Bobby Scales went to Japan. I imagine the Mets received modest compensation. He'd have been exposed also before being farmed out, so there's that, so the logjam really begged to be cleared up with a trade --- or, barring that, exposing one of the middle infielders, indeed like Turner. Turner, meanwhile, has appeared in eight games this season as a firstbaseman, going .160 / .192 /.160 // .352 in 26 plate appearances. What really grinds my bones about it all, as I tried to say in the other thread, is that he's getting the call for psychological reasons, and not strategic ones. Meanwhile, he's fielding .975 at the allegedly easiest position on the diamond. The only players with more than two games at first who have done worse are Jim Thome (Phi) at .974 over four games and Laynce Nix (also Phi) at .974 over 10 games.) He had no experience at first at the big-league level before this and only one game in the minors, but fucking managers always believe their middle infield reserves can play anywhere, and that any fool can play first. Ask Jerry Manuel how Jeremy Reed played first. What's more is my completely speculative belief that sticking crappy choices into your lineup is demoralizing to the less crappy choices, and gets them to feel crappy and play crappy. I ever tell you about Maria O'Sullivan's wedding? Lemme tell you about Maria O'Sullivan's wedding. Maria was a beauty. Her dad was a tough-assed Irish cop --- the toughest-assed, really. My dad had about 60 pounds and half a foot on him, but even though they both boxed, my dad refused to spar with him. And my Dad was tough. Her mom was a Cuban beauty queen about five inches taller than him, as funny as she was pretty. Is now a seniors tennis champion. Maria was lovely and sunny and open-hearted and free-spirited and her friends were lovely and sunny and open-hearted and free spirited. The sort of women that sun dresses were made to adorn. When Maria got married, what a wedding it was going to be. At the reception, most of my family ended up at the same table. Lacking room to fit us all, they bumped my brother and I to the next table. Handsome and rugged young bachelors in our mid-twenties that we were, we were cool to be separated from the social anchor that our family represented --- until our table companions began joining us ---- all 12-16 year-olds. Motherfuck it, but Maria had put us at the kids' table. That's what she thought of us. And you know, picking through my beet salad, I began to think a little less of myself as well. I did not dance much that evening lovely and sunny and open-hearted and free spirited women in sun dresses, but I played a lot of Mad-Libs. And not particularly well. What I'm saying is that last night's performance by the Mets was the baseball equivalent of a poorly executed round of Mad-Libs from a buncha ballplayers who found themselves at the lineup equivalent of the children's table.. Oh, and I voted for Pascucci, although I think he's been through a lot of demoralizing shit in his career, too. His whole life has been at the children's table, hasn't it?