Mets 9, Dodgers 5 (Mets win the series, 3-0)
(the Mets’ clutchy catcher somehow manages not to say “fuck” on television)
“How clutch is Paul Lo Duca?” wondered SNY’s Matt Yaloff. Fathers all over Long Island were asking the same question that all summer long.
(giddy Mets suck down the champale of champagnes. Off camera : Randy Neiman spraying Frank Cashen. Again.)
Chris Cotter, while making Aaron Heilman stare into his frosted tips, claimed that during the Dodgers’ 3 run 6th inning, “this place was rocking like it’s never rocked before.” Who’d have thunk Cotter wasn’t a Depeche Mode fan?
Thom Brenneman helpfully recounted the infamous Captain Red Ass/Mota/Juan Encarnnacion for Penny/Choi trade, and made it sound as though The GM That Shall Not Be Named personally fucked up the Dodgers until the Ned Colletti broom swept clean. Makes plenty of sense, seeing as the veteran poise provided by Rafael Furcal, Kenny Lofton and J.D. Drew really made a huge difference in this series. Let’s hear it for chemistry!
Newsday’s Wallace Matthews, rather than concentrating on his strengths (ie. preparing negative notes about Lastings Milledge, just in case he’s added to the roster in place of Cliff Floyd) opts for the tired Subway Series Derailed storyline.
The Mets are as diverse as the city itself, with a homegrown, black manager in Willie Randolph, a homegrown, Dominican GM in Omar Minaya, two homegrown infield talents, one Latin, one white, in Jose Reyes and David Wright, and a Jew, Shawn Green, in rightfield.
And they have a loyal, subway-riding, mostly blue-collar fan base that has yet to be displaced by the front-running limousine crowd that has overrun Yankee Stadium since 1996.
The Yankees are the privileged New York of Rudy Giuliani and Donald Trump and Billy Crystal and Goldman Sachs, the exclusive New York that can always get a table at Elaine’s or Rao’s.
They are Derek Jeter, Mariano Rivera and a mismatched band of outrageously paid mercenaries who haven’t produced. Their lineup is a gaudy collection of freelancers who have never jelled into a true team, their clubhouse devoid of camaraderie.
Since the last time the Yankees won the World Series, in 2000, Steinbrenner has spent more than $1 billion on ballplayers. All he’s gotten for his money is a humiliation against the bargain-basement Florida Marlins, a momentous choke job against the Red Sox and four first-round playoff knockouts.
In the process, Yankee Stadium has gone from an exuberant place thrilled to rediscover success after a 15-year drought in 1996 to a tense, joyless cauldron where winning is demanded rather than enjoyed and victory brings not pleasure, but relief.
While I’m not about to pour cold water on the Mets’ latest victory parade, I feel very comfortable in saying Matthews doesn’t know shit about either team’s fan base. But at least Mets fans had the good sense to boo the heck out of Donald Trump the other night.