well tell the tale in the end.

What’s that you say about the Yankees, Steve?

The Plot to Kill the Yankees

A sinister and cynical plot to destroy the long tradition of the New York Yankees is being managed and led by a Boston Red Sox fan right under the noses of New Yorkers, and no one seems to care. The conspiracy involves a billionaire politician, an aging principal owner, the seizure of a neighborhood park, and the destruction of a field that opened for business on April 18, 1923 with a Babe Ruth homerun.

This is a story that involves the near-death of any real political opposition in this town. It stands for everything that's wrong about government give-aways to corporations - particularly monopolies - and it shows the franchise known as the New York Yankees for what it really is: a heartless media megalith that would spit on tradition to obtain a few luxury boxes.

And it's a story that almost no one's covering.

Any baseball fan who actually believes in "Yankee tradition" after the Bloomberg administration's vacant deal to tear down Yankee Stadium and construct a shoddy replica across the way in Macombs Dam Park is a fool. There is no Yankee tradition in Macombs Dam Park. When the Yankees move into their new stadium in 2009, they will abandon the field of history forever.

They will never again play baseball on the field where Dimaggio chased down long flyballs, where Jeter ran for pop-ups, where Reggie went yard, where Mantle limped. They will destroy the spot where Gehrig said farewell, where Munson was remembered, where Babe Ruth said good-bye. No Yankee will ever again toe the rubber where Larson pitched his perfect game, where Whitey Ford and Ron Guidry and Goose Gossage and Mo Rivera hurled. There will be no view of the Bronx County Courthouse, no actual Monument Valley beyond the fences, no real short porch next to the subway in right. Don't hang the championship banners; they weren't won in Macombs Dam Park.

All of that, every last trace of it, will be erased by Michael Bloomberg's sucker deal - a deal that could only have been engineered by a Red Sox fan hell-bent on destroying the Yankee Stadium mystique forever.

This new stadium is good for no one - not for Yankee fans who will lose their prized history, not for Bronx residents who lost their park, not for New Yorkers who will fork over at least $160 million in subsidies, not to mention the hundreds of millions that the subsidized Metro-North will pay to build a new train station. The Village Voice has been reporting on cost overruns to the project, which already stretch into the tens of millions in the city budget. Said Lukas Herbert, one of the Bronx Community Board 4 members who warned that the city would face likely cost overruns on its share of the Yankees project: "This is almost like an 'I told you so' - it just goes to show that once a big corporation like the Yankees gets an approval from government, the cost just goes up for the public."

But even to a baseball fan from New Jersey or Manhattan or Westchester who doesn't give a hoot about city subsidies, the psychic cost of this amazing boondoggle is stunning. Say these words slowly: "Tear down Yankee Stadium and build a new one across the street in a city park." Incredible, isn't it? Yet this plan was hatched by the Yankees and financed by Bloomberg and Pataki with near-uniform complicity from the so-called press in this town. Why don't we just move the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building, Rockefeller Center, or Grand Central?

This is Pennsylvania Station all over again and there's no Jackie Kennedy in sight. The sports columnists don't seem to care. The big-time Yankee fans you see in the box seats are silent - where's Billy Crystal now? Are there no traditionalists, no guardians of baseball lore?

Sure, the current Stadium has its problems; the 70s renovation that brought the old stadium down nearly to the ground and rebuilt it in place using much of the same steel is showing its age. Another renovation should be in the plans. But actually abandoning the most famous playing surface in the history of professional sports? That's insanity, folks.

Now, some of you may be asking - Tom, why do you care? You're a Mets fan. And the Mets are getting their new Ebbetts-style stadium Citi Field in 2009, when they'll say good-bye to Shea Stadium. Never again will Mets fielders roam the grass once patrolled by Don Hahn or toe the rubber one nudged by Pete Falcone. I have to admit, I'll actually miss Shea because I grew up there. But Shea Stadium is to Yankee Stadium what a suburban Holiday Inn is to the Waldorf-Astoria.

Throwing away the history of Yankee Stadium is a crime, a massive mistake that New York will regret for generations. As a New Yorker and a baseball fan, I find it outrageous - almost as outrageous as the silence of Yankee fans, the people always touting their tradition. Well, after next season, their tradition will be ground into the dust.

And it was all engineered by the Red Sox and our resident Bostonian.

Bobby Bo and Friends

The excellent Mets blog Hot Foot has its list of least favorite Mets up, and it's very heavily weighted toward the post free agency era of coddled man boys and sulking superstars. Blogger Anthony DeRosa goes for:

1B...Mo Vaughn
2B...Roberto Alomar
SS...Rey Ordonez (sorry Rico!)
3B...Gregg Jefferies
LF...Vince Coleman
CF...Carl Everett Juan Samuel
RF...Bobby Bonilla

DeRosa can't name a catcher he doesn't like in Mets history, but added a second centerfielder. Over at  MetsBlog, Matthew Cerrone chips in with this bunch of stiffs:

1B: Mo Vaughn
2B: Tom Herr or Roberto Alomar
SS: Rey Ordonez
3B: Bobby Bonilla
C: Rick Cerone
OF: Roger Cedeno
OF: Vince Coleman
OF: Juan Samuel
SP: Kenny Rogers
CL: Mel Rojas

So, stuck as we are in that fallow period after the winter meetings and before pitchers and catchers, when a photo of a rehabbing Pedro Martinez in sunny Florida can stir a man's heart, when Carlos Beltran is still standing at home plate looking for something he can pull, I'll bite. Here's my list:

1B: Dave Kingman
2B: Roberto Alomar
SS: Kaz Matsui
3B: Jim Fregosi
C: Mackey Sasser
OF: Kevin McReynolds
OF: Vince Coleman
OF: Bobby Bonilla
SP: Al Leiter
SP: Craig Swan
SP: Pat Zachry
SP: Dock Ellis
RP: Mel Rojas
RP: Doug Sisk
Manager: Joe Torre

The Hall Travesty

Bully for Cal Ripken and Tony Gwynn, two first balloteers of clear distinction. And Goose Gossage appears to be sitting in the on-deck circle for next year's vote. But the continued denial of Jim Rice's rightful place in the Hall of Fame remains a disgrace - the man dominated, simply dominated for a solid decade; the most feared hitter of his time. So much for Boston's big public relations push. It got lost in the hoopla over Mark McGwire's steroids-linked rejection (in retrospect, Big Mark wasn't really as good as Harmon Killebrew, a fairly marginal Famer). What shame. Rice was a hitting machine, a real force. And the spiteful sportswriters can't get past their old grudges, and the fact that Rice didn't hang on for a five-year stat-padding dotage.

Go Down Swinging, Son

The 11-year-old was crying at midnight on Thursday, as I arrived home rumpled and tired from a black tie dinner in midtown, having witnessed Endy Chavez's all-time grab in a hotel suite, and hearing the last of this year's Mets on the train. He was trying to read Lord of the Rings, but he had a hard time concentrating on the menace of Mordor (not the faux Santorum misread) and getting his mind off of Carlos Beltran - still frozen like a collectible statue version of himself at home plate as the Cardinals whooped it up.

Unlike Beltran, my little guy is anything but diffident in defeat. He was shattered, and remains down even today, even as the millionaires from Shea have most likely moved on emotionally from their loss and scattered to the warmer climates they came from. Even in this age, kids still identify with their sports heroes and they take it personally when the team comes so far and loses.

Of course, it gave me the perfect opportunity for one of those classic object lessons. First, there was the requisite "they'll get 'em next year," even as I knew he'd never be 11 again, this fragile, this welcoming of victory. He kept talking about Beltran. "He didn't even swing Dad! You have to swing in game 7 with two outs and the bases loaded in the ninth. You have to swing, Dad."

Right boy. You have to swing. Life's often about recognizing opportunities and making a decisive move. I've missed many, but knocked a handful up the alley as well. I told him this. He nodded, but he didn't look all that convinced. To him, this team is a collection of characters - the effervescent Jose Reyes, the bubbling David Wright, the quiet Beltran, the regal Carlos Delgado, the everyman Cliff Floyd, the goofball Pedro Martinez, the competent Tom Glavine, and knuckle-busting Paul LoDuca. I didn't have the heart to tell him that he was taking their loss far greater than they were. He roots for love. They play for money. And he's right to think it might not be the same next year, for him or for the Mets.

Fred Wilson sums up the season this way: "You gotta take what you can get in life and I love these 2006 Mets." Steve Gilliard says being a Mets fan is an act of faith; like being a Democrat, I'd add. Says Steve:

Ya Gotta Believe is the Mets slogan for a reason. Because you just have to hope they can pull it out, and know that they more often than not won't. With life there is hope and with the Mets, there is always hope.

My analysis: the starting pitching, except for the quitter Steve Trachsel, was excellent and we've found two young bottom rotation guys in Perez and Maine. The hitting, as it has been all year, was bi-polar - overwhelming or silent. And David Wright simply was a pedestrian player from the moment the homerun-hitting contest ended in Pittsburgh; he remains the popular young boy-next-door but he'd better skip some of the hoopla, and rid himself of the destructive love of hitting with two strikes every trip to the plate. He was not a factor in the second half. That said, there's a nucleus here, Omar is brilliant, and Willie radiates calm leadership. My only worry: will they become the Braves or the post-2000 New York Yankees, regular season monsters, post-season mice?

Today there's a fall festival at school, a birthday tonight, a scout dinner tomorrow - so the 11-year-old has plenty to do. He's back reading Tolkien as well. As Lance notes, nothing happens by accident in Middle Earth. Not so in baseball.

Game Six

The Mets are up 2-0 against a tough Cardinals team in Game Six on the NLCS. They either hold this game or they're done, a 97-win season ending two games shy of the World Series. A good year - especially given the recent past - but not a great one. Yet I don't despair. I'm not crying. Sleep finds me resting sweetly. I'm not crazed for two reasons: one, this team is built with a core that will be strong for a decade. They'll be good next year and they'll find more starting pitching.

But there's something else. I'm not as tied up with wins and losses any more. It must be age. I've been Met-obsessed since 1969. I was born on the day the first pitchers and catchers ever assembled in Florida. The franchise has been part of my life forever. We're Mets fans because previous generations were New York Giants fans, National Leaguers. This is something passed down. But I'm just not as emotionally wed to whether they win or lose. I'm older. I know how the business of big league sports works. I don't identify with the players, except possibly for Julio Franco, four years my senior. I love the Mets, but I'll shrug off an NLCS loss like the slightest of colds. It won't drag me down.

Don't get me wrong, I dig this team. Starting with Reyes, of course. And Wright, Delgado and Beltran. But I'm not wearing their jerseys. I've got a Seaver jersey around somewhere. That's it. Love the game, follow the team, live for baseball - but not too high, or too low over the outcome.

My kids are different. This morning, my 11-year-old was dragging butt all over the house getting ready for school. He looked sad. Scruffy said. Little boy sad.

"What's the matter?"

"The Mets, Dad."

"We'll get 'em next year. And they might pull it out."

"It's a long time, Dad. We were sooooo close."

And he talked about how badly Jose and David and Carlos would feel. And what about Cliff, the team good guy - why, it might be his last game as a Met?! (This from a kid who cried over the Xavier Nady trade).

Didn't have the heart to tell him that he cared more about the uniform than some of his heroes. That big money had changed the game. That it was a huge entertainment business valued in the billions. The kid believes in his Mets. This is something worthy to pass along. And even after he learns some of the hard lessons and the game isn't as pure and idealistic, I think he'll still love it. Still see poetry and perfection in 90 feet, three outs, four balls, and 60 feet, six inches.

I still do, but I'm cool about it. That said - Let's Go Mets!

UPDATE: Mets won 4-2,although Wagner was incredibly shaky with a four-run lead in the ninth. Love to watch that Reyes play ball.

Omar and Willie

The power centers of baseball are California, the sunbelt and Florida, and the Caribbean - places where the endless summer sun allows for year-round play. Not the public housing towers, brick stoops, and snow-covered lots of Brooklyn and Queens. Yet today, a pair of New Yorkers (one born here, the other raised), two outer borough guys, are the toast of the baseball world.

When the champagne splattered everything in sight in the Flushing clubhouse, Willie Randolph from Brooklyn and Omar Minaya from Queens (by way of the DR) capped a terrific New York story along with the Mets first division championship in 18 years. Along with the Wilpons of Brooklyn, the Mets braintrust took a victory sip from the loving cup of appreciation, hoisted by a town that loves winners above all else.

Moreover, they realized the fruits of an aggressive, two-year climb to excellence. This is team is both loaded (Minaya) and together (Randolph). Sure, they have a long way to go this year. Yes, for this team merely aking the playoffs is hardly the summit. And you can be sure I fear that quick, five-game series of the first playoff round. You know they can handle the Padres, Dodgers, Phillies or Cardinals; they're easily the class of the league - and when entirely healthy, their 1-8 lineup is among the best in baseball. But a short series can bring down even the most titanic of lineups. Starting pitching will be vital - the bullpen is already the finest in baseball.

I loved the pics of Reyes and Wright, the two 23-year-old stars, celebrating in style among the fans. That's a nucleus - especially with Beltran. But don't discount the vets, Delgado and Valentin and even a gimpy Cliff Floyd.

But today, for the National League East champs, the pirze goes to two middle-aged, up from the streets, New York guys. Omar and Willie.

UPDATE: A wonderfully profane reaction from Steve Gilliard - a die-hard Mets fan who, shall we say, loathes that team across town along with a certain pair of afternoon WFAN talkies. He totally captures the frustration/relief quotient of the fans. Fred remembers a cab ride long ago, rooting for Doc Gooden his rookie season - and got the same feeling last night. Waiting for reaction from Mets fans Lance and James, among others.

UPDATE II: Lance introduces me to Mr. Met (as if I needed the intro!) and posts the best single photo of this great Mets season (tell the lad for me, Lance).

UPDATE III: Wonderful post by Steve Keane on the wonderfully-named Eddie Kranepool Society blog; here's a bit where he remembers the most recent bad old days and what life was like in the wasteland of the upper deck:

Just the usual die hards, the guys with the royal blue Mets jackets with the inter-locking old English NY on the left breast and worn blue Mets hats with the blue button on top. We would just nod to one and other, no need to talk, we were stuck in the mud and as bad as it was the organization was so much a part of our DNA that we could not get away. We have been made fun of and mocked by fans of another team in this town that no nothing of suffering and having their loyalty tested time and time again. Way back when, the NY media loved us thought we were “Amazing” then when hard times fell they turned on us just to prove what a front running town this is. And with all that we have stayed loyal to the blue and orange but what looked to be the last straw, the one event that would cause a revolt among the loyal fans who seemed to getting smaller and smaller may have been what saved the franchise.

Mandelbaum, Mandelbaum, Mandelbaum

Shawn Green comes to the Mets to give them a powerful hitter in the six hole, and replace the lamented Xavier Nady as a real corner outfielder and RBI threat behind the slumping kid at third-base, the one they used to chant "MVP. MVP, MVP" about way back in late June. He also gives them another mensch on the bench, to go with the likes of Delgado and Franco, Floyd and Glavine - older, productive character guys who know how to play the game.

Though it puts an end to the overblown "Team of Latinos" conspiracy theory, a Jewish leftfielder also appeals to a sizeable fan base in this metropolitan area of ours - a former All Star, still young at 33, good-looking, and he doesn't suit up for Yom Kippur. Omar Minaya knows what he's doing in Queens. If you follow the standings only, the Mets appear to have been cruising since May Day - except it's not true, really.

Although they play in the anemic National Leeague, the Metties have had to overcome quite a bit - the complete replacement of the starting staff, the loss of the best set-up man in the league to a Miami traffic accident, a massive hole at second base, and various mega-slumps (Heilman, Delgado) and assorted injuries. Pedro's been a non-factor for two months.They haven't really cruised; they've made the right moves to keep the big ship moving.

Think about who's gone from the opening day roster: Matsui, Zambrano, Bannister, Nady, Castro. Pick-ups like Hernandez and Mota, along with Heilman's resurgence, have given New York a dominant bullpen. Of course, they do have two legitimate MVP candidates in Beltran and Reyes, as dynamic a duo as there is in baseball.

But Willie's astute moves, the shuttle of starters under Peterson's care, and most of all, Omar's telephone work have kept the Mets moving steadily to dominance. Add Shawn Green, the best Jewish hitter in New York since Art Shamsky, already inspring "Messiah" signs from the wise-ass Shea denizens. He fits the Mets, he fits the Mets fans.

We've got a lot of Izzy Mandelbaum in us, left over from the Dave Kingman years perhaps - that sense that although we know we're tough, we're sure the world's out to screw us. Everyone thinks they're better than us. Well, hello, dough boy. We're here to whip you in to shape, so grab your jocks - if you need one. It's go-time.

Generation Reyes

No one in Major League Baseball has more stolen bases than Jose Reyes, the brilliant 23-year-old shortstop of the Mets, who has 48. No one has more triples (14). He ranks eighth in hits (137) and second in runs (94). When he gets on base, you believe he's going to score - which he does more than half the time. He plays a ranging shortstop and has a powerful arm from the third-base hole. He plays a bit recklessly, but he loves to play. He's the best young ballplayer to come along in a long time - actually one of two 23-year-old Mets who can claim that honor, a truly Amazin' verity. He smiles, he runs hard out of the box, he laughs at stupid jokes, invents crazy handshakes, and shakes off mistakes. Sitting here on an August Friday, Jose Reyes in a great baseball phenomenon to consider. He makes me smile.

Stadia Arcania

Once upon a time, obsessive reporters of the arcane were relegated to Usenet or mailing lists - or God forbid, swap meets and paper newsletters. Thanks to the wondrous machinery unleashing blogs, however, even the most narrow of subjects get a full and broad airing, with plenty of real reporting and humor thrown into the bargain. Take sports. Sure, there are blogs for every professional sports franchise, every league, every college team, every tiny sport of any kind. But I've fallen hard for two that slice those sub-sets even smaller. One covers sports stadia and arenas - specifically the politics around new buildings. Field of Schemes takes a decidedly negative stance to deep-pocketed team owners going on the public dole to build more luxury boxes and is an equal opportunity basher of stadium deals. Also a terrific read -  as is Uni Watch, a blog by Paul Lukas, who also writes about the same subject for ESPN. Uni Watch is also relentlessly negative, zeroing in on hideous choices sports teams make on their haberdashery. Included many times over is a pet peeve of mine: those super-long baseball pants, which have replaced the classic baseball socks of yesteryear on today's diamond stars. In the latest ESPN column, Lukas asks for votes on the ugliest sports uniforms of all time. Some particularly hideous choices, including the old Chisox 80s look. Would that the Mets would listen to Lukas and do away once and for all with their lame black/blue combo and stick with the classic pinstripes. That and bringing back the traditional stirrups - as seen above in the classic Cardinals look.

Tags: baseball uniforms stirrups stadium stadia

Seventh Inning Stretch

Lou Gehrig, originally uploaded by baseballart.

There are tales of ballplayers and their feats, their drinking, their whoring, and their dying that make for good company around a table of beer glasses, whiskey shots, and smoking butts. These are the stories that make lesser men feel grand for a moment, puffed up on booze and tobacco and someone else’s moment in the sun.

Why do grown men weep at the story of Gehrig? Why do traveling shoe salesmen identify with Ruth? Why do accountants, and pharmacists, and clerks worship at the altar of Mays and Aaron and Mantle? At some point, they shift their ambitions and their hopes for life into the physical actions of others on the ballfield, in the ring, on the course. They tamp down their dreams to pay the mortgage and keep the wife happy. Two weeks at the Jersey Shore, and call it a year.

But they wonder at the shoestring catch, the galloping triple, the curving called strike three. They thrill at the long ball. Their eyes shine, lighting their way much as the ancient call of the kings to war lit the fires among the peasantry to take up arms.

But the path is not to arms at all – but to our modern substitution for it: sport. It is sport that keep the yeoman legions in their line, in quiet reserve; sport that allows them to ignore the endless, numbing, ceaseless labor; sport that shines that light and offers the rescue beacon to youth and ambition. Baseball and a cold beer are a sweet summer reward for work.

Keep on Ridin'

They're pushing mass transit big-time out at Shea Stadium these days, probably because half the parking lot is now a nascent construction site with massive two-story drills taking test borings of the swampy Flushing Meadows soil just beyond the rightfield fence. Work on JPMorgan Chase Stadium or Bank of America Field has already begun, the preliminary tasks in recreating Fred Wilpon's baseball adolescence well underway outside the Mets bullpen. A grand, brick-swathed rotunda - a Disneyesque Ebbetts Field entrance - will rise within an easy stroll of the No. 7 line and with parking at a minimum (and just wait till next year) the club's management is encouraging fans to ride the Flushing line. Last night, as Dontrelle Willis shut down the Metties with his arm and his bat - and Jose Lima was booed out of a major league uniform for quite possibly the final time - it became obvious that a change is coming. A complete team in the field, the Mets are short on the hill and are running a whole squadron of rookies through prime-time tryouts. The man they should get, of course, was pitching for the Marlins - a young lefty whose boundless athleticism and palpable joy for the sport fits him quite perfectly in blue pinstripes with fellow travelers named Wright and Reyes. I say: trade Lastings Milledge. Decent outfielders can be easily acquired. Willis is a perfect fit for Flushing, a mass transit Met with a baseball Metro-Card. He certainly looked the part last night, as the Mets sold the 7 train with a video on DiamondVision - set, as it was, to the perfect soundtrack of the New York Dolls' Subway Train. I say: Dinah wontcha blow your horn...

The Real Thing?

Photo: Beltran, originally uploaded to Flickr by ferruggiaro.

Between now and the All-Star break, we'll find out if these streaking New York Mets are for real. They certainly look the part. This weekend's destruction of the Diamondbacks was nearly convincing: especially the defeat of the NL's leading pitcher Brandon Webb. The Mets now have the best record in the league and a 6.5 game lead in the East. Their everyday lineup is deep and balanced. They look like they can play with anyone. Over the next few weeks, we'll find out if this is truly a 100-win juggernaut out at Shea - they'll face the second place Phils, the first-place Reds, the Yankees and Red Sox, and the Blue Jays. If they maintain their lead, the'll breeze to a divisional title - their first since 1988. Their leader? Wright, Reyes, and Delgado are all terrific but this year's blockbuster player is Carlos Beltran. Despite missing two weeks, Beltran has 17 homers, 49 runs batted in, 12 steals, a .297 average and .406 on base percentage. He's third in the league with a 1.028 OPS. The Mets have a strong bench, a great running game (they lead MLB in steals), good defense, and a terrific pen. The starting pitching is strong at the top but weak on the bottom, although this Cuban kid Soler looks like a keeper. Another front-line starter would really close the loop. But this is Beltran's team - and this just might be this team's year.

UPDATE: Fred slags the Times for paying the surging Mets little heed, while focusing too much coverage on the sagging Yanks. And Lance says don't bring up '88. Good point. Mike Sciosca may be reading.

Tags: Mets, Carlos Beltran

Der Fling des Nibelungen

To see William "Billy" Wagner break into small, ineffective pieces this afternoon was a painful baseball tragic opera - and one scary as shit sign for this so-far, so-good Mets season. Is Wagner going the way of other talents who, exposed to New York's pressure, fail to grasp the ring? Are we destined to see a baseball God destroyed? And why oh why is Willie Randolph always falling into safe choices that betray the very evidence of his quite experienced Brooklyn eyes. Duaner Sanchez was well-rested and rolling. But no, Willie goes all Enter Sandman, playing it like October. And Wagner can't find the plate. Extra innings, blown win for the amazing Pedro, gift win for the hated Yankees. Makes you think of a Ring cycle alright - maybe Royce Ring, a lefty with good stuff. Meantime, pass das Rheingold - hops, barley, corn and water clear. UPDATE: Mets won the rubber match, and Wagner got the save - but Mannion is still worried.

Metsie, Metsie, Metsie

I saw the headline in my inbox: "Mitchell to Investigate Steroids in Baseball" and I thought: "Kevin Mitchell, strange choice!" Then another headline on CNN - "Rice and Straw in Surprise Visit to Iraq." Wow - finally a real lefty slugger on the Bush Dream Team, and a clutch hitter besides. Darryl with the troops, sweet idea.

I'm not kidding here: I actually thought these thoughts. Which shows either how out of it I can be day to day - or just how much baseball occupies my withered mind. Can't tell which. Doesn't matter. Season starts tomorrow. I'll be there. And things are more right with my world.

To business. The Mets will be very good this year, among the elite of the National League. Biggest reason? Bullpen. Perusing the rosters of other NL teams, it would seem the impossible has transpired. New York has the best, deepest pen in the league. Of course, Omar signed the league's top closer in Billy Wagner, he of the 100-mph fastball and the 40-plus saves. But a great closer does not a great team complete - look crosstown for evidence. The Yanks still have the amazing Mariano Rivera but the rest of their bullpen corps hasn't made the grade for more than half a decade. Aaron Heilman was the finest set-up in major league baseball the second half of last season, unhittable by lefties and barely touched by northpaws, but he handed the ball to Braden Looper. Now, although he wants to start, he gives the ball to Wagner. And not just Heilman: Duaner Sanchez, easily the most unheralded pick-up of the off-season, and Chad Bradford, the submariner. Way, way down are the project Jorge Julio (formerly the O's closer with a 95-mph fastball) and the heavily traveled Darren Oliver - both fifth and sixth inning guys.

Now, the rotation is not as deep and at the top, it's elderly and fragile. Pedro's toe has been a distraction, nothing more, and write him down for 17 wins. Trachsel will give you .500 and much innings. Zambrano is testy: unhittable today, Rick Ankiel wild tomorrow. Brian Bannister was a nice find but let's see where he is in July. No, the real key is 40-year-old lefty Tom Glavine. The question is this: do we get the first-half Glavine, who pitched no better than cranky Bob Feller could pitch today. Or do we get second half Glavine, with the gaudy 2.22 ERA and a new strategy of pitching inside, instead of nibbling for the near corners that the Questrec machine out at Shea no longer allows. We need that Glavine - and we probably need a deadline deal for a starter in his walk year. Chervokas thinks Zito. Good choice.

No worries about the lineup. Carlos Delgado instantly gives the Mets their best everyday look since Mex hit third in '86 - with an assist from the underrated Paul LoDuca. Reyes and Wright remain the beating heart of the team, with Lastings Milledge on Triple A deck waiting for tthe day when Cliff Floyd's aching body gives it up. Beltran will be improve. Nady will be fine. The Mets chose the wrong second baseman of the future (Keppinger's the guy) but it doesn't matter. This team will hit and generally catch the ball. It's loaded.

So last year, I predicted 88 wins and we got 83 - fading in August before a late run in September. Generally, my love affair baseball lenses bump my win total forecast upwards by four or five wins. So I'm thinking 97 or 98, which means 92 or 93. And I'm still thinking division title - the Braves' closer this year is Chris Reitsma. The Mets have Wagner and a bunch of real soupbones. The pen gives the Mets the win. See you tomorrow!

Absolute Baseball

Towing the Steinbrenner line, some of my Yankee-loving friends track the World Baseball Classic only to see if - God forbid - Johnny Damon tweaks a hammy. Not me. Although skeptical at first at Uncle Bud's Great Adventure, I'm a convert now. A few minutes ago, A-Rod lined a fastball from Japanese right-handed reliever Kyuji Fujikawa into centerfield, scoring Vernon Wells in the bottom of the ninth with the winning run and sending Team USA to a controversy-scarred victory over Japan. The American bench erupted like any jubilant pennant-winning squad, while Japan legend Sadaharu Oh protested the game to the umpires - and yeah, he had a case.

This is great baseball and here's what I'm now thinking about the WBC - it's baseball's equivalent to the tension-riddled Ryder Cup, another dramatic (and much-hyped) international made-for-TV tournament.

It's not quite Yankees-Sox for the pennant, or the Mets versus the Astros in '86. But it's better for this New Yorker than, say, Braves-Diamondbacks in a game that has wild card implications. Two things I like about the WBC: it's in March, and it creates new sets of teammates with natural (yes, nationalistic) reasons for trying hard to win. I've enjoyed seeing Bernie Williams - always by far the best and classiest Yankee of this generation - excel in his baseball dotage for Puerto Rico; the sheer power of the Dominican team even without Manny or Vlad; and the open, athletic joy of the dirt-poor Cubans, who walloped Venezuela today in a game that had Luis Sojo on 24-hour suicide watch (big righty Pedro Lazo looked like Lee Smith in his prime). All of these guys want to win, and they're all playing real hard.

About that controversy: Japan, whose team of wiry but powerful players reminds me of what baseball used to look like before steroids, was robbed.

With the bases loaded, one out and Joe Nathan pitching, Akinori Iwamura skied a fly to medium left that was caught by Randy Winn, who was late in his throw to the plate to nab the tagging Tsuyoshi Nishioka. The U.S. appealed that Nishioka left early, but lost. Buck Martinez stormed out and pushed American umpire Bob Davidson all over the field; Davidson caved and overruled the call. Three outs, no run. Replays were clear - he left after the catch. A terrible, embarassing call. But you know what, despite the appearances of ugly Americanism, that's baseball - ask any Red Sox fan. Dramatic, compelling, controversial - elements the network sales boys love to take to the bank.

In any case, time to wrap this up. Bartolo Colon is warming up for the Dominicans, and Bernie's leading off. Baseball, si!

Pedro's Toe Reports

I loved the bold headline on ESPN's baseball homepage today: Happy New Year! There's no question that Pitchers & Catchers Day combines the religious earnestness of Rosh Hashanah and the secular sloshing of January 1st toast-making into one happy little morning in the slushy month of February. In darkness, there is light; from an endless, undrinkable winter's sea of bad sports and fastball-longing, an island of breathless green emerges. But enough of the strangled metaphors. Let's talk about Pedro's big toe.

George once pitched Jerry on a stand-up routine based on the big toe being the "captain of the toes" until the smaller toes makes  a grab for power - "the coup de-toe," says Jerry. "Yeah," says George. "The coup de-toe."

The routine bombed. And I'm frankly worried about the Mets' own little coup de-toe to start this potentially wondrous season, and whether New York's own Big Toe - 34-year-old Pedro Jaime Martinez - and his gnarled, painful digit. Despite the acquisition of the noble and powerful Carlos Delgado, the bold and overpowering Billy Wagner, the blocky, contact-making Paul LoDuca, the continued development of young stars Jose Reyes and David Wright, and the prospective comeback of Carlos Beltran, it may be no understatement to allege that as Pedro's big toe goes, so go the Mets. Because this routine can't afford to bomb.

The Mets are built to win now, with a blend of young talent and veteran presence; they are built to launch the Wilpons' new television network, and to set the stage for the new stadium in Flushing. Sometimes, it's a bit obvious to state that the best player on any team and his health are the keys to any season. Well, the obvious it is then: I simply can't find anything that matters more to this Mets team - with its decent but thin starting staff and beefed-up bullpen - than the performance of Pedro over a long, tough season.

So on this, P&C Day 2006, a day of rejoicing and hope, let us focus on the foot, on the much-hyped corrective shoe from Nike, and join hands in this, our blogging Mets family (and I mean you and you and you .. and not you, ye Yankee-loving bastard), to pray to the powers above for Pedro