G-Fafif

Box. Mejia 4.0 Murphy 3.5 Lagares 2.5

HtXzESPbkEQ What's all this fuss about "My Mejia"?"

Box. Wheeler 2.0 Buck 1.5 Murphy 1.5 Wright 1.0 Byrd 1.0 Aardsma 0.5 Hawkins 0.5 Parnell 0.5 Lagares 0.5 Young 0.5 Turner 0.5

LeiterWagnerFasterStrongr wrote: G-Fafif wrote: Looks more like Salman Rushdie bobblehead night. Or, say, Ari Fleischer Day. All Mets fans attending Social Media Night need to watch what they say, watch what they do.

Germen 2.0 Murphy 1.5 Edgin 1.0 Quintanilla 0.5 Recker 0.5 Byrd 0.5 Lagares 0.5

Probably worth pointing out that as much as Harvey is a worthy Seaver stand-in and Wright is Wayne Garrett Deluxe, we're sorely lacking in Matlack, Koosman, McGraw, Jones, Staub, Grote, Harrelson, Millan and so on. Also wishing no pain or long-term disability to Tim Hudson. But the Gibson parallel did cross my mind.

Zvon wrote: G-Fafif wrote: Bob Gibson went out for season with gruesome-looking knee injury in an early August game first-place Cardinals beat the Mets, who fell 9 1/2 back, in 1973. Tim Hudson... Running the bases? I remember a Gibson injury vs the Mets where he hurt himself pitching, and he tried to throw a warm up pitch and just collapsed. It might have been Kiner who was calling it, and he said "Ohhh, he fell down" real sad like. I think that was earlier than 73 tho. 71 or 72. Got hurt on the bases, attempted to pitch and then he collapsed. Details here.

Bob Gibson went out for season with gruesome-looking knee injury in an early August game first-place Cardinals beat the Mets, who fell 9 1/2 back, in 1973. Tim Hudson...

Looks more like Salman Rushdie bobblehead night.

Jay Horwitz bobbles, too. Great idea, great cause, terrible likeness.

Swan Swan H wrote: G-Fafif wrote: Gotta give the Mets the edge at catcher as there are no known hearts floating out from the face of Brian McCann. McCann, Gattis and Laird may be among the best hitting catching squads in the league, but they are also one of the ugliest. If anybody calls Recker "pretty subpar," some of us choose to hear Recker called pretty.

Gotta give the Mets the edge at catcher as there are no known hearts floating out from the face of Brian McCann.

Answers here. Another quiz next week, with another great prize. Stay tuned!

Nice crossover wins for Seawolf and HahnSolo. Congrats!

Good news: Dick Young went to Hell. NEWS ITEM: Young dies in September '87 When I first arrived here, I took one look at the place and I felt. . . well, let down. I figured Heaven should be a playground filled with stickball-playing kids and ringo-levio shouts and all the cold ones you could drink, served up by Pete Sheehy, the great Yankee clubhouse guy. Gofer. I looked around. OK, maybe I wasn't expecting a marching band, but at least St. Peter, or an angel. . . a telegram. Something. I mean, I paid my dues, I made my deadlines, I never pretended I was Hemingway. Not to sound greedy but I was due a final reward. Then I saw this place�the so-called "Heaven." Ha! This is Heaven? I said to myself. This is this man's pie-in-the-sky? In the first place, the sports page doesn't have any West Coast scores. Ever. Instead we get the Broadway Show League scores. Updated inning by inning. Day and night. And the food is worse than half the clubhouse spreads I spent a lifetime loading up on. Great, I think to myself, they ruined Brooklyn, they killed the Bronx, and they even let Heaven go to hell. Figures. It's all over, I said to my pal Toots Shor�"Heaven ain't what it used to be." I had to shout this, to get it over the goddamn disco music, but when he hears me he lifts his Bud Light (which is the only beer you can get here) and he says, "Dick, this ain't Heaven. . . It's Hell." Then Toots tells the bartender�who looks a lot like Roy Cohn, by the way�what I said, about Heaven not being what it used to be. And my line makes the rounds all the way to the back. Everyone's laughing so much I order another Bud Light and Roy says, "Sorry pal, it's a two-beer-a-night limit." That's when it hit me. It wasn't the case of Heaven going to seed. It wasn't like the bureaucracy and the bleeding hearts and the milquetoasts had ruined a good thing. It wasn't that way at all. Someone up in the sky had goofed, and I was in the Other Place. NEWS ITEM: Young gets shaft That night I wandered the streets�which all smell like the tunnel that connects the 1 Train to Port Authority�and I saw the place with new eyes. Maybe I even shed a tear. The place was filled with tons of my old pals, sure, but cigarettes cost a deuce, and women wear pants and running shoes. This wasn't Heaven all right. This was Hell. Hell. Me, Dick Young, in Hell. Well, I knew it was a mistake, of course, and I knew I'd get out so I didn't indulge myself in whiny self-pity a la Tom Seaver, but I will say this: I'm not impressed. This is Hell? This rundown gyp joint is hell? Like Hell it is. I've seen Hell. I've seen it in Washington Heights as a little boy sleeping on a fire escape at night in the days when poor people had too much dignity to demand air-conditioned housing projects. This, this is like some great ultimate civil service honky-tonk on a sweaty summer night. But Hell? Tell that to some reporter who walked his beat and earned an honest buck and only switched papers toward the end which anyone would've done if they had a chance. The Hell with all the guff he took for it. The only people who called this Hell are crybaby ballplayers pulling seven figures to play a little boys' game half as well as real men played it in '40s�baseball when the halvah was green.

A chance to win the 1986 World Series Game Six DVD on Faith and Fear if you can nail this quiz, loosely inspired by the trade that brought Bobby Ojeda to New York from Boston.

Torres 4.0 Buck 1.0 Davis 1.0 Lagares 1.0 Parnell 1.0 Hawkins 1.0 Aardsma 0.5 Rice 0.5

Paperwork being readied, per Metsies official Tweet. The Mets announced today that RHP Shaun Marcum has been placed on waivers for purposes of his unconditional release. The Mets initiated this release when it was confirmed that Marcum was unlikely to pitch competitively again this season.

Simmons SS Heyward CF JUpton RF Freeman 1B McCann C Gattis LF Uggla 2B CJohnson 3B Medlen P

Dwight Gooden talks to Alec Baldwin. Transcript here. Alec Baldwin: So when you�re facing a batter have you pre-assessed before a game every single batter you�re gonna face in that game? Dwight Gooden: The thing was I only had two pitches, fastball and curve. So a lot of times they�re like, �This guy�s a great fastball hitter and can�t throw this guy curve ball for strikes,� so I�m thinking, �Well, I shouldn�t be pitching. I�m done,� but basically always pitched to my strength and made the hitters adjust. A lot of times what I would do also I used to like watch in box scores. If I knew I was gonna face the Cardinals say three days from now I also watch the box scores seeing who�s hot, who�s doing what a couple days before that so I have an idea which guy�s swinging the bat well. Alec Baldwin: So you have � I�m not a baseball player. I love going to the ball game. I love watching a baseball game live. It�s a great treat. So you�re standing there and you�re at the top of your game. Now you�re 20 years old. You�re in your second season, you�re more confident, and you look in your mind at imaginary strikes on the knees, to the shoulders, you got the home plate there. In those four corners, high and tight, high and outside, low and tight, low and outside, can you basically throw the ball in a fastball anywhere you want it? You can make it go where you want it to go? Dwight Gooden: 1985 without a doubt. 1985 it was right from the first game to the � my last start. Alec Baldwin: You picked your spot. Dwight Gooden: I was just right there, didn�t think about it. Everything just came. Alec Baldwin: And the ball would go where you made it go? Dwight Gooden: And the ball basically go right there. I would say probably � Alec Baldwin: How many miles an hour? Dwight Gooden: Oh, I was anywhere from 95 to 98.

Sport magazine profiles Dick Young in 1985, preserved by Deadspin's The Stacks, curated by Alex Belth. The author is the late Ross Wetzsteon. Dick Young, they say, has broken so many stories because he's a mouthpiece of management. Come again? When Dick Young first began covering baseball, writers routinely showed up in the press box five minutes before the game and only visited the lockerroom if the press box toilet was broken. "I had to stop by the clubhouse at 11:00 one morning," says a colleague from those day, "and Dick Young was already there, sitting on his haunches beside the trainer and a ballplayer, taking notes. That was the first time I ever saw a writer in the lockerroom at any time, so don't tell me he got handouts from the front office." Then they say Dick Young is contemptuous of his colleagues, a competitive son of a bitch who'll knee you in the gut for a beat. But his critics don't know this story�it's never been printed until now. Joe Trimble, Dick Young's colleague at the Daily News, is sitting at his typewriter in the press box at Yankee Stadium, staring at a blank piece of paper. An hour ago Don Larsen pitched a perfect game in the World Series and now the press room downtown is freaking out�where's Joe Trimble's story? "I'm blank," Joe Trimble says to Dick Young in a cold-sweat panic. "I can't write a word." Dick Young calmly rolls a piece of paper in his own typewriter, types out a sentence, takes out the paper and hands it to Joe Trimble. "The imperfect man pitched a perfect game." Forty-five minutes later, Joe Trimble's story is finished, it's the best story of his career, he wins awards for that story�and Dick Young never says a word. Brash, vulgar, pushy�that's yet another count in the indictment. But hey, the man is a reporter, not a hired gun. Dick Young walks into the press conference where it will be announced that Doug Flutie has signed with the USFL. He sees a row of chairs occupied by TV people, celebrities, Donald Trump favorites and flunkies, sees the newspapermen standing three and four deep at the back. So he walks up the steps to the stage, sits down on a wall in front of the podium and takes out his notepad. Donald Trump's security goons politely ask him to move. Choosing his words with the care if not the vocabulary of Flaubert, he informs them that this is a press conference, that he's press and goddamned if he's going to budge. They find him a chair near the podium. Christie Brinkley may be there to get her picture in the paper, but Dick Young is there to get his story.

Eric Young, Jr. � LF Daniel Murphy � 2B David Wright � 3B Marlon Byrd � RF Ike Davis � 1B John Buck � C Juan Lagares � CF Omar Quintanilla � SS Carlos Torres � RHP

Gee 4.5 Hawkins 1.0 Byrd 1.0 Quintanilla 1.0 Davis 1.0 Young 0.5 Wright 0.5

Fman99 wrote: Well that sucked a mid-size Ryder moving truck full of dicks. Yes. Yes it did.

If Gomez is ever in a ticker-tape parade, at least it will feel familiar to him.