ect. Baseball

© New York Mets 2013
John Buck and Matt Harvey

The Fall of a Dark Knight
By Thomas Scherrer

     You listen to enough people around the shoreline of Connecticut and swore they once saw him as a teenager strike out 15 in Groton; then promptly walked out to the Connecticut River and walked on it.  Others also would gladly tell you that it was simply a myth of a man who was too arrogant and too young to know better.  I've had the privilege of working with a older man for close to two years in Doug Carlson.  He's a baseball fan first.  Rare to find a 63-year-old man deeply involved in a fantasy baseball keeper league.  He argues it keeps him in touch with all the players in the game he loves the most; keeping tabs on rising young arms like Gerrit Cole and Jarrod Parker, as well as keeping in touch with the player he considered the best player he ever saw in the famous Cape Cod League in Buster Posey.  He's been trying to pull off a three-for-one deal to get rid of the chronically injured Clay Buchholz for two years and drafted Zack Wheeler two years ago as a sign of the future for what the prospect of...well, a prospect could bring.  He swears he's not obsessed with it.  I don't disagree, but I know the real reason: it keeps an old man young.  Baseball does that to men of a certain age.  It tries to call them back to a better day, one when they were younger and more virile.  When bones didn't creak and moan like a broken-down need.  When the future seemed limitless and full of opportunity.  For Carlson, you can argue his tour of Vietnam stole some of that innocence and he's always been looking to reclaim it.  Or you can claim he's got no other Damn thing to do.

     But he never outright loved the myth of that young man.  Heard too much about the arrogance and petulance of a pitching prospect.  Perhaps he thought to himself that he needed to be less impressed of the local myth as if to not lose himself in the man that in the span of 18 months would become a prospect-turned Major Leaguer-turned rising phenom-turned staff ace-turned National League All-Star starting pitcher.  He didn't want to lose himself in Matt Harvey like I did.

     Harvey shifted the paradigm of a star-crossed franchise, always living in the shadow of their cross-town rivals.  Every five or so days this season, the story that led baseball was centered around the team in Flushing, with the 24-year-old from New London, Connecticut flashing his right arm to the sky, baseball in hand, delivering it 60 feet, 6 inches to a batter whose odds of success were scant to begin with only becoming improbable once they saw what Harvey threw at them.  Hitters became vanquished foes-helpless on that particular night, hoping that maybe Harvey's team wouldn't score any runs (happened) and that they could spell the myth enough to dispose of him and claim victory against lesser men (also happened).  But to some who support the team Harvey plays for, the win or loss was irrelevant, as much as the performance was.  Met fans who get it know what we've been witnesses to: a once in a generation ace, not afraid of New York and it's crush of what celebrity might bring.  But most don't see that.  They are seeing the youth wasted on a lousy organization, with an equally lousy, if not apathetic fanbase (yes, most Met fans-you have been horrible these last few years) that is uncaring and ultimately waiting for the other shoe to drop.

     Perhaps now, that shoe has dropped.

     On Monday, August 26th, 2013, the Mets silent guardian-a man whose fans need, but don't deserve based off their actions-walked into the New York Mets press room around 4:30 in the afternoon and sat in front of the media to announce he has partially torn his UCL in that magical right arm.  The hopes and promises of a championship future spearheaded by the dynamic duo of Harvey and Wheeler for the moment have been set aside as Harvey possibly awaits a degree most pitchers have, yet don't want: a BS in Ligament Replacement at Tommy John University.  A shock for many who thought that the Automatic Man, with the perfect pitching mechanics would never fall prey to the deadliest injury in baseball.  So proves that the most violent act in sports can get even the most sound of deliveries, with just a single moment.  For now, Matt Harvey, the Real Deal, or The Dark Knight of Gotham, or The Franchise 2.0 will rest and hope that surgery is not the answer.  Sadly, history points in the other direction.  An eighteen month journey through rehab, could with torture, doubt, some more torture, some more doubt, and hopefully, success.  With success comes a return of hope and faith to the Flushing Faithful; a return to the masses that may truly appreciate what they have in front of them.

     Here's to The Dark Knight Rising.



©8th Floor Poet 2013

Collin McHugh's debut fell on deaf ears to Met fans in search of salvation.

"Supernatural" 
Johan Santana's historic night and the perils of the Modern Age 
by Thomas Scherrer

Eight thousand and twenty.  8,020.  It is, above all else a number.  A large data sample for most things centered around sports.  Whenever you have over 8,000 examples of something happening and with a consistent nature, you are led to believe that a) this consistency will always occur, meaning finding an anomaly is impossible if not, improbable and b) you don't ever expect to see that anomaly occur in your lifetime.  After all, do some simple math: 8,020 games divided by 162 baseball games is exactly 49.5.  A simpler translation is that if something happens for almost a half-century every single time, you don't expect it to change...EVER.  However, last night, June the first, in the year two thousand and twelve Johan Alexander Santana from Tovar, Venezuela became the anomaly in the 8,020.  He became the first New York Met pitcher to fire a no-hitter, ending a 50-plus year history of oh-so-close and not-quite.  

Understand this: if you aren't a Met fan or do not know a Met fan, you cannot possibly understand what this moment meant to them.  In an organization fully rich in pitching since its inception in 1962, this almost feels surreal in some regards; long overdue in most.  After all, this is the organization that drafted Tom Seaver and Nolan Ryan.  Had starters like Jerry Koosman and John Matlack.  Drafted the phenom Dwight Gooden.  Acquired arms like Ron Darling, David Cone, Bret Saberhagen, and Al Leiter.  Signed former Cy Young winners in Orel Hershieser, Tommy Glavine, and Pedro Martinez.  Still for 8,019 games...every Met pitcher fell short of not allowing a hit.  There was a Jimmy Qualls or a Paul Hoover around the corner to spoil the party.  Last night, there was no broken bat flare that dropped in for a hit, no slow roller up the 3rd base line for an infield single, and no line drive double just off the chalk (well...we'll get to that).  Last night, Johan became Nohan: a worthy candidate based off his pedigree, talent, and professionalism.  A shocking candidate based off where he was 12 months ago.  On June 1st last year, Johan Santana was rehabbing from a torn anterior capsule in the left shoulder.  His career was certainly hanging in the balance with each passing day.  Each long rehab day, followed by a long recovery day and so on and so on.  Met fans wondered if, not when, Santana would return.  If he returned, would he be anywhere near the same pitcher that snagged two Cy Young awards in Minnesota, he man who literally dragged the sinking Mets in 2008 to the playoffs with two Pantheonic performances with a meniscus that wasn't strained or tender...it was partially torn, and submitted 2009 and 2010 seasons while injured that about 99% of Major League Baseball pitchers wished they had.  

Through the first 9 starts, Santana was impressive but not dominant.  Unfortunate in that he had no run support in going 1-2, but shaky enough to make you think if he is all the way back yet.  In his last road outing against Pittsburgh, while staked to a 4-0 lead, Santana failed to hold onto it against an anemic offense.  It prompted me to make this mental note in my head after his outing, in which the Mets lost: "Johan is, while still serviceable, cannot be called an 'Ace' at the moment.  He is the Mets Number 1 starter but an Ace he is not right now.  And one has to wonder if he ever will become one again."  His next two outings?  18 innings, 4 hits, no runs, and yes, a no-hitter.  That no hit performance included this mind blowing statistic: he threw 134 pitches, a career high.  Remember, his shoulder was reconstructed and Manager Terry Collins had placed his 'Ace' on a budget: 110-115 pitches.  Clearly, that went by the board.  And you never saw a human being more uncomfortable with history than Mr. Collins was before, during, and after the no-hitter was accomplished.  Collins almost broke down in the interview after the game after Kevin Burkhart referenced the 'hero' line by Collins to Santana in the top of the 8th after Rafael Furcal's walk.  It appears that the most guilty conscience in Queens last night was the one of the manager whose pitcher was making history...

And not the one of Adrian Johnson.  

Johnson, the 3rd base umpire became a focal point in the 6th inning when he incorrectly ruled Carlos Beltran's line drive over 3rd to be foul when replays (all 800 of them) showed it kicked chalk, which would have been the first St. Louis Cardinal hit.  Instead, like most no-hit bids, there needs to be some luck involved in making it happen.  But that error didn't stop the St. Louis Dispatch from taking the lead in denouncing the historical accomplishment by their headline in the morning paper reading "No-Hitter*".  Which, to say the least, is a low and pathetic headline, very un-like the great city of St. Louis and their great baseball fans.  Still the accomplishment of Santana will be looked at as historic but also a barometer for why the sport of baseball needs to reinvest in its replay system.  After the ball game was over, Johnson said he looked at a video of the blown call...and said nothing else.  In the past week, Jim Leyland called for umpires to be held more accountable in the wake of Tigers-Red Sox series and, we get THAT?!?  Look, I'm not saying that I didn't love what happened last night, but when the other 4 men on the field DO make a bad decision and get to see it for their very eyes, at least acknowledge the error and chalk it up (literally) to human error.

One final note to the Nohan: I was out, as most of you know, bowling on a Friday night.  My girlfriend looked on her phone and saw the accomplishment, calling it belated 28th birthday gift.  I wasn't even thinking about that.  I thought about Seaver and Gooden.  Darling and Cone.  I thought about Howie Rose and Gary Cohen, two lifelong Met fans turned hometown announcers who got to call Santana's strikeout of David Freese to finish off the no-no.  And I called my dad.  I hardly ever call him.  He sent me one back that I only listened to after I watched the replay of the game and it went like this:

"Yes TJ, I didn't move...from where I was sittin'..."

And the message stopped with him sniffling, perhaps holding back something.  Maybe he had no other words.  But that is the glorious thing about baseball.  There is a true link to your father and to his father and even perhaps to his father, who probably tried to sneak into Ebbets Field or the Polo Grounds or the original Yankee Stadium to watch their heroes play with a baseball and a bat, some gloves and chalk lines.  Fans dressed to the nines with snap brim hats and cigar smoke encircling the baselines looking to idolize men they dreamed to be like and perhaps the women they had their choice of as well.  Young boys having their teacher pull out a transistor radio or a television in the middle of class so that you can listen to DiMaggio track down a fly ball in the vast gaps of Yankee Stadium or Willie Mays or Mickey Mantle going deep or perhaps tune in and listen to Sandy Koufax strike out 15 or possibly throw a no-hitter himself.  It is the last of these things that make baseball really special: the art of the pitcher taking command, turning the game into his own showcase event.  Guys like Koufax, Bob Gibson, Seaver, Ron Guidry, Gooden, Pedro, and a few others weren't pitching in a baseball game-they were pitching in an event.  A showcase of their once in a generation skills to where anything could happen.  I remember Pedro, vintage '99...all string bean thin, arms and legs, firing mid-90's heat, with a jaw dropping hook and a change up that looked like it froze in midair before the batter meekly swinging at it for strike 3.  I remember the crowds in Fenway, sensing that anything was possible: a no-hitter, perfect game, 15 K's.  When Pedro came to the Mets, the same feeling came to me: Pedro is pitching, something big could happen just like when my dad saw Seaver pitch.  The beauty of it was that in the sometimes monotonous routine of baseball, every 4 or 5 days, someone was taking that mound that could capture the imagination of your baseball soul.  On June 1st, 2012, I went back to being a 10 year old kid.  Giddy that Johan Santana made history in a Met uniform.  Giddy to hear Cohen and Rose call the last out.  Giddy to see the crowd react to something special. In a word, it was a Supernatural feeling.  

 

"A Jog Through Worcester"-June 18, 2011

Editors note: I was going to start my journal log on running last week but kinda forgot where I jogged that day.  Don't hold it against me...

Destination: Shrewsbury Street
Length: 4 miles

June 18, 2011-"Genesis"

     Why do this?  Because I feel as if a certain city needed to be shown in a certain light, instead of the horrors that everyone else say it is.  Granted, I cannot fully speak for the city of Worcester, but I am going to try through the means of jogging.  Or running if you will...I must admit right off the bat that I am not a big fan of running because it is a) boring and b) I am not great with running long distances.  I'd rather much prefer to do sprints on a baseball diamond or a football field or a basketball court.  I feel as if I derive greater results from doing fast, high-intensity work than plodding along for 4-5 miles or yes, more.  And that's another reason why I am doing it: to do something that I am not great at to get better at it.  My girlfriend loves to run, can't get enough of running long distances, absolutely would do it each and every time she went to workout.  I would love to join her in that enthusiasm or at the very least, keep up with her.  A few years ago, she was churning out 9 mile runs in near 100 degree heat at Vanderbilt like it was nothing and I was impressed.  She hates it when it is hot outside.  I, however love it when it's hot.
     Yesterday, I mapped out a 4 mile run to get started on my mission and chose what I lovingly refer to as "The Strip" in Worcester.  Shrewsbury Street has got plenty in the way to offer to people...if you are hungry or thirsty.  My jog officially starts from Bancroft Commons on Franklin Street (where I live) over to Union Station and under I-290.  Union Station was busy this morning.  Along with the usual throng of people coming off the T, there are travel buses all lined up underneath the overpass probably booked for Boston or Albany or some other cities along the northeast part of the country.  If you were heading to Boston yesterday, you should have been prepared for a party for it was the Boston Bruins Stanley Cup celebration during the midday.  I heard over 1 million people showed up to see the B's and Lord Stanley's chalice going along the parade route.  Good for those fans in a city where sports teams have been running like a hot craps table, only it's be a decade long run.  Counting college, there have been 11 championships in the New England/Boston area in the last 10 years.   I have been waiting 17 years for one.  Thanks Mets, Jets, Knicks, and Rangers.
     The first real landmark heading east on Shrewsbury Street is not food but a gas station.  A full service Sunoco with Pat's Towing Services.  The latter has cornered the Worcester towing market.  Look anywhere downtown in the city at the parking lots: Pat's Towing will remove all violators or along those lines.  Hell, they even tow our cars in our apartment for not paying their parking fee.  They are like the Godfather of this stuff: cash only, unmarked bills, keep it clean and let's not have this happen again.  And yes, I have been a visitor to their "lot" where they keep all their towed cars, piling up like a gold mine.  But I'm not bitter or anything...let's just move on.  As I jog up, we get to the copious amounts of restaurants that flood Shrewsbury Street.  Via and 111 (or One-Eleven as it known too, yes redundant) share a corner, both of which I hear are great to eat, but expensive.  Hey, I work in retail...not making 50K a year over here people.  Going a bit further, there is the Wonder Bar and a discount liquor store that has got everything that could be fermented or triple distilled in it.  Just past that is Scrub-a-Dub Car Wash, perhaps a place to clean your car after you get it back from Pat's Towing.  Perhaps they could dole out a 2-for-1 special.  Pick up your towed car and get a receipt for Scrub-a-Dub for a free car wash and vacuuming. 
     Mac's Diner is pretty neat.  Old-school diner, old-school payment (cash), and old-school rules: Bring Your Own Beer.  About 18 months ago, I remember a sign outside the diner thanking everyone who helped save the diner from I guess folding.  That's one of the cooler things that I have seen living in New England: people have kept their traditional values and sense of independence.  I mean, I have not named one corporate chain restaurant yet, right?  And I will only name two (Subway and Dunkin' Donuts).  While we're on DD, the one on Shrewsbury Street has two crowds that show up en masse: one is obvious (Worcester PD-their cop cars are always there); the other?  Bikers!  I always see several choppers parked on the street next to DD and today was no exception.  And yes, cops as well sneaking in their 5th bearclaw of the morning.  Perhaps it would make more sense for bikers parking there had it been like 2pm instead of 930am because of Funky Murphy's. 
     Now this place has got an awesome idea.  Full bar, flat screen TV's, and outdoor dining, but they also have retractable windows so indoor customers can still take in the weather and a summer breeze.  They also got a bowling league too!  And I still haven't eaten there yet?  Shrewsbury Street goes slightly uphill after that and then levels off a bit then goes back up and they have the Fred Astaire Dancing Studio and Bancroft Massage Therapy (the east side restaurants are gone at this point) and up the next hill, there is Tommy's Barber Shop with one of the more recognizable signs in the window for Your's Truly: "Hippies Allowed".  Namaste, Tommy's.
     The march back downhill begins around the 2 mile mark right at Picadilly Pub.  OK, I need some chain clarification.  I have seen two of them but I don't know if it is local or not, someone write back to me on this please.  The west side is no different than the east side (numerous restaurants at the bottom, old stores and houses at the top), then suddenly the sun starts to peak out.  I love the sunshine...it is arguably the most serene thing you can see in your lifetime that we all take for granted.  It is in a perfect place in our solar system for Earth to grow and prosper and for us to enjoy days like these when it comes out and lights up the sky.  Although thankfully, it waited until I turned back home to peek out, otherwise it would have been in my eyes the whole time.
     Along the west side, there is a tattoo and piercing emporium (no thanks), a Brazilian-style eatery (thanks), as well as a fitness center, which the name escapes me but I do know this: they got a huge-ass tire in the middle of the sidewalk.  With no one looking, I decided to get some plyometrics in and hop in and out of the monster truck tire and keep on jogging.  I find it kinda funny that on a street where there is like 600 places to eat, this is the only place to burn it off.  The Flying Rhino and Junior's follow the unique "small restaurant but outdoor seating" setup that other stores on the street follow (goes for Brew City as well and their thousands of beer choices).  While I am jogging, all the restaurant signs have the upcoming Taste of Shrewbury Street coming up June 21st, which gives people samples of some of the food from all the local places.  Genius call.  Also along the west side, I jog by the recently renovated Christopher Columbus park.  It has added a playground and smurf-colored tennis court in recent months to add to activity.  It also has a man made/natural amphitheater which would be great for local bands to crank out their music and play to crowds.
     Mezcal has got great house margaritas...get there once in your life.  I have never eaten there but I bet the food is great too.  If it is too spicy for you, certainly get to Brew City.  Beers, burgers, huge pulled pork nacho appetizer, and a fondue-type S'mores desert you got to try.  And now you wonder why I am jogging???  Call it the Brew City Effect.  As my jog ends, I really feel good-my breath is calm, my legs are good, but as the sun starts to burn, I feel another burn: my left pinky toe is blistering up.  A drag because if I had a day off, I could have done the loop again and gotten 6-8 miles in which I am shocked about.  I didn't think I had that in me to start.  In the end, it is best to get back home.  I only saw one other person jogging this morning, which is sad but also not surprising.  Shrewsbury Street isn't the best place to jog, especially if it is busy, plus there are other good places to run through Worcester.  Hopefully, some of which I'll tell you more about as the summer goes along.

    Namaste, 
    Thomas

"Arcane"

Confusing, aren't I? A little bit of a mystery.
A question mark to some, an answer to few.
Hard to put together, hard to clearly see.
My meaning can be obscure to many, mostly you.

I'm an arcane human, but we all flirt on being eccentric.
Divided by emotions and feelings that tear at our souls.
Dancing with all the changes that make our lives tick.
Such as science and history, with religion filling the holes.

Undefined; to be an unwritten book.
A law without principle, a rule without a guide.
An example of freedom for those who dare to look.
To go against the grain, to roll against the tide.

A secret, a foreign text, a language of the dead.
I live my life without trying to stay inside the line.
But sometimes I play by the rules laid out instead.
A mystery to you and me, someone you can't define.

"Reach Out"

Can't you see your fellow man needs you?

Can't you see that some need love from beyond the blue?

The bright, clear skies extend beyond our souls.

To other people with torn jeans and shoes full of holes.

No matter where we sit-here we still choose to stand.

As the billions inhabit on each and every mass of land.

Reach out and touch a friend.

Volunteer to the blind or find a noble message to send.

Give yourself in service to inner city kids.

And auction off your clothes without asking for bids.

Be a role model to the homeless and poor.

Maybe find a way to the soup kitchen door.

Do what you can and don't earn a cent.

Because your free time to others is time well spent.

"Coexist"

Why do we resist...

when we can learn to coexist?

We scream at the birka, the sacred cow, and the temple of light

We don't seem to agree, instead we wanna show off and fight

I don't like your music, age, or color of your skin

Also you're form of origin or the gods you believe in

You, my dear man are using up my social security

You, my child, don't understand how my brother's Ultimate Sacrifice won your security

A Star of David necklace and a skinheaded neighbor

Don't let go of history as the hate grows from door to door

A teenage mother-to-be aborts her child

As her pastor father shuns her to be exhiled

The dreamer, the creative are told to hold back

By the realists of the world with imagination they lack

Lesbians and gays marching down the street

Are told to reroute the parade away from the city's elite

Missionaries and Witnesses casting a holy shadow

While we screen our calls and look outside our window

Why do we resist

when we can learn to coexist?