They Are Who I Thought They Were
So yeah, here we are, a scant three games in, and the Mets are pretty much the team I thought they'd be: spotty starting pitching, poor situational hitting, bad baserunning, and a sub-.500 record. Ho-hum. Is it any wonder this is my first post in ... hm, let's see here ...holy shit... NINE MONTHS?!? Well, notwithstanding all that junk, I'm pledging to do my best to keep this here little site updated as often as possible as I await the Great Flushing Youth Movement of 2011. For the first time in a while, I'm actually not appalled at some of the talent that's percolating down in AAA.
I should also note that I attended Wednesday evening's freaking bizarro-world game at Citi (see below picture from our rather good seats). A few stray observations about that:
(1) McFaddens = sheer awesomeness. Even putting aside the Hooters element, it's roughly the size of an airplane hangar, meaning that you can comfortably hang out and knock back a few beers without rubbing up against some fat mamaluke from Rego Park sporting a Robin Ventura t-shirt and irrepressible body odor.
(2) Please, people, if you're going to spring for a brick on the Citi Field brick walk, at least have something sensible to say. I swear to Jeebus I saw a brick on Wednesday night that said something like:
"I WAS AT THE 2000 SUBWAY SERIES. JOEY C."
You were? That's dandy. What a pleasant memory that must be. And now it's immortalized in brick forever. Maybe I should get a brick that says "I WAS AT GAME 2 OF THE 1986 WORLD SERIES WHEN A COKED-UP DOC GOODEN GOT SHELLACKED BY THE BOSTON RED SOX. TOASTY J." Ahhh, memories. Sniff.
(3) Danny Meyer is a genius. I thought I'd be smart and wait until the 4th inning to hit the Shake Shack on Wednesday, thinking the line would be all but gone and I could cruise up and get a frozen custard. Spent two entire innings in line, and by the time I made it to the front, I figured I'd look like an idiot just buying a custard after all that time. So I sprung for a burger, too. Damn him.
(4) Nice game, Maine. You know, I'm no expert, but I've learned that when you go 3-0 on just about every hitter you face, your chances of success are, well, not so good.
Finally, I still hate you, Jorge Cantu. Bite me.