Off the Foul Pole

I’ve never been a fan of umpires. To me, they’re a necessary evil of the game. Sure, it’s a tough job. And they take a lot of crap, from players and managers alike – some of it justified, some of it, not so much. But a game rarely passes where they don’t set me off. Maybe it’s a bad call, maybe it’s the chippy attitude that some (many?) of them bring to the park each day.

They also have this veil of protection that game officials in others sports do not have – nor should they. Nothing bothers me more than sitting in a ballpark and being denied access to a replay of a close call. Never happens, thanks to the umpire’s union. Only major team sport where this is the case.

I didn’t think that after 44 years as an avid baseball fan, that my opinion of the blues could sink any lower. I seemed to reach a nadir back in 2009 when Jim Joyce blew the call that denied the Tigers’ Armando Gallaraga a perfect game. Joyce showed nothing but class, dignity and yes, contrition, in publicly admitting his error. I gained a lot of respect for Joyce, but the fact that his response was such an aberration – an umpire publicly admitting he screwed up? – did not soften my view of the game’s arbiters.

So how do you think I feel after what transpired on back-to-back nights last week? On Wednesday, a ninth inning “home run” by Adam Rosales of the A’s was ruled a double despite the umps reviewing a replay and upholding the original call. It was clearly a homer but apparently, ump Angel Hernandez and his crew saw it differently than millions of others. The A’s would lose, prompting manager Bob Melvin to remark, “I’ve never felt so helpless on a baseball field. So helpless and so wronged.” The next night, as the Angels battled the Astros, Houston manager Bo Porter removed a reliever before he faced a single batter. I bet there are plenty of nine year olds who know that is very wrong. Angels’ skipper Mike Scioscia understandably went ballistic and was tossed for his very rational and understandable display of emotion. But amazingly, ump Fieldin Culbreth and his cronies ruled that Porter did not violate their sacred rule book. MLB rightfully suspended Culbreth for his egregious error but they did not go far enough; the entire crew that night should be grounded. They were all complicit in the crime.

You’ll never eliminate the element of human error in umpiring, nor should you. It’s part of the game, as is our right as fans to dislike and distrust the men in blue. But despite the fact that the use of replay is not foolproof – as evidenced by the call on Rosales – it should be extended to include questionable calls of balls fair or foul. This of course would have cost Johan Santana his no-hitter last year but that could have been a good thing. He would not have thrown 130-plus pitches and maybe his shoulder doesn’t give out. Just a thought. And maybe there should be an independent party reviewing replays, just as they do in the NHL. Take critical calls out of the hands of the umps? I’m all for it.

One more thing: stop coddling the umps and start showing controversial calls on the big screens in-stadium. So they get booed if they blew the call. It comes with the territory.

After last week’s debacle, the umps will no doubt be under greater scrutiny – by fans, media, managers, players, and of course, MLB. Maybe this is all a blessing in disguise and will lead to an improvement in training, evaluation, use of replay, and ultimately, the quality of umpiring.

Wishful thinking.

A few miles to the west, the Knicks were getting even with the Pacers while a few miles to the east, the Islanders were in a dogfight with the Penguins. But amidst all this playoff frenzy, eyeballs and Twitter handles were redirected to Citi Field. Matt Harvey was at it again, this time flirting with perfection.

If not for an infield single by the Alex Rios of the White Sox with two outs in the seventh — he beat Ruben Tejada’s terrific throw off a ball deep in the hole by less than half a step — Harvey would have been perfect. At least through nine.* Because what made this game all the more memorable, in typical Mets fashion, was that the home team failed two score until Mike Baxter’s pinch hit sent Ike Davis home in the tenth inning to edge Chicago, 1-0.

So what if Harvey really had been perfect through nine of a scoreless game? Does Terry Collins leave him in for the tenth and risk damage(real or imagined) to his young ace’s arm? Sound familiar? Where’s Johan? Oh, there he is, in street clothes. How’s the shoulder, Johan? Or is it your elbow?

I’m sure that Collins is glad he did not have to face such a quandary, but Mets fans can forever laugh (or cry) themselves silly thinking about it.

For a guy who is basically in his first full season in the majors, Harvey is scary good. Not as electric as Doc Gooden, but more – dare I say it — like a young Tom Seaver. Powerful. Smart. In control. preternaturally poised. A born ace.  Now, I compare nobody to Tom Seaver and Harvey has quite a ways to go before he can authentically be considered in a class with Number 41, but he’s all I really have now to root for with this sorry team. So I won’t hide my excitement and enthusiasm for a guy who, like Tom Terrific, may lead the Mets to greener pastures in a few years.

Wishful thinking perhaps, but what Harvey has shown in just the first five weeks of the season has me hopeful that at least every five days this summer, I’ll have something to look forward to.

Now if only they can score some runs for him. Seaver could relate to that.

I’m cruising at 36,000 feet on my way to LA. No food – not even an offer to purchase. Good thing I brought a Cliff Bar to munch on. I like Cliff Bar’s, but they block me up. So maybe I shouldn’t have had one on the ground at JFK before the flight.  Oh well. I’ll eat some Kiwi when I land.

I’m also deprived of light. The overheads won’t go on while they’re showing lousy in-flight entertainment. Really? When did they start with this? Are they actually saving on electricity? The airlines will do anything these days to save a few bucks. It appears that American has also cut back on customer service training, judging from the way one nasty flight attendant is deriving pleasure by snapping at a group of senior Asian tourists.  The poor woman next to me was coughing up a lung and asked for water. We were still in our ascent so Nasty Flight Attendant growled, “NO!” Great. I love sitting next to someone who is gagging to death. I gave the woman a cough drop and she settled down. I’m sending American a bill. Considering how overpriced airline food and beverage is (when it’s available to us common folks in coach, that is), I think $5 for the cough drop is fair. Plus another $1.50 for destination charges.  

Thankfully, the little girl in front to me has been very well behaved during the flight. I was expecting a scream-a-thon, but that hasn’t materialized. I credit her parents for keeping her happy and well rested. Maybe they can teach Nasty Flight Attendant a thing or two about in-flight behavior.

The coughing lady next to me is now drinking milk. I have never seen an adult drink milk on an airplane. She also keeps insisting that a flight attendant (the Nice One) pour water in her empty bottle of Starbucks. Not sure why she won’t drink from a plastic cup. The flight attendant vehemently refuses to do so (okay, so she’s not so nice).  Not sure why. I guess it’s some security thing. Or she’s afraid of spilling a few drops on the passengers and getting sued. If anything, the airline should be sued for starving us and depriving us of light. And verbally abusing us.  I should just spring for Business Class next time. I hear they’ll even treat your cough up front with tea and honey.

As I’m writing this, the coughing woman is laughing at the way I type – hunt and peck, hunt and peck. She wouldn’t be laughing if she could read what I’m writing about her. But no worries. The only English she seems to know is “Thank you” and “Sorry.” And maybe Starbucks.

And in case you’re wondering – if you’ve made it this far — I really have little to say about the Mets right now. As long as I have something or someone else to bitch about, I don’t feel compelled to vent about the Mets. Especially at seven miles above Kansas. I feel insulated from them, like they can’t assault my nerve centers up here with their negative vibes. I have barely given any thought to the fact that are now below .500 and likely to stay there for the rest of the season.  Or that their bullpen is even worse than I imagined. Or that beyond Harvey and Niese, the starting pitching is hopeless. Or that Ike Davis still can’t hit his weight. Or that Travis D’Arnaud broke his foot and is starting to look a bit injury prone – not a good sign for a catcher. Or that Zack Wheeler is struggling in AAA.  Or that centerfield is almost comically bad. Actually, it is comically bad.

Oh, why did I get started? Even up here, can’t divorce my thoughts from the Fabulous Flushing Boys. Where’s that Nasty Flight Attendant? I need another source of angst, real fast. At least before we land.

Excuse me if I feel a bit edgy today. It’s just that I’m gearing myself up for six months or so of swift kicks to the groin, crushing blindside tackles, two-by-fours to the back of the head, sand in my eyes, ground glass in my cereal, salt water up my nose, and other forms of torture and abuse that my imagination will likely conjure up by early August.

Yes, it’s Opening Day for the Mets. And I won’t be anybody’s April Fool, so I am tossing aside any semblance of optimism and preparing for the worst in 2013. As my expectations have sunk lower than Nicki Minaj’s neckline,  I will only kvetch so much about a 65-70 win season, which is what we’re in for. Even if the Mets get off to a fast start, and Matt Harvey and Jon Niese are killing it, and Bobby Parnell is lights out, and Colin Cowgill eats up real estate in center field (which is a good thing, in baseball terms), and David Wright and Daniel Murphy are free of their intercostal pains (not to be mistaken with intercoastal pains, which I guess is something you get from a really bad West Coast road trip), and Frank Francisco stays on the DL (a plus), and Terry Collins remains wide-eyed and smiling, and Ike Davis keeps his average above the Mendoza Line while hitting the crap out of the matzoh ball, and Travis D’Arnaud and Zack Wheeler dominate in AAA on their way to June call-ups, and Dillon Gee pitches like a three and not a six, and Marlon Byrd plays like the player we thought he was going to be with the Phillies, and Lucas Duda makes Citi Field his personal sandbox despite striking out every other at bat, and the Nationals and Braves, with all their justified hype, get off to slow starts, and the Phillies look older than ever . . .

Despite all that, I’ll still see a dark cloud hanging over this season, thunder and lightning and hail and frogs and locusts  ready to rain down from the heavens and bury this season in a torrent of Biblical plagues — bear with me, it’s the last day of Passover. I know, I sound overly dramatic, but this is what the last seven years — not  mention a majority of the last 44 seasons that I’ve been intravenously hooked up to this team  — has done to me. Worn, beaten down, frustrated, wasted, depressed. . .

And still loving it. Play ball! Let’s Go Mets!

I’m as jingoistic as the next guy (assuming his face is painted red, white and blue) when it comes to international sporting events. During the Olympics, I check the medal count at least four times a day and figure out in my head how many trips to the podium the USA is likely to make by Games end. If we can grab a bronze in canoe/kayaking and capture at least two medals in women’s boxing — hey, some of our gals can punch — then China has no shot at catching us.     

But for some reason — actually, many reasons – the World Baseball Classic does not grab me by my patriotic lapels. Sure, I rooted for the USA (although, admittedly, I did not watch a single inning of our games), but I’m not disheartened by their elimination loss the other night to Puerto Rico. I should be over it in, oh, about five seconds.

There. That feels much better.

I think the WBC is  a nice idea and it clearly has fans in Japan, South Korea, the Dominican and Mexico excited. But for me, it’s a distraction from Spring Training, which I hold sacred. It’s the one time of year when the Mets have yet to lose a regular season game, less than 20% of the projected Opening Day roster is injured, marginal players like Colin Cowgill and Matt denn Dekkar (why was he not playing for the Netherlands in the WBC?) have me fooled into thinking they’re future All-Stars, and I can still fantasize about a third place finish. Other than that — which is a pretty big that  if you’re a Mets fan who is dreading the start of the regular season  — here are five other reasons why I’m not enthralled by the WBC:

1) I see WBC and I  think World Boxing Council. Every time. I spent the early part of my career in public relations in and around the sweet science. If you know anything about the World Boxing Council, you hear WBC and you have bad thoughts. Greed. Corruption. Don King. Maybe I need counseling, but that’s what rattles around in my head.

2) David Wright is injured. I knew this would happen. It’s what all the naysayers, players, managers and media alike, bitch about. What if guys get hurt or endure too much wear and tear on their arms and legs even before the season starts? Now Captain America, the Mets $138 million man, is likley to miss Opening Day. Probably much longer, I bet, or my name isn’t Whining Cynical Mets Fan. Of course, Wright could just have easily injured himself in Port St. Lucie trying to carry this sorry ass team on his back, but the WBC is an easy target. And I can’t blame the Mets for all of their problems. Somebody else has to be contributing to their misery now and then, right? You know, like Satan. Or a fraternity of  Yankee loving witch doctors.

3) The USA does not bring its best team –  for a variety of reasons, some good, some not so good.  That will not likely change in four years, eight years, etc. I don’t like watered down beer or watered down ballclubs. Unless it’s the Mets. In which case, I have no choice. Cheers!

4) March Madness. NFL free agency. NBA and NHL playoff stretch runs. World Figure Skating Championships. Finals weeks of the World Cup Luge season. Just too much going on, so little attention span to go around.

5) The Netherlands advanced further than the USA. That’s the Netherlands. As in soccer. And speed skating. And tulips. Yeah, I know, Bert Blyleven. And lots of talent from Curacao. But still — the Dutch? Having a better tournament than us? Sorry.

Start the regular season already. For me, it’s Flushing or bust.

The Mets opened camp for pitchers and catchers on Monday and already my head is spinning with cynical, skeptical thoughts. It’s only mid February so by April, I should be curled up in a corner somewhere muttering to myself about blown saves, passed balls, bases loaded strikeouts, and torn labrums.

Here’s what has me pissing vinegar right out of the gate:

• The Mets “lose out” on Michael Bourn to the Indians — allegedly, because they would not give Bourn a vesting option on a fifth year. I say “allegedly,” because last week, their reluctance to signing Bourn, who would have provided them with at least one true major league starter in the outfield, was that they would surrender the rights to their first round pick, thanks to a ridiculous quirk in the collective bargaining agreement that enables sorry franchises like the Pirates for being cheap and risk averse.  But this week, after being outspent by the Indians –  which is kind of like being outdone in a hot dog eating contest by a runway model — there was nary a word about the draft pick. Only the fifth year option.  Frankly, I think it’s all a smokescreen. The Mets should actually thank the Pirates and the Indians for gift wrapping them with a pair of convenient excuses for not pulling the trigger on Bourn, who has much of what the Mets covet: speed, a glove, a high on base percentage — experience, even!. So here’s why the Mets will instead enter the season with the punchless platoon of Kirk Nieuwenhuis and Collin Cowgill (who is he?) in centerfield: they had no intention of spending anywhere close to $48 million on Michael Bourn. Or anyone else for that matter, with the exception of David Wright, who they really had no choice but to re-sign at an inflated, but understandable, price.  Just as they had no intention of signing Jose Reyes last year. They simply made a long, drawn-out show of chasing Bourn to appease their frustrated, suffering fans. Trust me: I’ve worked in PR most of my life. I know how these things work.   
• Yesterday, Mets owner Fred Wilpon shows up in Port St. Lucie and merrily declares that he’s all but free of debt (yes, and Nebraska is free of corn) and ready to start spending again.  Huh? Kind of strange that Fred would say this after what happened with Bourn.  Actually, it makes a lot of sense. Wilpon is under no obligation to spend this spring, as there is nothing left to buy — unless the Mets are looking for more 40-year-old retreads to mold away on their bench. And next year, with the onerous, bloated contracts of Jason Bay and Johan Santana (assuming his absurd vesting option does not kick in) coming off the books, he’ll have plenty of cash on hand (especially if he finds a way to open that gambling casino in Flushing, which of course is not a sign of  a man who needs to enhance his cash flow. No, not at all).  So keep talking Fred. We all know talk is cheap. Especially with interest rates so low.
• Predictably, Frank Francisco, the latest installment of failed Mets closers, shows up in Florida with an ailment. Good to see he took care of himself this off season. That’s what you get when you hand $12 million over to a guy who is not worth half that. Maybe he just doesn’t give a crap, nor should he, considering he has little talent and probably lives like a sultan. So . . . the Mets start floating the preposterous (frightening, actually) idea that Bobby Parnell will step back into the closer role. Which is kind of like saying Manti Te’o will be opening a new match.com account real soon. I realize the Mets have slim pickins to choose from, but what have they seen over the past two years that leads the to believe that Parnell should be handed a baseball anytime past the seventh inning? Try Brandon Lyon. or Jheurys Familia. Or maybe Armando Benitez is out there for the taking.   Just don’t make us suffer the indignity of more Bobby Parnell blown saves.

It’s only February, for heaven’s sake!