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.