My Best Day

[G-Fafif]

Remember that miserable start I got off to and how I turned it around? That was 2012. Thought I could do it again in 2013. In the words of Mrs. Krabappel, "HAH!"

But there was one night when I thought I had it goin' on. Sunday Night Baseball on ESPN -- geez, what a pain in the ass that is -- we're losing to the Braves at home, just like we'd been losing to the Braves all weekend (this was the series where we lost a suspended game and a regular game in the same night), but we have a little somethin' goin' in the eighth. Buck tied it at two, the bases were left loaded for me and somehow I poked a ground ball through the right side to bring home the go-ahead run and the insurance run. Son of a gun, we led and won, 4-2.

This was May 26 (same night Peggy accidentally bayonetted Abe in the ambulance on Mad Men -- I know at least one big Mets fan who chose to watch that live and look at our game during commercials), right after we had fallen to a heretofore season-worst 15 below .500 and right before the fucking Yankees came to Citi Field. Next thing you know, we sweep those fuckers, their season's never the same and we have a five-game winning streak. Pissed that away in Miami, of course, and a week after that was over, I was a fucking Las Vegas 51. But for that one at-bat and those two rib-eye steaks, I believed, damn it. I believed I was turning it around f'reals. I mean, start me up!

Den Dekker, you're up. C'mon rook', don't make me get out the bridesmaid gown again.

[Lefty Specialist]

You know, not everyone knows that 'den Dekker' means 'Man Cave' in Dutch. At least that's what old Uncle Thijs used to tell me when I was a child sitting at his feet scratching the varnish off his wooden shoes.

My best day? September 1st. That was the day I took a Ross Ohlendorf pitch and tattooed it to right-center in Nationals Park to give the Mets a 3-0 lead on the Nats. But like so many things in Washington these days, victory was just an illusion. I stood by helplessly after being double-switched out of the game after my second hit as the Atchy and Scratchy Show proceeded to blow a 4-2 lead I'd helped build with my own gnarled hands in an eventual 6-5 Met loss more painful than a Michele Bachmann press conference.

But hey, as Kevin Costner said in Bull Durham, "I hit my Dinger and I hung 'em up!" Well, except I didn't really hang 'em up, and I didn't have any kinky candlelit lovemaking with Susan Sarandon. Of course, when they were doing that I was like one year old and Susan Sarandon isn't nearly as hot now, so it would be kind of icky. But hey, I [u:1gj2w5dg]can[/u:1gj2w5dg] breathe through my eyelids like the lava lizards of the Galapagos. True story.

Lucas Duda? I'm guessing if Nuke LaLoosh wanted to announce his presence with authority and the catcher told him what was coming, he could hit that frickin' bull, too. What say you, Dude?

[Guest LeiterWagnerFasterStrongr]

Ah'm good day when'm take'm pitches, take'm pitches, take'm pitches, an'm neighbor kids play nice and leave'm Duda alone. But also, April 19'er pretty good'm.

Strassber throw, he throw'm hard, easy take'm, 'cause they'm go so fast, can't see'm! Any-ho, I take'm pitches. Take'm pitches, take'm pitches, and walk. Like nor'ml. But then, 6th innin', hit'm far. Hit'm real far. Ding go'm ball.

Another'm come in a lil' later-- Drew Storm, thrower's call'd. 8th innin'. He'm throw hard, too, and I take'm pitches. Then hit'm far agin'. Ding go'm ball, AGIN'. TWO DINGS! TWO DINGS N'M 'UN GAME, TARN'T!

I like't almost as much as'm catchin' squir'l. Whatchoo like't dat much, Josh Edgin?

[Edgy MD]

And now you know why all us Mets want to locker next to Ol' Luke. The smell of squirrel funk can motivate a man.

And motivation can be in short supply in extra innings. But extries is when you call the bullpen with the game on the line and the only guy left is yours truly. Edgin. Sweet 66. And if I get in to a fix, well, there ain't too many guys behind me.

It was like that July 8. Fourteen innings are gone and the Mets and the world champs are tied at three. Matt Harvey started and went seven, but we don't score for him. We agreed to do that the minute we saw the Escalade. But you know, after we've burned a tankful of Torres and an aggregate of Aardsma, a sack of Rice, and a few volumes of Burke, it's me and it's Parnell, and they're saving Parnell for a dance that won't happen unless I pay the piper, or something.

So I'm out there and I'm working without a net, LIKE A BOSS, I tell myself. But I'm not sure I have it. And you know, without a net means they make you face righthanders and stuff. So before I go in, I've got my earbuds in, and I'm playing Warrant, and I'm playing Poison --- all the classics --- and I'm PUMPED.

Bottom of the 14th, I'm in there against Gregor Blanco. Just as I'm thinking "Who names a guy Gregor in this day and age?" BAM! he drives one the other way. But Eric Young is out there, and as deep as he plays in general, you should see his no-doubles defense. Dude was pretty much in had to buy a ticket for the left field bleachers. But I'm not complaining when the ball drops into his glove. And that was the lefty, the guy I'm supposed to get out. Punch-and-Judy-hitting lefty, too. GULP!

But hey, an out's and out, and "Cherry Pie" is still pumping through my veins. I can DO THIS.

Next up, Marcos Scutaro. A righty. I DON'T CARE! You are kindly invited to ground out, to... fuck, it gets through and he's on first.


("She's my cherry pie! Tastes so good, makes a grown man...")

One on and Terry's giving me that shitty-assed beady-eyed look. That one that says, "If I have to come and get you, you're not gonna be happy about it." How does such a short guy do that to me? He's not my father!

So, you know, Brandon Belt. Another lefty. Another drive the other way. Another beautiful picture of Eric Young in left. I'm getting pretty good at this induce-a-drive-to-the-warning-track business.

But Buster Posey. That guy's my bete noire. But one more chorus of "Paradise City" floats through my head and that punk is drooling a ball to third base. The fifteenth inning is over. I go back to the dugout, sit next Terry. Like a boss.

Natch we don't score. We're the Mets. Number 66 has to go back out there.

Sandoval is up. And, I'm sorry, but he's fatter than me. And I'm FAT. I mean, to look at me on the street, you might not say, "Hey, look at that FAT guy," but you see me in the clubhouse, and you ask somebody who I am, and they ask which one, you say, "the fat one."

It's true, and I'm self conscious about it. So Sandoval is up, and I'm pulling my belt up a little, feeling a little good because I'm not the FAT one in this confrontation. But you see, this is the ADD at work, because I'm all wrapped up in thoughts about relative fat and my head just isn't in the game, which is what Warthan is trying to tell me. So I hit the guy. And you know, next thing, shooting me from the dugout are Terry's beady little eyes.

BEAR DOWN, JOSH! WE'RE GOING WHERE THE DOWN BOYS GO! Kontos, whoever that is, bunts Sandoval to second. Thanks for the gift out guys. I know he's the pitcher, but I was all set to waste six or seven pitches getting him out. I watch Sandoval run and I KNOW it's going to take four of five hits to get him home. So I'm feeling a little better. Brandon Crawford is up, and you know, he resembles a major league hitter, so I'm sure not going to face him. Not with the winning run on second. Four quick balls of intention, and it's Andres Torres. I know his flaws because I saw them close up last year. He overswings like Cab Calloway on speed, so I teeeease him with the offspeed shit. My new specialty is turning these guys over, getting rollouts to third. And that's what he does. Two down. Runners on second and third. Last hitter off of San Francisco's bench is Cole Gillespie, which is ONE JAZZY NAME! But that's the ADD kicking in again. I walk him too because he also resembles a big league hitter.

Bases loaded. Blanco again. I've been in a game long enough to face the same guy twice. Perhaps for the first time in my career. I say a quick prayer to Sebastian Bach and let if fly. He turns it over. Weak grounder to second. And I'VE PITCHED TWO (highly eventful) SCORELESS with one long game on the line.

Bottom of the inning, the dam cracks just a little as the Mets score the best way they know how at such times, plating a guy on an error. Parnell takes about 20 minutes to close it, and I have my only win of 2013.

Jani Lane would've said it more poetically, but sometimes glory is a flying stallion, sometimes it's a plowhorse trudging through the mud. �Es la verdad, si, Jeurys?

[Edgy MD]

GAH! I broke my own thread!

[Benjamin Grimm]

And you did it without even mentioning ice cream!

[G-Fafif]

�Yo soy Familia! �Yo tengo todos mis hermanas con mi!

PDSSGyPurmE

This Pirates thing has me in a Sister Sledge mood, but the only time I was part of a team celebration in 2013 was the night Wright took Kimbrel deep in Atlanta, May 3. I came in with us up 7-5 in tenth and set down Freeman, Gattis and Uggla all in ordder to earrn my firrst career savve. (Just a little gag there about the double-letters en los nombres de los Bravos.) Then I was out so long with an injury that one Mets fan, upon viewing a lifesize team picture at the All-Star FanFest, stared at No. 27 for the longest time and couldn't remember who wore it for hours. Then suddenly, he was all like, "Twenty-seven is Familia!" I hope to become more familia', if you will, to more fans in the years to come.

[G-Fafif]

I feel ya, Jeurys, for I, Pedro Feliciano, know how it is to fade from view. Gone in 2011. Gone in 2012. Working for the MFY dollar but not actually pitching in that dadburn uniform. Of course I came home to my Metsies, where I belonged. What a thrill to return to the Citi Field mound on August 2, 2013, for the first time since October 2, 2010, which was back in the era when I was pitching literally every other day...more than every other day, in fact.

But what really got me going was our final afternoon on the road, September 25, at Great American Ball Park, going up against the Reds, the team that first traded me to Los Mets -- for Shawn Estes! -- in 2002. This was a game with actual playoff implications. Hell, I pitched in the last actual road playoff game the Mets played, so I knew what to do. I came on in relief of Daisuke Matsuzaka, I walked Shin-Soo Choo (maybe another former Red turned Met?) but then flied Joey Votto to center to end the eighth inning. I got my man, lefty vs. lefty, and held the fort until we had ourselves a 1-0 win.

The Reds didn't take their division, thanks in part to our taking that game. They didn't get to host the Wild Card game. And their stay in the postseason was brief. I'd like to think I had a hand in that.

A left hand, per usual.