I missed most of Thursday night's duel between Pedro and Dontrelle (first names only needed for those two) as my friend Eric--who's been living in Japan the past two years--was in town for one night. We packed the night with dinner, drinks, an amazing Soul Asylum show, more drinks, and then for the piece de resistance, having our car service driver pulled over by the cops at a road black and discovering the guy had nothing even close to a license.
Sweet.
What I did see was Aaron Heilman coming in for the third day in a row, and my gut told me that this was definitely the wrong move by Willie Randolph. We left the bar before Heilman threw one pitch, which was definitely a good thing.
Last night's game I caught most of at my home, which was finally cool enough to cook a decent meal for myself for the first time in six days. (Living on the top floor of a building can suck sometimes in the summer.) As I sat there shaping the ground turkey into some tasty meatballs, I was stunned by the Shea faithful booing Chase Utley. C'mon folks, this guy isn't Pat Burrell, the only player in the NL East I hate more than every player on the Atlanta roster. I would have gladly let Utley get 5 hits if the Mets could have gotten a win and broken out of their funk.
This team looks more off-kilter now than they did during that horrible trip against the Red Sox and the Yanks. David Wright looks more uncomfortable at the plate than he did as a rookie; Cliff Floyd seems to be heading back into his early season dive; Lastings Milledge is no Xavier Nady--at the plate I mean; and the bullpen is trying too hard to adjust to life without Duaner Sanchez. After the sweep of the Braves and then Sanchez's accident, the Mets have that hungover look that I occasionally get the day after I mix a whole night of cheap beer topped off by numerous candy-ass shots (I like to sip my whiskey).
Somebody get this team a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich and ginger ale--that'll fix 'em.
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