WOLF BLITZED

Last night was a typical outing for Randy Wolf against the Marlins: 6 IP, 5 ER, 2 HR allowed. My distant cousin Mike Lowell tied the game in the 4th with a mammoth shot over the scoreboard at recently rechristened Dolphins Stadium (they might as well call it "Hey Marlins, Get The Hell Out Of Our" Stadium). Dodger refugee Paul LoDuca made it 5-2 with another two-run shot in the 5th. The Aquamen roughed up the bullpen, including someone by the name of Pedro Liriano, for three more for an 8-2 final. The real problem for the Phils, however, was AJ Burnett. After missing nearly all of the 2003 World Championship season and about half of last season recovering from Tommy John surgery (can we call that something else now? How about, Welcome To The Big Leagues surgery), he's healthy and nearly unhittable. He was registering triple digit heat as late as the seventh inning, and his curve, slider, and changeup were all working. The Marlins starting rotation now has three times as many complete games as...the American League. Frightening.

In other news, my favorite player on my Strat team, Miguel Cabrera, continues to look like money. He lined a sharp single off Wolf (also, sadly, on my Strat team), and then casually slapped a Terry Adams do-nothing breaking ball into the left-field seats. He turns 22 next week.

Tonight's matchup is Cory Lidle vs. The D Train, Dontrelle Willis. Willis already has one shutout this year, and Abreu and Thome are normally rendered moot against lefties who come from the side like Dontrelle. I'm not optimistic. Lidle was decent in his first start, and he's the only Phillie to throw multiple shutouts last year, so there's a possibility something good might happen. I have a feeling we'll see that signature high leg kick of the D Train well into the late innings, though.

New Braves closer Danny Kolb gacked a big one last night, allowing three Nats to score in the ninth for a 4-3 loss. Atlanta still has a one game lead on us, Florida and Washington, with the Mets two and a half out.

The Mets lost their first five for new manager Willie Randolph before Pedro finally broke through against John Smoltz on Sunday. The Mets were our family team back in upstate NY. My mom grew up in Brooklyn, and she and my dad were ardent Brooklyn Dodgers fans for the better part of their lives until Dem Bums went west in 1957. The Mets arrived in 1962 as an expansion team, and were instantly adopted by my family. Even my maternal grandmother, who also spent a big chunk of her life in Brooklyn, loved the Amazins. My earliest baseball memories are of watching the highlights of the 1969 World Series win over Baltimore during rain delays. Clendennon, Agee, Seaver, Grote, Swoboda - this was the Pantheon in our house. I didn't really understand the significance of what had occurred, but I knew that we had been a part of something big, a bona fide Miracle. I didn't really start comprehending or appreciating the game until the '73 pennant run, when Big Bad Pete Rose started a fight with little Buddy Harrelson during the NLCS. The Mets somehow bested the Big Red Machine in five games, and then had to face the defending champion Oakland A's, they of the loud uniforms and hippie hair. I remember Charlie Finley firing Mike Andrews for making in error in one of the early games, and then being forced to re-instate him by Bowie Kuhn. I also remember the Mets improbable run finally wilting in the seventh game, and my uncle, who lived not far from the Oakland Coliseum, rubbing it in.

After that season, the Mets descended into a spiral of mediocrity and then downright atrociousness under the incompetent stewardship of M. Donald Grant. The low point was the 1977 trade of my hero, Tom Seaver, to the Reds for four nobodies. The late 70's and early 80's were a dark time to be a Mets fan. Of course, I was just getting into Little League and then puberty, so the Mets nadir couldn't have come at a worse time. While my classmates and teammates were jumping on the Steinbrenner Yankee bandwagon, I spent my summers wondering whether Dave Kingman could possibly strike out any more, and why Lenny Randle and Elliott Maddox were not only wearing major league uniforms, but getting serious playing time. The only solace was the announcing team of Bob Murphy and Ralph Kiner; Murph for his professionalism and class, and Kiner for his loveable incompetence. My favorite weekend afternoons were spent listening to a Mets doubleheader on the transistor radio at Glimmerglass State Park, riding back home in my Dad's Oldsmobile with Murph describing the late innings on the car radio, and after arriving back home to see the end of a rare Mets win, watching Kiner's Korner, seeing how many words Ralph would stumble over and what kind of insane questions he would ask. My favorite guests were Le Grand Orange, Rusty Staub, and of course, the man, Tom Seaver. Seaver was such a pro, possessing an encyclopedic knowledge of pitching and the ability to convey it, even after a grueling complete game. I loved his high pitched cackle whenever Ralph would say something crazy. Rusty was cool, charming, sophisticated, and could talk a great game. Both players epitomized in my mind what it meant to be a major league baseball player. They will always set the standard.

In 1980, the Mets were sold to publishing magnate Nelson Doubleday, of the Abner Doubledays, and Fred Wilpon. They hired Frank Cashen, architect of the great 60's and 70's Orioles teams, to be the new GM. It took a few years, but the turnaround had begun, just in time for my high school and college years. The first big acquisition was George Foster from the Reds. Big George had hit 52 homers in 1977 for the Reds, and Mets fans hadn't seen anything like him in their history. He was mostly a flop, but it gave us hope that the Mets were serious about bringing in star players. The next big move was the 1983 trade for Keith Hernandez, former co-MVP of the National League. Hernandez immediately took charge of the clubhouse and instilled an expectation of winning that had been missing since the '73 team. In 1984, the call-up of pitching phenom Dwight Gooden put the Mets right in the thick of the NL East race, eventually won by the Cubs, with the Mets finishing a respectable second. When Gary Carter was traded to New York for spare parts after the 1984 season, I knew that the Mets would be contenders for years. 1985, my senior year in High School, looked to be the year they would finally get back to the postseason. Another youngster with the impossible name of Darryl Strawberry was hitting baseballs in places where baseballs had never been hit, Gooden was untouchable, and Carter and Hernandez were having career years. They battled the Cardinals all season until succumbing in the final week.

Ah, 1986, the high point of my baseball existence. We had been so close in 1985, and with Strawberry and Gooden another year older, and Bobby Ojeda now in the rotation, we looked unbeatable. There's no doubt 1986 was my favorite summer. The Mets won games in every conceivable fashion that year. For the opponents, no lead was ever safe, no matter how late the in the game it was. My favorite game that year was in Cincinnati, when the Mets tied it with two outs in the 9th, and then ran out of position players when a brawl erupted after a steal of third by the Reds Eric Davis. Roger McDowell and Jesse Orosco spent the 10th through 13th innings switching between right field and the pitchers mound before Howard Johnson homered in the top of the 14th. That game was the essence of the '86 Mets: Whatever it takes.

The postseason that year has been dissected to exhaustion, but to be a long-suffering fan of the team that won it was the most exhilarating and rewarding experience of my baseball life. I remember being home from college for Fall Break during Game Three of the NLCS, and heading to the mall to get a haircut as the Mets fell behind early. When the haircut was done, the Mets had tied it, and then fallen behind again. Lenny Dykstra then belted a two-run homer off Astro closer Dave Smith in the bottom of the 9th, and we were up 2 games to 1. Back at school, we all gathered in my room to watch Game Six on the little 13" color TV my parents had bought me the previous Christmas. It looked bleak as Bob Knepper mowed down the Mets for eight innings, with Cy Young winner Mike Scott waiting to close it out in Game Seven. The Mets rallied for three in the 9th, and then I had to go to my Co-op Orientation Meeting. AAAUUGGHHH! I missed the Mets run in the 14th, and Billy Hatcher's foul pole homer to tie it, but I made it back in time to see the Mets score three in the 16th. The Astros scored two in the 16th, but Orosco got Kevin Bass looking, threw his glove to the ceiling, and the METS WIN THE PENNANT! I couldn't believe my eyes. The last time I had seen that, it was Tug McGraw getting mobbed at Shea in 1973. How far they had fallen, and then come back again. On to the World Series.

This is where Sox fans can stop reading (not that anyone is reading). For Game Six, my roommate and I were watching the final innings with a guy down the hall, Rob, who was from Framingham, MA. When Dave Henderson hit the homer to put the Sox up by two in the 10th, Rob was still wary, but clearly psyched. I think he went back to his room to call some of his friends back home. I remember having my finger poised on the remote button to turn the TV off if the Mets made the final out because I couldn't bear it. "My teams never win," I kept telling my roommate. And then. Well, at this point, I should have known. The Mets had been staging miraculous comebacks all year, and when I saw Bob "Steamer" Stanley trot in from the bullpen, it was over as far I was concerned. I knew from playing Strat-o-Matic that Stanley was a bum, and given the Red Sox accursed history, it all began to come together. The Buckner thing really didn't surprise me much. Whatever it takes. I do remember jumping high enough that my head almost hit the ceiling when Ray Knight crossed home. I don't recall even being worried about Game Seven. There was no way we could lose after Game Six. We fell behind early, but came storming back and won easily, 8-5. Vindication, at last.

The rest of the 80's were semi-successful. The Mets made the playoffs again in '88 only to run into the Orel Hershiser/Kirk Gibson Dodger juggernaut, and then slowly fell into decline. I moved away to Illinois and started following the Chicago White Sox, because I sure as hell wasn't going to root for the Cubs or Cardinals. Then I moved to Houston and found some room in my heart for the poor, pathetic Astros. I stopped back close to home at Cooperstown in 1992 to watch Tom Seaver get inducted into the Hall Of Fame, the first and only Met to make it. Other than that, my Met affiliation has been completely severed. Now I'm in Philly, and the Fightins are my team. I always have believed in rooting for the team that you can follow every day on radio, TV, and in the newspaper, and whose games you can actually attend if you are so inclined. I attended only five Mets games the entire time I rooted for them. Three of those were shutouts by Mets pitchers, and two of the games were in Montreal, near where I went to school. I went to three White Sox games, two in Old Comiskey and one in New Comiskey. I've been to countless Astros games. My boss had a mini-season ticket plan, and would often give me his tickets when he couldn't make it. I've only seen six Phillies games so far: four here, one in Baltimore, and one in Fenway. The Vet was a horrible place to watch a game, and the new ball park is a tough ticket. My wife and I prefer the local minor league park of the Wilmington Blue Rocks. The parking is free, the sight lines are fantastic, and it's still baseball.

Enough reminiscing. There's a season to be played.