Kuzul

If you are a typical New York Met fan, you began this baseball season cloaked in blue and orange and the unflagging optimism that every Met fan must sport in order to preserve even a semblance of sanity. 

What else do we have if not hope? 

While we donned our jerseys and caps and made the pilgrimage to Citi Field, lost in the fantasy that perhaps this year would be different than the last, part of us knew—just had to know—that we were heading down the same road again.

Why do we do this to ourselves?

In the waning moments of this year’s baseball season, 2012, it appears, is just more of the same for Met fans. Uh, correction. More of the same—only worse. 

2012 began with four consecutive victories, including an exciting three-game sweep of the Atlanta Braves, our longtime nemesis. The Mets were scoring runs, making plays and throwing strikes. They were playing with a zeal and vitality that nobody could have predicted.  

Quite a start for a team that baseball pundits placed on life support long before the season began.  

It was the best of times. 

Yet as the Mets stunned us with their inspired brand of play, even the most idealistic supporters of the Amazins‘ were already beginning the vigil—the plaintive wait for the collapse to begin. We braced ourselves for the inevitable demise, certain that the quick start the team and its faithful followers were enjoying was just a dalliance, a most wonderful but obvious fluke.  

But then David Wright caught fire and R.A Dickey proved he was close to unhittable. No-name rookies like Kirk Nieuwenhuis and Ruben Tejada provided a spark that the moribund club has not seen since the days of Backman and Dykstra.

So we celebrated a little more. 

But we’re Met fans, so despite the rapture, secretly we harbored this burgeoning anxiety. How could it last? It never does. 

Somehow it did. And a lot longer than any of us could have imagined. 

The Mets staged late-inning rallies and scored a plethora of two-out runs. This resiliency spilled over into the play of upstart newbies Jordany Valdespin and Mike Baxter. David Wright got hotter and R.A. Dickey just would not lose. Dillon Gee and Jonathon Niese looked like legitimate starters and somehow the bullpen, although far from perfect, was getting it done. 

And if that wasn’t reason enough to make you believe in miracles, the unthinkable happened:   

Johan Santana pitched the first no-hitter in Mets history. Met fans were intoxicated. Even delirious. This was a team of destiny for sure, right?

Cue the party music. 

Suddenly it was All-Star time, and somehow, some way, the New York Mets were relevant. They were exciting. They stood 46-40 and appeared poised to make a serious run in the wild-card race.

But alas, nothing lasts forever. 

With no real warning at all, it happened. The “it” all Met fans know all too well. The All-Star break came and went, taking with it the team with which fans had fallen so madly in love. Smiles were stilted. Hopes were dashed. The drudgery had returned. 

It was the worst of times. 

We watched in horror as our first-half darlings proceeded to drop five straight games after the Midsummer Classic, en route to going 2-13 before finally winning consecutive games at the end of July. Our depression escalated as the dearth of runs, especially at home, led to one listless loss after another. 

Do I even have to mention the name Jason Bay? 

A season-ending injury to Santana followed, and despite the electricity engendered by highly touted rookie Matt Harvey, talk of a Cy Young Award for R.A. Dickey and the more than respectable offensive numbers put up by Ike Davis, there wasn’t much to cheer about anymore. 

Now it’s mid-September, and Met fans are faced with accepting their team’s irrelevance as well as the daunting specter of our two best players from 2012 possibly leaving for greener pastures. 

Sigh. 

As we prepare to watch another postseason without our Mets, all we can do is invoke the words that have become more of a battle cry than a playful mantra. 

“Wait ‘till next year.” 

But perhaps management can help us a little. Don’t we deserve it? 

Can we sign David Wright and R.A. Dickey? Can we nurture our young arms—Harvey and Wheeler—and maybe deal for a corner outfielder or two? Oh yeah—a catcher who can hit for power and bona fide closer wouldn’t hurt either. 

I am hoping that complaining publicly will precipitate some change. It worked for those who clamored for a new ballpark. 

Yes, we have the stadium. A state of the art baseball venue. All of the amenities at Citi Field are wonderful, although perhaps a trifle superfluous. Don’t get me wrong; I like creature comforts as much as the next guy, but I am a baseball fan.   

I just want to see quality baseball played at my home park throughout the summer, and maybe even a game or two in the fall. Yes—a full season of baseball in Flushing. 

Sure I like Citi Field, and there is lots to love about the experience there.

But truth be told, I would trade a landscaped plaza, interactive museum, improved sight lines and a Shake Shack burger in a heartbeat for just one postseason appearance.   

For more visit my book blog on www.goodreads.com and www.franknappi.com.

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Is it fair to say that all of us—baseball disciples and regular citizens alike—have heard all we care to hear about Roger Clemens?

Even if his resurfacing (one that is eerily reminiscent of the likes of Michael Meyers and Jason Voorhees) is nothing more than a publicity stunt engineered to create some interest in the moribund Houston Astros as they ride out the remainder of a truly abysmal season, it is enough already. 

Roger, please, just go away. 

As I continue to read about Clemens and listen to the myriad of reports that have somehow managed to pollute a variety of talks shows and sports blogs, I am left wondering just one thing: 

Is this guy for real? 

What’s all the fuss? Why should anyone give Roger Clemens and his latest comeback any attention at all? What has he done to warrant any fanfare or reverence—or even a second thought? 

Did anyone even like this guy two comebacks ago? 

What about after his ridiculous appearance on 60 Minutes? 

If there were any amorous feelings lingering in even the most ardent Rocket supporters, the Mitchell Report should have certainly taken care of that. Whether he was convicted or not for the alleged use of steroids, I believe the American public is enlightened enough to know the truth.

Yes, it was O.J.’s glove, and President Clinton did have “sexual relations” with that woman.

Enough said. 

As to the veracity of the claim that Clemens’ arm is still live, viable and major league material, who cares? It could not be any more immaterial. If Clemens took the mound and threw with Stephen Strasburg’s velocity and Clayton Kershaw’s precision, I would still rather watch soccer.  

Isn’t there enough excitement this year in Major League Baseball with the emergence of prodigies Bryce Harper and Mike Trout? Hasn’t the overachieving performance of  teams such as the Oakland Athletics and Pittsburgh Pirates provided enough compelling drama? 

And what about Major League Baseball’s new playoff format, featuring two do-or-die games involving four wild-card teams? Isn’t the excitement and uncertainty engendered by this interesting wrinkle enough to keep us interested? 

I could understand the distraction if we were talking about Roger Staubach or Roger Daltrey. Heck, even Roger Rabbit would make for a better story.

But this is Roger Clemens, folks. You remember him.

He’s the charming Texan who, in the midst of the World Baseball Classic, told the racist “joke” about dry cleaners to describe a game between Japan and Korea. He’s the same charmer who during an interleague game against the New York Mets fired the barrel of a broken bat at Mike Piazza, claiming later that he “thought it was the ball.”

And let us not forget about the sordid relationship Clemens allegedly had with 15-year-old Mindy McCready, a country singer whom he met at a karaoke bar. 

Heard enough?   

Major League Baseball and its legion of followers would be wise to simply ignore Clemens and his unflagging  narcissism. Coverage of this alleged comeback is something better-suited for an episode of Celebrity Rehab. 

This Rocket’s red glare is one steeped in controversy and perpetual ignominy. And it’s still leaking fuel. 

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It seems more and more these days one can turn to the sports section of the newspaper on any given morning, or tune in to SportsCenter at any time and be assaulted by stories highlighting professional athletes, baseball players in particular, engaging in behaviors that are not only egregious and loathsome but unfortunate fodder for self righteous pundits and cynics alike—angry critics who claim that sports and their lionized idols are nothing more than a blight on our culture and embody an egocentric, selfish entitlement that threatens to fray the very fabric of all that we as an enlightened society hold in such high regard.

I suppose on most days it is difficult to refute their assertions.  

There’s a lot to be concerned with. Roger Clemens is still embroiled in the shameless defense of his alleged steroid use and subsequent perjury charge. Brett Lawrie is throwing helmets at umpires, Ozzie Guillen continues his pugilistic attack on the media, addressing reporters with a maelstrom of expletives, and the controversial Ryan Braun suspension appeal has everyone scratching their heads and wondering what the heck is going on here. 

Then Friday night, Kerry Wood trotted out to the mound at Wrigley Field, the same mound where 14 years earlier he struck out 20 Houston Astros in just his fifth major league start, and logic, order and humanity was restored. 

Thank you Kerry Wood. 

No, it wasn’t the poetic justice of the strikeout artist Wood, who has been clocked at 100 MPH in his career on several occasions, fanning the one and only batter he would face on a vintage Kerry Wood breaking ball. It wasn’t the impromptu gathering on the mound by his teammates after the swing and a miss or the stirring ovation from the raucous crowd as manager Dale Sveum motioned to the bullpen, signifying that Wood’s work for the night had been completed. No. All of that played out perfectly, like a well crafted script, but the best was yet to come. 

What made everything in the world of baseball okay again, even if it is just a transitory respite, was the poignant moment that came seconds after Wood tipped his hat to the crowd and walked off that hallowed mound for the last time. 

As Wood approached the Cubs dugout, walking deliberately through a deluge of cheers raining down all around him, his young son Justin ran onto the field and leaped into his arms. What ensued was heartfelt embrace that engendered chills up every spine and brought tears to even the most stoic observers’ eyes.

Wow. 

It is moments like these that remind us why we love sports, baseball in particular. 

Baseball is the ultimate metaphor for life. All of us struggle with the fair and foul, and more often than not, the difference between the two is as negligible and capricious as a prodigious fly that hooks to one side of the foul pole in favor of the other.

Reaching base safely, one step at a time, beckons to all who have devoted their lives to the gradual attainment of a lofty goal. 

And which one of us has not, at one moment in time, thwarted the curveballs and bad bounces that were thrown our way and experienced the exhilaration of that one perfect moment in our lives—when the confluence of forces that usually conspire against us abate and we can “touch ‘em all” as everyone else watches us in our moment of unadulterated splendor.

It is this human pageantry, the kind that unfolded at Wrigley Field on Friday night, that calls to us. It speaks to us on such a tender, sentimental level that it is hard to deny its veracity.  It is human drama at its very best. 

Thank you, Kerry Wood, for reminding  folks that professional athletes are more like us than not—and for restoring our faith that many of these professional athletes, although privileged in ways we can only imagine, are still grounded by things to which we can all relate. 

more visit my book blog on www.goodreads.com and www.franknappi.com.

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Those of you who have read my articles know how I feel about the beginning of a new baseball season. It is, without a doubt, the best time of year.

Each spring, as the earth awakens from its death-like slumber, I, like many baseball fans, am rejuvenated, filled with a renewed sense of innocence, hope and enthusiasm as I await the return of our national pastime. I wont repeat the reasons why—for further edification, see my article, “Baseball: More than Just Our national Pastime” from March 20th.

What many don’t know is that I am also a staunch Mets fan—have been forever. So while I am certainly brimming with boundless alacrity over the start of yet another baseball season, my affinity for the blue and orange brings with it an unflagging sense of hopelessness and desperation, rendering me suspended in the merciless tentacles of ambivalence.

How am I really supposed to feel?

As I sit at my computer, staring at the two vacant orange seats from Shea Stadium that adorn an entire office filled with Met paraphernalia, the emptiness resonates.

I have accepted for years that my allegiance to the Metropolitans comes with a very steep price tag. Good lord. Three World Series appearances in my 45 years and only one championship? Ugh. Tough to swallow. I have known the perils of rooting for quite some time, yet somehow, I just keep coming back.

But why?

Some would suggest that it may be an exaggerated sense of loyalty—maybe. I might offer that my introduction to baseball came at Shea Stadium, where my father and I sat together and enjoyed the universal language of this treasured sport.

This reminiscence reminds me that the Mets are endowed with a sort of mysticism that for me has the power to transcend time, transporting this middle-aged baseball junkie back to a time when things were easier and just made more sense.

Others who are far less sentimental and border on cynical would contend that I am twisted somehow, enamored with the ritualistic suffering most closely associated with one who participates in acts of masochism or values the art of martyrdom. 

Perhaps it is a confluence of all three.

In any event, this year, the trepidation I feel seems far more palpable. Any true Met fan knows the reason for this.

The team has been decimated by the Bernie Madoff scandal, and it is only now beginning to recover from it. Jose Reyes’ defection to Miami didn’t help any. And some untimely injuries have only exacerbated the angst and burgeoning feelings of calamity. We even lost Gary Carter, who despite his tenure with the Montreal Expos, holds a special place in New York Mets folklore.

The locusts can’t be far behind. 

But the one glaring issue, one that remains largely unspoken thus far because I suspect nobody in Met land wants to admit it, is the imminent departure of the last two New York Met marquee players—David Wright and Johan Santana. 

Let’s face it; in all likelihood, come July, the Mets will be reeling, and if most baseball prognosticators are correct, they will also be mired in last place in the NL East. 

Invariably, discussions about rebuilding for the future (will it ever really get here?) will ensue, and Mr. Wright and Mr. Santana will no longer be playing for The New York Mets. Their tenure with the team will be reduced to nothing more than a glorified audition—a day-to-day showcase of their skills and potential worth to a team that is looking to fortify its roster.

Let the auctioning begin. 

While this appears logical, I suppose, from a business perspective, it will be difficult to watch, especially in the case of Wright. Nothing warms the heart of a baseball purist more than watching a player work his way through the system, only to become a fixture with the parent club, the proverbial face of the franchise. The recent offensive struggles notwithstanding, that was to be David Wright—the player that Met fans had longed for since the days of Darryl Strawberry and Dwight Gooden. 

It will be a dark day in Flushing when Wright departs; the team that continues to languish in the shadows of the baseball empire just across town will be faceless once again.

The only hope is that from the complete dismantling of this team come prospects for the future, like Zack Wheeler who was obtained in the Carlos Beltran deal.

I’m looking at those orange seats from Shea again. I cannot help but smile. I guess I’m as hopeless as the team for whom I root.

Honestly, it doesn’t take much to make me happy. I don’t need league domination or 27 championships, although I would certainly not complain if either should occur. No, I’m much easier to please.

I just want to begin the season with some hope, just a glimmer, and not the feeling embodied in the “Family Guy” clip of little Stewie on opening day—forlorn and awash with despair as the play-by-play commentator announces after the very first pitch that the season is over. 

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