I had this whole visual joke all ready to go but then I see that Metstradamus has beaten me to the punch. LOL@me.

Last night’s game was a rollercoaster, equal parts excruciating, exciting, disappointing, hilarious, and ultimately deeply satisfying.

But I won’t call it surprising. Not after these ten games. I’m not surprised by the fight back we witnessed last night. I’m not surprised by Fernando Tatis anymore, because now it seems that the only time he ever gets a hit is when someone’s on base, waiting to get driven in. I’m not surprised that Carlos Delgado is resembling an honest-to-God Major League hitter again, because he’s been taking his walks like a patient man and waiting for a meatball to smoke, which he inevitably does. I’m not surprised by David Wright’s heroics, because when Argenis Reyes singled in the top of the ninth I nonchalantly thought, “Well a third two-run homer would get us back in business,” and then instantly I heard the ball ricocheting off his bat, Wayne Hagin’s voice soaring with it and optimism and my pumped fist as it went over the wall. And I’m not surprised the succession of hard hits by Beltran, Easley, Delgado, and Tatis, because over the past ten games we’ve seen this team get on these runs, stringing together hits for a big inning, moving the line along like automatic assembly to craft something so lovely and satisfying like a four-run ninth, tenth win in a row, and a tie for first place.

Not surprised by the pitching either, sorry to say. Not surprised by Santana’s terrible start; it figures the one time the Mets actually score oodles of runs during a game he pitches it’d be after he was knocked out in the fourth. He’s had his dominant-looking performances here and there this season, but usually they’ve been spoiled by lack of offense and/or bullpen meltdown. I’m not sure I’ve been wholly satisfied with Santana since the first game of the season, and I expect that to change soon enough. It’s enough that Pelfrey has started to look the stud. But you could sense Santana’s troubles a-brewin’ during that second inning when the Reds loaded the bases. He just didn’t have it, and a few innings later–afforded a 2-0 lead thanks to Delgado–it all went down the tubes real fast.

The bullpen’s 19 1/3 scoreless innings streak had to end sometime, and after Muniz relieved Santana and Feliciano relieved Muniz, it was looking pretty good. You’d of course have to think that any runs given up by the bullpen would eventually–according to recent history at least–happen with a combination of Aaron Heilman and Scott Schoeneweis, which is exactly what happened, despite their recent efficacy. The troubling part about it was Heilman, as fantastically good over the past month and a half as he was bad during the first two months, getting two quick outs in the inning, only to give up a double, intentional walk, and another walk. Smart move by Jerry Manuel to bring in Schoeneweis, who’s been great at inducing ground balls but, if my memory is correct, not-so-great at stranding inherited runners. Enter bases-clearing double. Thankfully for them, Sanchez pitched a scoreless eighth and the offense would work its magic.

And what to say about Wagner? Sure, I was feeling a little shaky considering his All-Star appearance, but after Encarnacion popped up on the first pitch I remembered, “Wags only blows it against the Phillies!” (insert wah-wah horns). At any rate, nice to see an easy 1-2-3 deal-sealing after the offense’s tremendous comeback in the top of the inning.

So many heroes last night, from big (Delgado) to small (the other Reyes), but with a two-out, 2 RBI single to cut the score to 5-4, and then to tie the score at 8 in the ninth, player of the game has to be David Wright. And of course, let us gaze upon his bounteous beauty:

Let’s go Mets. Turn it up to 11.

According to Adam Rubin, Mike Pelfrey has been named the NL Player of the Week.

His maturation has been something to behold. What a stud.

Why does there have to be an All Star break? BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Weekend recap: I didn’t get to see Friday’s seeming nailbiter of a game as I was out celebrating a friend’s birthday with Korean BBQ and then–seeing as we were in Koreatown–karaoke. I paid $12 for a Jameson neat. Are you kidding me with that bullshit, I thought, and then realized that I needed the Jameson in order to sing, like, “Summer of ‘69″ and whatever assorted crap we all did (I did manage a lovely duet w/ Beth of my favorite ever song “Be My Baby,” so go me). I checked my phone for scores off and on throughout the night, and when I saw a 2-1 victory, I praised yet another solid Ollie Perez performance and the Mets’ continued winning streak.

Thanks to the generosity of Bill W, one of my four readers, I attended the game on Saturday. I remarked to Bill at some point during the game–as cheers were showered on every player, rhythmic two-strike claps filling the stadium, people getting out of their damn seats without having to be coerced–how the atmosphere at Shea has changed so much since the last time I was there, not even a month ago. A month ago, you had jeers and groans and the bullpen coughing up runs and the offense leaving men on base and a fanbase seemingly bored and compelled to accept mediocrity. Three weeks later the tension has lifted, the players look crisp, balls are finding gaps with men on base and two outs, scrubs like Tatis and Easley and Chavez and Argenis Reyes and Nick Evans are making stellar plays and driving in the big boys, the big boys are hitting like they’re supposed to, and by God, the pitching has been lights-out. Times like these, the cheers flow easily.

As for Sunday, the late starting time worked out pretty perfectly for me: Along with a whole mess of other hipster fools, I went to McCarren Park Pool for the free Breeders show and stood in line for about an hour and half just waiting to get in. I finally get in and stand in a beer line for about fifteen minutes. I get my beer and just as I take a sip, the Breeders start their set. I ended up seeing my ex-something Anderson, along with a bunch of his Masshole friends, four guys and two girls. So I ended up hanging out with dudes with the following names: Andy, Marky, Mikey, Johnny, and Sully (I don’t know his real name, and holy hell is that a joke or what). It was like NKOTB 2 or something. At one point, Marky left and returned holding three beers. “Thanks,” I said, reaching for one. “No, these are all mine,” he bellows in that horrific accent I love so much. Show’s over and I head home, just in time to hear the Mets begin play. Roommate comes home, we drink more beer and listen to the game together as we talk about girls (well, he talked about girls at least) while I intermittently raised my hands in triumph thanks to a home run or double play or strikeout.

And what’s there to say about Mike fucking Pelfrey? His confidence and dominance is a sight to behold. If I ever get me a Paypal account, I’m buying one of them shirts.

Huh? Why? Oh, a 4 RBI game, coming up with the big hits like he has been lately? Oh, OKAY THEN.

Entering today’s game he had a .462 average with RISP. Which is just bonkersnuts. This isn’t going to last, surely, but it’s lovely to see someone who’s fought so hard to get back into the game contributing when needed. Especially considering Moises A-who? is BREAKING NEWS SHOCKER INJURED AGAIN DID YOU HEAR OH NO!

In other news, the sun will set in the west tonight.

I had a chance to go to last night’s game, as a bunch of my friends (ALL except one being from the Bay Area, ugh, I’ve never known more Northern Californians in my life than I have in New York, what the hell is that about?) got tickets to see their precious little Timmy Lincecum. Stan asked if I wanted to “go see Pelfrey again,” and after complaining earlier this season (as well as early last season) about Pelf, I responded “Actually I would. He’s been amazing.”

And he has. Unfortunately I had a prior commitment, but got to witness/hear most of the game. It was a funny little match-up; Big Phenom vs. Little Phenom, a guy drafted 9th in 2005 vs. a guy drafted 10th in 2006, both of them 24, both future-of-the-franchise type pitchers (with one excelling faster than the other). Howie Rose made an interesting comment that these two (but Lincecum especially) seemed to be pitching with a kid’s mentality, a playground challenge. Except Big Pelf got the best of Tiny Tim today. Pelf strikes out Tim with an inside curve; Tim throws the same to Pelf in the next inning, only to see Pelf get a hit.

It’s been dazzling to see Pelf pitch this way over the past few starts. He got into a jam in the first inning (thanks in part to a Damion Easley error) but came out of it unscathed and flew from there. This is not the Pelfrey you would have imagined earlier this season or last season. In fact, it sounds like Lincecum.

Lincecum also got into a bit of a jam in the first inning, but instead of working out of it, he threw a bad curve to Carlos Beltran, who shot it out of the park for a three-run homer. This is not the Lincecum you would have imagined earlier this season or last season. In fact, it sounds like Pelfrey.

Having a lead–especially against a lowly offensive team like the Giants–certainly only helps inspire confidence. But not only that, Pelfrey is pitching like a confident young man, and just rolled right through the meek Giants lineup, allowing only ONE hit into the outfield all night. ONE. And the offense wasn’t done either; Delgado would hit a bomb, Beltran would single in Argenis Reyes (who got the first hit of his ML career, leading to some funny shenanigans from Tatis), Easley would drive in Beltran, and then just for kicks on a night the Jets were honored at Shea, Tatis kicked the extra point.

Johan Santana must’ve been thinking, “Why can’t they do that shit when I’m pitching?!?!?!?” Because don’t look now, but Pelfrey hasn’t lost in eight starts, and his won his last five. Santana hasn’t won in six starts, and has lost four of those. Much of that, certainly, has to do with the offense. Hopefully the Mets, who have gotten double digit hits in seven of their last eight games, can provide Santana with enough of a cushion so that he can grab himself a win and put things back on track. Otherwise, I’ll have to repeat a notion from earlier this season that I found ludicrous but true: Pelfrey is our ace.

And I for one am glad to see it.

Looking pretty studly nowadays, eh?

Only the Mets can turn a 10-1 laugher into EXTREME AGITA NAILBITING BOTTOM OF THE NINTH GAME-WINNING RUN AT THE PLATE. What in the hell, Armas/Heilman/Wagner?! This team, I swear, is trying to kill me. I almost died last night. Didn’t realize my Great Mets Offense-induced coma almost turned life-threatening.

And then Goddam Jayson Werth comes up to face Billy Wagner as the game-winning run. A day after he hit the game-tying run in the bottom of the ninth. Of course, of course. I expected the worst, because you know the old saying about history repeating itself. I would like my new saying of “Billy Wagner should never pitch against the Phillies” to become as firmly entrenched.

But thankfully, that didn’t happen. Thankfully, Werth flied to right. Thankfully, the Mets held on for a 10-9 victory, move a game above .500, win the series, and pull to within 2.5 behind the Phils.

Phew. Thank fucking God.

A dramatic, upset-filled, rejuvenating fortnight at Wimbledon concluded with the highest of play and drama this weekend. On Saturday, the Williams sisters faced off in the final, seeing Venus take out younger sister Serena…and then three hours later, they teamed up to win the women’s doubles championship. A Brit named Laura Robson won the girls’ championship, giving the home crowd something nationalistic to cheer for at last. And then Rafael Nadal defeated Roger Federer in what may be the greatest match I’ve ever witnessed (I’d say just edging out V. Williams vs. Lindsay Davenport in Wimbledon 2005).

Back when the Williams sisters dominated the women’s tour, they met in six of eight Grand Slam finals, Serena winning the last five. Their matches always came with some hand-wringing: ludicrous charges of match-fixing (again brought up this year when Elena Dementieva lost to Venus in the semis and said that the finals would be a “family decision”), sloppy and lackluster play, and the intangibles of sibling rivalry being played out at an historic level that left the crowd uncomfortable. Well, just about the only negative thing you can say about the women’s final between Venus and Serena Williams was that it didn’t go three sets. The 7-5, 6-4 scoreline is a mite deceiving: Serena came out guns a-blazin’, taking it to big sis and rolling the first ten of eleven points. And then she hit a screamer right to her sister at the net, who countered with a reflex volley winner. After that, it seemed that Venus woke up, and there was nothing Serena could do. And she tried everything. Against any player in the world, Serena would have ran away with this in an hour. But not on Wimbledon against her older sister, the greatest grass-court player of her generation. Consider this: since 2000, a Williams sister has contested all but one final. Serena’s two wins came over Venus. Venus has won five titles, putting her just behind Martina Navratilova (nine) and Steffi Graf (seven) in the Open era.

Not only was it the highest quality match the sisters had played against each other, but I’d have to agree with Peter Bodo when he calls it “the highest level of women’s tennis I’ve ever witnessed.” The quality of shotmaking, the power, precision, the incredible defense were second to none. Serena, a notorious sore-loser, couldn’t even muster enthusiasm for her sister’s win. Considering the way she played, I can see why. The shots she was hitting would have been winners against anyone else, but big sis was always there with an even better reply. Thankfully, the Williams sisters went out and won the doubles, meaning a family sweep, and little sis got to hold up a championship trophy of her own.

Turns out the Williams family drama on Saturday would serve as only a mere appetizer for the behemoth Greek tragedy that was Federer-Nadal III. This was the match-up everyone was looking forward to; the King of Grass vs. the King of Clay. Nadal had come in playing his finest tennis, destroying Federer in the French Open final and taking out Andy Roddick and Novak Djokovic in a grass-court warm-up in Queens prior to Wimbledon. Federer, meanwhile, had been unbeaten on grass since 2002 but had yet to show his very best tennis this year, which would be needed to take out Nadal, even on grass.

Nadal had battled–and very nearly won–during their five set encounter in the Wimbledon finals last year, and due to his improved play and Federer’s decline, he was the overwhelming pick by pundits going into the match. He confirmed most predictions by jumping to a 6-4, 6-4, 4-5 lead before the rains came. It looked just about all over for Federer, who then came back to take the third set in a tiebreak. Nadal had many a chance to break through on Federer’s serve in the fourth, but couldn’t manage to pull it off. On to another tiebreak, during which Nadal choked up 5-2, Federer saving championship points with tremendous defense and typical brilliant shotmaking to take the fourth set. What was improbable–but hoped for–a few hours previously had come true: a fifth set, one last stand to decide the champ. Fitting that, with all that was on the line–Federer was gunning to break Bjorn Borg’s record of five straight Wimbledon wins; Nadal was trying to be the first man since Borg to win the “Channel Slam” (French and Wimbledon back-to-back)–it would go to overtime, would end in the dusk, the majestic Centre Court looking like the best set dressing for this improbable dream of a match as flashbulbs provided the only available light as the match ended on Federer’s missed forehand.

Between this and the Mets, a pretty good sports weekend for me.

(A bit of a side note: After last night’s game I kept it tuned to WFAN and listened to Lori Rubinson field calls, talk to Joe Smith, and discuss the Mets. At some point the conversation turned to Nadal’s victory over Federer. Rubinson said something to the effect of “I know Americans only care about American men dominating the sport, but if this match doesn’t help renew interest in tennis, then there’s something wrong with the sport.” I’d agree except say instead, “There’s something wrong with the mentality of the average American sports fan.” Because this comment, while true, not only speaks towards our country’s depressing jingoism/xenophobia–as Rubinson stated, Nadal is a perfect candidate to get Americans interested in the sport, considering his never-say-die attitude and bucketloads of charisma but oh! he’s Spanish!–but total phallocentrism as well. Because, ahem, we’ve had some American women dominate over the past decade while American men have floundered, but oh, they’re women, and black to boot. I see, America.)

A phenomenal game by the Mets in Philly tonight that could have turned like so many bust-ups have over the past thirteen months or so. A solo Beltran home run and–oddly–a second consecutive gem by Oliver Perez saw the Mets with a 1-0 lead in the bottom of the eighth inning. Duaner Sanchez would get the first out and allow the next two batters on base, bringing up Pedro Feliciano to face lefty Ryan Howard.

And then the rains came (what is this, Wimbledon?…More on that tomorrow, likely, not that you care all that much!).

That incessant downpour and interminable delay served to make me hope that somehow it would continue long into the night, calling the game in the Mets’ favor. Forgive the pessimism, but we have surely witnessed too many bullpen meltdowns in Philly to have much faith in Feliciano (who has been struggling for what seems like all season) against Howard. And we all had hours and hours to fret over that match-up.

And then Howard strikes out.

And then it looks pretty good as the Mets sratch out another run in the top of the ninth, leading the way for Billy Wagner. Our closer. Our All-Star. It’s the bottom of the Phillies’ order, and he’s supposed to mow them down, right? Game over, no?

NO. Not for Wags against Philly. How many games has he blown against Philly in the last year? There goes a game-tying two run bomb, the miraculous Phillies having been down to their last strike. Of course. Dejafuckingvu. We almost need a moratorium against a crucial appearance for Billy Wagner against the Phillies. Maybe we can give that spot to Joe Smith against Philly.

But first things first: a big fucking thank you to Fernando Tatis, tonight’s game-winning hero, answering Jayson Werth’s two-run bomb with a two-run bomb of his own, putting the Mets up 4-2 in the twelfth. This would allow Smith, who had pitched an inning and a third, to end the top of the twelfth with one of the most lousy at-bats known to mankind (he at least fouled off a pitch?) and pitch the bottom of the frame.

And boy, did Smith MAN UP. In his two and a third, with Tony Armas the only available option in the bullpen, Smith had to face big lefties in Chase Utley and Howard, along with switch-hitter Jimmy Rollins. Smith + lefties = trouble. But holy God, was it a true grit performance, allowing one hit in his appearance (to Rollins), and deservedly earning the win tonight. I think we saw a young man grow up tonight.

Of course, due to his age, he has to carry that Hello Kitty backpack to the bullpen. “Hello Smitty” indeed. Maybe Smitty can lend it to Wagner for a while. That’d be some poetic justice.

Last night I missed going to the SNY viewing party at the Village Pourhouse (in turn missing out on meeting a boy on whom I have the most incomprehensible crush, a boy who will go nameless, but he’s got Kennedy hair and I’m not made of stone, guys) due to general malaise and weird mental things and stress and whatnot, so I decided to cook for two hours and then listen to the game. Good game! Etc. Hooray win. They’ll probably lose tonight. That’s what .500 teams do, right?

But mainly I’ve been distracted because of Wimbledon. Yes, still! It’s almost over, promise. I realized something about today’s matches though: back in January, when Maria Sharapova defeated Ana Ivanovic in the Australian Open final, drooling males who couldn’t give two shits about the sport were deeming it the “hottest match ever.” I find Ivanovic totally adorable and Sharapova completely overrated (have you seen her face? She looks like a lizard. But she’s blonde, so there you go American standard of beauty), but they probably had a point.

WELL. Considering this blog, it’s time to turn the tables and objectify some men, as today features the hottest ever quarterfinal matchup, though you wouldn’t know it judging by media coverage (save for always-reliable tennis.com, which deemed the match “the GQ special.” Well done).

Here we have Feliciano Lopez, who kind of looks like a male Gabriela Sabatini (in my mind the most beautiful woman to play the sport):

What’s with the beefcake shot though? He looks like he should be on the cover of a romance novel. (Also here’s an, ahem, NSFW image)

And opposing him, beautiful talent-wasting headcase Marat Safin:

Marat kinda looks like an ex’s brother here. Sigh.

I promise actual substance TK.

EL ESTA AQUI!