Something tells me this enigmatic, frustrating, confounding 2007 season finally began in earnest Tuesday night. Three with the Braves, those familiar objects in rearview mirror that indeed may be closer than they appear. At the end of the month four with the Phils, whom we may yet be forced to take seriously. That's a lead-in for three more with Atlanta. Then, a week later, Atlanta and Philadelphia back to back. (Following that, we close things out with 13 against the supposed soft underbelly of the National League East. Those games may frighten me the most -- somewhere Chris Nabholz is laughing.)
Better competition, injuries and inconsistency brought us to this point -- a pennant race that just truly shifted into gear. Mets, Braves, Phillies. Gentlemen, start your engines.
After a disquieting evening of watching Brave killer Oliver Perez get tormented, it was on to the premier matchup -- John Smoltz vs. Pedro Martinez. Ah, memories of getting off the '05 schneid with that marvelous ... what's that you say? Oh. Right. Pedro was pitching tonight, but for Port St. Lucie. As update after update came in showing Pedro being tattooed by Lakeland Tigers, I suddenly remembered Joan Payson's request while on a cruise: Just telegraph me when the Mets win. Still, filling in more than capably as understudy was El Duque, whom the Diamondbacks' front office must see in their nightmares. We got this guy for Jorge Julio?
With Emily actually at the game with her father, Joshua and I settled in front of the TV, cranked to Brobdingnagian volume to be heard over the protestations of the air conditioner. I decided this was the time to teach the kid about the countdown -- how I yelp "24 to go!" after a hitless first inning, then decrease it by three, in hopes that one day the countdown will actually reach zero. My lesson looked prophetic for a while, what with El Duque launching evil breaking stuff at every conceivable angle and speed. So of course the moment I got truly excited about the magic at work -- thiswasthenightiexplainedthecountdowntothekidandemilyandherdadwereattheparkwowwowwowwow! -- was the moment it fizzled. And the moment I got beyond that and started appreciating El Duque's effort for what it was inspired the Braves to explode out of the casket, with their usual mix of damage from Braves you've never heard of (Willie Harris), Braves you've stopped calling Braves you've never heard of in vain hope that that will make them stop torturing us (Kelly Johnson) and shrewd new Schuerholz acquisitions (Mark Teixeira). And, of course, Chipper. Larry Jones, that stock villain from a billion baseball penny-dreadfuls, with his killer's eyes and his smile that practically forms two right angles when he's really pleased with himself, like the dead grin sported by the Joker. You just knew Chipper had to be lurking somewhere -- under the bed or in the closet or wherever he takes himself when he senses there are Met fans to jump out. Was it a surprise when Chipper wound up with a double thanks to his own hitting and a little outfield connivance from us, or when Kelly Johnson showed admirable hustle scoring all the way from the first on a ball that didn't get to the warning track. Staring glumly at the ruins of El Duque's masterpiece, I wondered how I'd fooled myself into thinking it might have been different.
But then it was different. That bottom of the seventh was pure passion play, what with Reyes showing his age by being too eager and Luis Castillo getting the kind of roll-your-eyes hit he always seemed to get against us while wearing teal, followed by the delightful sight of Bobby Cox trundling out of the dugout to get Ron Mahay, looking like a troll tramping out from under his bridge to harass travelers.
And then, an inning later, after decent work from Heilman and a lightning-bolt throw from Lo Duca, Moises Alou making up for recent double plays and general creakiness with one of those gone-from-the-moment-he-hit-it home runs. A fitting ending, 1-2-3 from Billy Wagner, everybody go home happy and hope your subway's running by now.
No, that would be too easy. Billy had to load the bases with nobody out, leading to angst and slapstick in the Fry house. Somehow I'd wound up at the dining-room table, looking across the entire room at the screen, but had to stay there because that's where I'd alighted with Alou connected. So, Francoeur hits his terrifying high bouncer that Wright turns into a fielder's choice, but here comes Andruw -- with the kid Escobar on deck as apprentice executioner, if needed. Wagner gets his sign, looks back at Woodward and ...
TiVo switches over to "Top Chef."
(TiVo and HD are on different video and audio feeds, so you can't see or hear TiVo asking to change the channel, because ... oh, just trust me on this one.)
AUUUGGHHHH!!!!! I nearly overturn a dining-room chair as I vault to the sideboard and seize the TiVo remote. But wait -- Emily really likes "Top Chef." PUT ON THE RADIO, STUPID! OK. Yes. Radio! I grab the receiver remote and start clicking TUNER, only nothing's happening. TUNER TUNER TUNER TUNER. Ack! This is the OLD remote! Where's the NEW remote? Is this it? Yes! Jesus H., this thing is like the command module of a starship. Just go to the actual receiver and ... tuner? Tuner? Where the hell is the tuner? HERE IT IS!
"...PUT IT IN THE BOOKS!"
Wha? Really? How on earth did we cheat the hangman?
You know what? Never mind how. I'll find out in a bit. It's enough that we did.