You may have noticed that there’s been no Mets blogging this year, despite the reappearance of the baseball links in April. That’s largely because there hasn’t been much to say outside of “Wow, they suck.” I could have chimed in on the surprise firing of Willie Randolph, but I decided to hold my fire and let Jerry be Jerry. That’s paid off. The Mets go into the All Star break having won nine straight, and only a late inning dinger by Pat Burrell in Philly today separates them from first place in the NL East. My old pals in the PA are sweating now like they haven’t all season, since the decision to shitcan Randolph seems to be paying dividends. Specifically, the Mets middle relief – my nemesis – has actually been pulling it off, and the bats are alive to boot. Yesterday, five separate relievers no-hit the hapless Rockies after Pedro went limping off again; tonight they didn’t have to, since Pelfrey went eight in a 7-0 wipe-out. It’s odd. The Phillies got to 40 wins fast, and then limped along for the better part of a month trying to get 50. The Mets took a tortured and largely sub-.500 route to 40, but zipped to 50 in about a week and a half. At this time last week, they were at .500. Now they’re half a game out and actually looking like contenders. A few weeks ago, it seemed almost impossible that anyone from the NL East would pick up a wild card, the NL Central being fortified as all get out. Now, I’m not so sure. After last year’s epic collapse, it would take a 14 game lead to make me feeel secure that the Metropolitans will be extending the life of Shea Stadium into October, but some progress is good.
I had to, of course, check out the Euro Cup semis this afternoon, and was treated to another round of the awful Forza Azzurri football. The Italians lost to the Spaniards on penalty kicks, as was well deserved given their slow, defensive play. Now, the defense was incredible, shutting down a brilliant Spanish attack for 120 minutes, but it is excruciating television. It’s almost as if they play for penalty kicks; somebody should tell them that it’s perfectly acceptable to win a game by scoring during the actual fucking game. While I’m sure the Brooklyn Famiglia is in mourning for the fall of the Blues, I’m actually a German soccer supporter, so my squad’s still in, and looking very good. They play Turkey on Wednesday for a spot in the finals, and seemingly the entire Turkish A-team is injured or on suspension. I do admit that there would be something quite wonderful – given the situation of current and former Gastarbeiter in Germany – in seeing a depleted Turkish team defeat the mighty German soccer juggernaut, but I’d still like to see the Germans in the finals. In any case, the Germans, unlike the Italians, seem to have this strange pre-occupation with scoring actual fucking goals, which – in practical terms – means they play the ball toward the goal of the opposing team, so I tend to enjoy their play much more. It’s also true, on a side note, that the Italians play a dirty game, holding, hacking, diving, and fouling as brutally as I’ve seen. In the funniest comment of yesterday’s ESPN coverage, Luca Toni, who was barely touched, practically jumps to a horizontal in the air before crashing down gently in faux pain. The Scottish announcer deadpans, as the replay goes to slow motion on Luca Toni’s expression of absolute agony: “He looks like he’s been hit by a sniper.”
There’s nothing I love-dread more in sports than a Rangers-Devils playoff series.
Growing up a Rangers fan in the 80′s meant taking a lot of shit. The Rangers had not won a Cup since 1940, and the drought had reached that turning point where it had taken on the character of destiny: you were the sad sack losers who were fated to get that close and blow it, a la the Red Sox Curse, or Chicago’s own loserdom over at 1060 West Addison. To make matters worse, the upstart Islanders had just won four straight Cups, and threatened a fifth until a couple of young guys named Gretzky, Messier, Kurri, and Fuhr put an end to all that.
Now, every kid in Queens (ahem, well…) was either a Rangers fan or an Islanders fan. If you were an Islanders fan, you practiced chanting the numbers “Nineteen Forty” with maximum obnoxiousness. If you were a Rangers fan, you practiced kicking those kids asses, but secretly finding that unsatisfying. What wasn’t on the radar during those years was the almost meaningless entity across the river known as the New Jersey Devils. All that changed in the late spring of 1994.
The Rangers had the best record in hockey, boosted by trades that landed most of the old Edmonton Oilers dynasty in blueshirts: Messier, of course, but also Craig MacTavish, and Esa Tikkanen. They also picked up a couple of guys from the Blackhawks named Brian Noonan and Stephane Matteau. With the lines firm, the Rangers embarrassed the hapless Islanders in the first round, sweeping them soundly (6-0, 6-0, 5-1, 5-2), with the final indignity being the packed crowd of Rangers fans waving brooms at the Nassau Coliseum for the final blow-out. The Rangers then won three more games against the Capitals, losing only one, and thereby finishing off the Caps in 5. The city was now primed. People were paying attention. Could this be the year? Could the chants of Nineteen Forty finally be finished?
Across the river, another kind of playoff was developing. The Devils, fronted by the then twenty-one year old Martin Brodeur, waged an epic battle with the Buffalo Sabres in the Conference Quarterfinals, a series that went seven games and included a quadruple overtime nightmare that the Sabres manged to win. The Devils barely survived. The next series was equally harrowing: the Devils went down 0-2 to the Boston Bruins, than managed to pull back the series and win in six. The stage was set.
When the puck dropped for game one, everyone I knew had found some way to watch. The Rangers lost the first game in double overtime, but that was alright, because this was our year, and the Devils were nobodies. That Jacques LeMaire had basically reinvented the game with his version of the neutral zone trap was largely unrecognized, and Brodeur’s greatness had yet to be really tested in the playoffs. The Rangers stormed back to win the next two. The first game was just a bump in the road. But then it wasn’t. The Devils tied up the series, and then came into the Garden and snatched another game. And the chants of “Nineteen Forty” started to grow louder on the streets, and in the minds of fans. Again? We’re going to lose again? To the fucking Devils?
Then something very weird happened. Before game six, a game that promised yet another ignominious exit from the playoffs, Rangers captain Mark Messier did what you’re never supposed to do. He guaranteed victory. Where most fans would get behind such a gesture, Ranger fans just groaned. If your team is fated to lose, Greek tragedy style, the last thing you want to see is the hubristic moment that presages the fall. Guaranteeing victory? Nineteen Forty…Nineteen Forty… We sat in Steve’s car listening to the game, me, Steve and George the Greek. It was a rainy, miserable night, or we would have been sitting outside. The Rangers went down by two goals, playing like absolute shit for the first thirty minutes of the game. It was over. It was all over. Nineteen Forty…Nineteen Forty. Rangers coach Mike Keenan called a time out, and said nothing. A few minutes later, Messier dropped a pass back to Alexi Kovalev, who scored. Then Messier scored. Then Messier scored again. Then Messier scored again, on an open net. Guarantee. Hat trick. Game 7. Madison Square Garden. (The mythic status of the Messier Guarantee in the New York sports imaginary is exemplified by the relative corniness of YouTube videos on the subject).
It was a Friday night, I think, and we were hanging out at the park. Somebody had brought a radio, and we were listening to the game. Brian Leetch scored early: 1-0. Could this be it? Then nothing happened. Second period: nothing. Third period: nothing, nothing, nothing. As the minutes ticked down, more people started to gather around the radio, then more. Three minutes, Rangers up 1-0. Two minutes, Rangers up 1-0. A crowd now, huddled around a radio in a park in Queens. One minute, fifty seconds, forty seconds, thirty. But since destiny has that way, it was going to sap the maximum hope out of us before it snatched it away. With 7.7 seconds remaining in the deciding Game 7 of the 1994 Eastern Conference Finals, the Devils Valerei Zelepukin scored, tying the game and sending it to overtime. A universal groan from the City of New York. Steve said “Let’s go,” and a few of us went back to his place to watch the disaster unfold on TV.
Because it was assured that the Rangers would lose now. You don’t win after the other team ties the game with less than ten seconds left. Especially not if you’re fated to lose. But we picked up some beer and sat in front of the TV and watched, waiting for the dreaded moment: Devils score, Devils win, Nineteen Forty…Nineteen Forty… The first overtime period came and went, and nothing happened. We sat in silence, drinking. The second overtime began. Every time the Devils were in the Rangers’ zone, we cringed. Every shot was catastrophe. I think a Devils shot hit the post. Richter threw his glove at another. We cringed. Oh.
Then the puck was in the Devils zone. Devils defenseman Sergei Fetisov picked it up and tried to clear. Fetisov was on the old Red Army teams (indeed, he was on the 1980 Russian team that lost the “Miracle” game in Lake Placid). They were trained to play aggressive defense, one feature of which was passing into the neutral zone even it meant going cross-ice. This is an inherently risky move, since there tend to be more bodies that might block your clearing attempt. A more conservative play is always to clear up the boards, but it lowers your chances of converting directly to an offensive footing. But the Russians were trained to pass when they cleared, even cross-ice. So Fetisov tries to clear. Tikkanen knocks it back before it leaves the zone and it trickles to the corner. Scott Niedermeyer tries to collect it for the Devils, but Ranger Stephane Matteau is a little faster to the puck. He gathers it up and brings it behind Brodeur, who’s a little slow getting to the far post. So here’s one of the classic calls in the history of hockey, if not all sports:
Pandemonium, hugging, craziness. Impossible. Out on the streets, the city was going nuts. People were literally running out of their houses and apartments in joy. We went back to the park and it was a huge party. The chant of Nineteen Forty was still there, since the Rangers would still face the Canucks for the Cup, but for that night and a few others, it was supplanted by another mantra altogether: Matteau, Matteau, Matteau…
I offer this Great Moments in Sports History, of course, because the Rangers finished off the Devils tonight in the Eastern Conference Quarterfinals. They beat ‘em 4 games to 1, with considerably less drama, but it doesn’t fail to evoke those heady days of 1994.
OK, so we’ve only been here since August, and I’ll admit to not really knowing the “essential” North Side of Chicago. That said, this video about Sam Zell’s plans to sell the name of Wrigley Field comes pretty close to my image of the North Side (a North Side imaginary?), right down to the star’s goatee. she said, “Yeah, and the chick. She’s so Chicago.” She is. The great irony of selling the name of Wrigley (for $300 million) is that Wrigley Field may be the first big “corporate-named” sports arena (chew much gum lately?). Still, I’ll have to admit, after one ballgame and many times walking by the Great Red Sign, the history is palpable, and the fact that it was originally a spearmint gum schlocking kinda operation pales beside the 100 year drought, and the magical sad sack resonance of the ivy. The Times discusses the renaming issue and the Cubbies’ prospects in “As Jinx Turns 100, The Friendly Confines are Getting Fiesty.”
But, without further ado, “We’re Not Gonna Change It,” here. If you’ve never been the the North Side, this pretty much sums it up:
It’s baseball season again. And we’re starting like we went out.
Johan Santana – the insane off-season pick-up – got lit up early, giving up a 3 run dinger to Juan Gonzalez in the second. Dang. I have to start paying attention again. It’s not like I just dropped some cash on MLB TV so I could watch the games on my laptop or anything, uh, I mean, that would be crazy, right?
The Mutts get trounced in the final game, while the Phillies beat up on the Nats. It’s all over. The Mutts miss the post-season. Incredible.
My hats off to the Phillies, though. They played like champions down the stretch, and I think the NL squads have something to fear growing in Philadelphia. And having lived in PA for all those years, I’m not altogether unhappy that it’s the Phils, whose fans are real baseball. At least it wasn’t friggin’ Atlanta.
It actually is kinda interesting, I guess. Two teams play 161 games against all manner of opponents. Through whatever twists and turns, April through September, the thing goes this way and that, the ball goes up and comes down, slumps happen and hot streaks happen, people get traded and new faces change the way things work. All that. Six months. And it comes down to one game. The last game of the season. It really is remarkable. Old-timey baseball. Classic. Dem Brooklyn Bums as if they moved not to Los Angeles, but followed all the Brooklyn Irish and Italians to the far reaches of Queens. Total breakdown and disaster.
But still a chance. One game. One game after 161. One game and hope the other guy loses his game and then maybe you’re not a bum anymore, maybe you’re not a mutt anymore. It’s tragic and exhilarating and throbbing and alive. It’s baseball, and it’s damn near to October. Uno mas.
Yes, everyone hates the Mets blogging. All six readers. Hate it. They tell me this in secret emails. They say that anyone who uses the word “dingers” for home runs or refers to the Angels as the “Halos” must be an asshole, in the way that the older brother in Weird Science had to be an asshole on account of his haircut. But I will persist! And really, you can’t stop me. Be glad that I am truly bored by professional football. Now that that season has started, Sportscenter will be obsessed with it, telling me six minute stories of sprained knees while cutting the baseball highlights of actual sports being played in half. Ooooo, how I hate football season. Mets won again behind Pedro today, in any case, and remain 6 up on the Phils. The Braves fell 8.5 behind as they lost to the Nats (anyone who says “Nats”…). Now the ATLers are coming into Shea for a 3 gamer, to be followed immediately by the Phillies. Will the deciding blow of the season be dealt out this week? We shall see.
The big story in baseball this weekend, however, is A-Rod. I don’t care that the other Mets fans are – quite literally – playa haters. I like A-Rod. The guy has banged 9 dingers in the last 11 games, including 2 yesterday and 1 today. Earlier this week the guy touched ‘em up twice in the same inning. The same inning. Ridiculous. After all the shit he got last year from the Yankee fans, I’m glad for him. Good on ya, A-Rod.
I’m glad I’m doing some of this baseball blogging, since I can now go back and track my mood swings against the Mets’ season. Today it’s a high. Just a few days ago, thew Mets had been swept by the Phils, and were facing the prospect of further erosion in Atlanta. The Phillies were hot as hell, and with only a 2 game lead, the Mets had to face the prospect of losing the division. That possibility is, of course, still out there, but the last few days have brightened chances for a second straight NL East win considerably. The Mets swept the Braves (in the ATL, no less), and the Phillies cooled off in Miami (where they will hopefully be spending October). Today, the Mets just thumped Cincy, and the Braves topped the Phillies. Best case scenario for these next three games is obviously a Braves sweep and a Mets sweep, which would leave the Braves still 7.5 out and the Phils 7 games out. Pretty difficult to overcome that.
We also saw the return of Pedro today – 5 innings, 3 runs on a handful of hits. Not bad at all. It looked shaky in the first, but Pedro will be Pedro, and he recovered nicely. Wright continues to light it up. That boy’s hitting .321 or some such, and it’s a contributing .320, with lots of ribbies and damn fine timing (like beating the Braves yesterday with a two run dinger). I’ll admit that the last few weeks haven’t exactly inspired confidence for the post-season, but there’d have to be a serious collapse to not get there, and that’s good enough for now. Top of the roller coaster, in other words. We’ll see how the next week goes.
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