First, a bit of business: I’ll be at Two Boots Tavern tonight for the second installment of Faith And Fear In Flushing’s “Amazin’ Tuesdays” series. If you enjoy feedback loops, click here; Mr. Prince not only gives you a rundown of who’ll be there and how you can get a free beer, but he’s also been kind enough to link to my reviews of the first Amazin’ Tuesday and the earlier “Metstock.”
Those of you who are in the area are probably going to be eating pizza and drinking beer anyway. You should do so on Grand Street. If you do, say hello. I will not buy you a beer, unless you buy me one, but somewhat tangentially, I’m not contagious anymore and indeed, my head is quite nearly clear of congestion at this point. That alone should throw the proverbial wheel hard in the direction of approachably genial.
So, yes, Amazin’ Tuesday. Two Boots Tavern. What I like to do from the Upper East Side is take a Lexington express train down to Union Square, transfer to the local, and transfer at Bleecker to a Sixth Avenue express. Three trains, yet the ride somehow takes about fifteen minutes. I’m somewhat attention-deficient, so the movement keeps me upbeat.
Starts at seven. Go.
Now then: I wrote this post on August 12th, about the new Rawlings S100 batting helmet (use your back button to return).
On August 17th, I wrote this post hoping that Johan Santana wouldn’t suffer at my bony, cloak-wearing hand. Not “hands,” as the other is busy wielding a scythe.
However, he’s now with Dr. David Altchek at the Hospital For Special Surgery. I meant to take a spin by there and see if there’d been anything laid at the foundation. Perhaps it’s just enough that someone spent last night behind the gates somehow, clad in black and holding a single thorny rose.
Billy Wagner will probably not accept a trade to the Red Sox because he wants to be a closer, and Jonathan Papelbon already jigs-it-up for the Fenway folk. I think his particular brand of hard luck (and ours) will be at the negotiating table.
Luis Castillo’s taken his lumps already. Chowdah’s got the ligament issue (and Chowdah didn’t even show until July). Sheffield’s got his/has his/will get his; I can’t keep straight what’s bothering that guy anymore. But at least he’s gone out there. This is good.
Schneider’s a ghost already; predicting his doom would probably only RAISE his batting average.
If you’ve seen a Star Wars or an Indiana Jones movie–or even Quentin Tarantino’s Inglourious Basterds (which, if you enjoy a ruthlessly bloodthirsty matinee, I recommend)–you’re familiar with something called “The Wilhelm Scream.” It’s reserved for the death of cannon fodder: a foot soldier who you KNOW is going to go down in a hail of whatever fired by whomever our hero is.
If you do a search for NPR Wilhelm Scream, you’ll come across the On The Media transcript for an interview on said scream. Read (and listen? I don’t have the player) here.
The Mets are not the bad guys, though they’ve been made out to be. But at this point, all the Mets have are redshirts: guys who really should be faceless.
(“Three balls to Pedro Martinez after two three-run homers, and he was pulled mid-count.”)
I can’t, therefore, try my hand at predicting the next Met injury because, to the extent that the guys out there are pretty much all the same redshirt, it doesn’t matter. Luke and Leia are going to manage to swing onto the other side of the bridge; Indy will get the better of Belloq. Good guys or bad, that’s the script.
This is obviously not their year. As I’ve stated several times now, one should watch Mets baseball if Mets baseball is still fun. I will still watch, because it allows me time to decompress. And I enjoy a win whenever they do. Besides, after baseball comes football, but after football comes a whole lotta nothing.
However, while I will not predict the downfall of another Metropolitan, once my voice fully recovers, I will be practicing my “AIIIEEEEEEE!!!”
**I’ve been pulled from tonight’s game, by the way, in favor of Nelson Figueroa.
