Your pal Manny Aybar's arrival on the mound (God bless WPIX) reminded me, again, of the weird feelings when former enemies big and small join the Forces of Good.
It's easy to forget Pedro was briefly a member of the Forces of Darkness, drilling Piazza in June 1998 and afterwards pulling out one of his under-the-mango-tree ruminations about being a poor boy with class while Mike was a millionaire without it. The brief contretemps has blotted out memories of the actual game, which is too bad: Pedro lasted just four innings, giving up 1,254 feet worth of home runs to John Olerud, Bernard Gilkey, Luis Lopez and Alberto Castillo -- the latter two leaving me bounding around the office in astonished, giddy delight. Some large man named Vaughn countered with two homers for the Bosox, perhaps opening eyes that should have stayed shut. Then Pedro was a head-hunting menace to society; now he's the genial prince of the clubhouse. (Actually, between baseball's great mi nombre es Pedro ad and his habit of head-hunting Yankees, I forgave him long ago.)
The elephant in the former-enemies room is, of course, Tom Glavine. You and I are exactly like several hundred thousand other Mets fans in remaining lukewarm at best on Glavine after two seasons. All those years beating the tar out of us carry a certain psychological weight -- particularly that 1-0 strangulation in Game 3 of the '99 NLCS, which we got to watch side by side in glum misery. There's his failure to beat the tar out of clubs in the same way wearing our uniform. There's his status in the freelance-GM clique of the clubhouse. Geeks like us still mutter about brother Mike's fantasy-camp tenure in orange and blue, with the associated blather about great family atmosphere. No, it is safe to say we have not warmed up to Tom Glavine. And you get the feeling we're not alone: From the press coverage this spring, you'd barely know Glavine was on the roster.
[Side note: Chris Woodward probably just made the team. Time for the McEwings to start scouring the St. Louis real-estate listings.]
When I think of Glavine, I admit to still seeing him as an impostor. With Atlanta he and Maddux epitomitzed the strain of Brave arrogance I particularly loathed: disdainfully silent and distantly supercilious toward competitors and even in their own clubhouse when they objected to something. (Chipper and Bobby Cox were and are different, given to shooting off their mouths in a moustache-twisting way, but I always found that easier to take -- at least they acknowledged we were on the field with them.)
I've tried, but I still feel that way about Glavine. I'm sure this is unfair. It's not Glavine's fault that we signed him when he may have begun his natural descent as a pitcher. It's not Glavine's fault that he's been backed by a defense that might as well have been put together from the rest of the Glavine clan. It's not Glavine's fault that he was invited into the circle of Mets allowed to interfere with decisions better made upstairs. Regardless, I can't shake the feeling.
Here's the thing, though: If Glavine had had a better defense and won 15 games a year, would I feel differently? If he'd no-hit the Rockies last year -- as I, for once, firmly believed would happen -- would I feel differently? I think I would. Fandom is a fickle thing, and mere facts need not apply: If Pedro's 3-8 at the break and we're last in the league in hitting and defense, something tells me we'll be grousing about him hitting Piazza back in '98.
I showed Joshua (with the benefit of pen, paper and a Met hat) that the weird symbol on our cap is in fact two letters on top of each other. He got it and said he wanted to watch more baseball. Attaboy! On the other hand, he was nonplussed why a team cool enough to be named after tigers wouldn't have tigers on their uniforms. I had no explanation for that.
Hey, what was the first Met game you attended?
[End note: Yeah, Chris Woodward definitely just made the team. Sorry, Super Joe.]