One of my female readers asked me the other if this was now exclusively a baseball blog. (You could have expressed that in a comment, I mean that's what comment boxes are for, geez). It is not, nor will it be, it just so happens that I write about what I know and where my passions lie. That'll probably be my last Mets post until March, unless Omar Minaya pulls off the insane and trades Lastings Milledge for Johan Santana. Actually, I'll be too busy to write because I'll be gone for a week or so volunteering to drive Lastings to Minnesota and pick up Johan. And Lastings, don't get any ideas. I control the radio.
Fordham held its first "Senior Night" of the year. Twenty-one year old seniors are allowed to come, drink for two bucks a beer or glass of wine, and dance the night away with fellow seniors. What I enjoyed so much is that for once Fordham was selling something under 125% of market rate. Maybe it's because Jesuits are such fans of brewskies. Anyway, I was please to find that I recognized about 90% of the people there. Of this group, a third of them I know well enough to chat with, another third I see sporadically on campus or in class, and the rest I thought died or worse transferred because I haven't seen them since freshman year in my random liberal arts core classes. I believe a good time was had by all; it was by me at least, and I look forward to next month's 80s theme.
For those of you who watch The Office, last night was so much better than the season premiere. I like the direction they're going in with Ryan, once-temp-now-boss, being villain-istic. I mean it was set up nicely the past two seasons with exposing him as a heartless corporate type more suited for Lehman than a failing regional paper company in Scranton, PA. I know I've been whining lately about devoting too much time to the romances of Jam, Relly, Janchael, and Dwangela, but they did an awesome job with all of those last night. That's in spite of the fact that two of those four (I won't say who so that you can watch the episode online and by clicking on the video link NBC knows that millions across the country actually watch the show and it can stay on for four hundred more years) didn't survive the night. My gut tells me both couples will be back together soon, and we'll be all the better for it.
Ahh, five day weekends. I'm gonna go spend mine now studying for the GMAT. It's a comfort to me knowing that tonight while all of you are getting loaded and participating in marvelous random hookups, you'll simultaneously envy me while I'm on my fourth cup of coffee taking online diagnostics.
Out.
Friday, October 5, 2007
Monday, October 1, 2007
Your (Off-)Season Has Come
I came home this evening to the following e-mail for the Collapsins':
Dear Mets Fan:
All of us at the Mets are bitterly disappointed in failing to achieve our collective goal of building upon last year's success. We did not meet our organization's expectations -- or yours. Everyone at Shea feels the same range of emotions as you -- our loyal fans -- and we know we have let you down. We wanted to thank you for your record-breaking support of our team this year.
Equally important, Ownership will continue its commitment in providing the resources necessary to field a championship team. Omar will be meeting with Ownership shortly to present his plan on addressing our shortcomings so that we can achieve our goal of winning championships in 2008 and beyond.
You deserve better results.
Many thanks again for your record-breaking support.
I'm not sure what this e-mail means to me. Is it better than nothing? Yes. But I also feel they mean the final line to mean: "Many thanks again for your record-breaking support. We can expect the same from you next year, right? Eh? Eh?"
I may have appreciated this message more if all twenty-five (I don't care about the additional September call-ups) players lined the field after the final out to read this statement to the 30,000+ who stayed to go down with the ship.
I hereby provide my analysis of The Team, The Time, The Collapse:
If Mets fans can find a single rallying cry of anger, a single quote to point to as why we're so pissed-off at these bums, it was when Carlos Delgado waved the then-budding collapse off with: "I think at times we can get a little careless. We’ve got so much talent I think sometimes we get bored."
Reyes, Castillo, Wright, Beltran, Alou, Delgado, LoDuca, Green. What pitcher would ever think of wanting to face that row? Well, in September, he wouldn't while his team was behind anyway. But once his team inevitably came back from its five run deficit, he could go out to the mound with confidence that the Mutts would not score another run.
Pitching? HA. A man with 303 career wins couldn't get past 1/27th of a game. More on him later. But as the season wore on and a five inning effort from the starters was inevitable, the porous bullpen coughed up everything.
Now let's talk about the members of the most infamous New York sports failure ever individually - and whoever thought anyone could top the Yankees' choke against Boston in '04?
David Wright: It's easy to start here, because the kid deserves no blame. After a horrible April, he posted a season anyone would sign up for: .325 batting average, 30 homers, 107 RBIs. An leader on the field and off at the tender age of 24, he didn't get bored or mail it in, ever.
Carlos Beltran: Again, almost nothing bad to say here. Had some rough patches, but he was on fire in August and September. Team leader in homers and RBIs. I'll be very depressed if he gets traded this winter, which has already been rumored possibly for Johan Santana.
Moises Alou: Omar, Moises, and all of us knew going into the season that 'lou would miss a significant amount of time. My only regret is that we didn't have a twenty-year younger version of the man.
Shawn Green: Not a bad tail-end of a career. Shalom, Shawnie.
Paul LoDuca: I sincerely hope that my last memory of the Duke is not limping to the plate with two out and the bases loaded, then grounding out to the pitcher. Not a terrific season, but better than most catchers our there. But we need his fire. If you cut the man, he would bleed orange and blue.
Pedro Martinez: What he could have done for us in the post-season, we can only wonder now. At least a full year of St. Pedro Days is something to look forward to next year.
John Maine, Ollie Perez: Gutsy, gutsy, gutsy. They may not have had Cy Young years, but the heart they showed during each and every start spare them any blame or criticism from Mets Nation.
Carlos Delgado: I was never big on the guy. When we got him I said I would have been perfectly fine keeping a young Mike Jacobs. And his aforementioned comment burns me up. Notably, Jacobs was on the winning side of that field yesterday. Delgado left the game with a broken hand.
The bench (Endy Chavez, Carlos Gomez, Marlon Anderson, Ruben Gotay, Ramon Castro): Many days towards the end I would've preferred some of you out there starting. Great job pinch hitting and Alou-subbing, guys.
Lastings Milledge: Gone. Bye. Just go. Omar, trade this immature punk who you've given more than enough chances to for a bullpen arm. We need that a lot more.
Tom Glavine: What a thief. He comes in to fill out a 300-win career in a major media market with a lot of money because Atlanta was done with him. We proceed to give him five years. Besides his 300th win, what highlights has he given us? He bombed in his first Mets start in 2003, and he bombed his last three. And while Mets fans were jumping off the Whitestone Bridge in droves, he says, "It's not devastating, but it's disappointing." GET OUT OF NEW YORK IF YOU THINK OUR FANS DON'T CARE. The next time I see him at Shea, it better in a Braves uniform during a 10-0 Mets' rout.
Bullpen: Wow. I hope some of you thought to ask Tom Glavine for a ride out of Shea permanently. You stay, Joe Smith - Rick Peterson burned you out. Actually, give Heilman a chance in the rotation. And Wagner, I hope your back spasms turn into mouth spasms so you save 35 games next year without saying a damn word.
Jose Reyes: I saved my remaining disappointment for you. (Wow, notice how I've slipped into the second-person as I've gotten more upset). You wanna be a top-line shortstop? I think you have what it takes. I wouldn't put it past you to eclipse Derek Jeter as the greatest New York shortstop by the time you enter the Hall. But Derek's got something you haven't developed yet: maturity. Man has four rings. He deserves to show a little flair. Once you broke the franchise stolen bases record, you became Mo Vaughn. Not running out ground balls? Swinging at the first pitch and popping out all the time? DANCING with Lastings Milledge after you're already up 10-0? You were a huge part of the reason why the rest of the National League hated your team this year, buddy. Hanley Ramirez would've come out in a wheelchair yesterday to see you lose. I don't know if Rickey Henderson gave you this uncalled for arrogance. If he did, listening to him is a mistake and I don't think you have to worry about him as one of your coaches next year anyway. Wake up, kid. Grow up and be who we all thought you would be and who you've shown you're capable of being.
As for Omar and Willie, they have to be back next year. I remember dancing in my room the night in Winter 2004 when I heard on WFAN that Omar Minaya would be named GM. Firing Omar and Willie would send us back to the Jim Duquette/Art (Whowhatwhenwherewhy)Howe era. No one wants to remember that.
Omar: Pull off some crazy stuff like you did in 2005 and 2006. Figure out a way to trade Aaron Sele for Todd Lincecum. Get us a bullpen, and don't give up Wright, Reyes, or Beltran in the process. I assure you, people will piss on your house if you do.
Willie: Man, I can't fault you for not charging an ump Billy Martin style. I know you're Cool Hand Willie and the bite in your words are conveyed to your players in private and not in media tirades. That's how it should be. I don't want antics, I want wins. But you gotta lay into Reyes more. Don't let Omar make your decisions for you, either. Be your own man in your clubhouse and dugout. As mad as we are and as irrational as many are being in calling for your head, Mets fans would love to see you on a World Series parade float. Bottom line is, we love you. Now show us some love back.
Garykeithandron: According to the Sports Pope, the Mets booth is the greatest in baseball. I knew that long before he had that revelation today. Keith Hernandez would be the only man I'd replace Willie Randolph with in a heartbeat. However, he's said that he loves going to the stadium every day, in a suit and not a uniform. Whether it was a seventeen inning nailbiter or a 7-0 pounding by a west coast team at 1am, these three made SNY must-see TV. These three make a strong case for team MVP.
Wait till next year, right?
Dear Mets Fan:
All of us at the Mets are bitterly disappointed in failing to achieve our collective goal of building upon last year's success. We did not meet our organization's expectations -- or yours. Everyone at Shea feels the same range of emotions as you -- our loyal fans -- and we know we have let you down. We wanted to thank you for your record-breaking support of our team this year.
Equally important, Ownership will continue its commitment in providing the resources necessary to field a championship team. Omar will be meeting with Ownership shortly to present his plan on addressing our shortcomings so that we can achieve our goal of winning championships in 2008 and beyond.
You deserve better results.
Many thanks again for your record-breaking support.
I'm not sure what this e-mail means to me. Is it better than nothing? Yes. But I also feel they mean the final line to mean: "Many thanks again for your record-breaking support. We can expect the same from you next year, right? Eh? Eh?"
I may have appreciated this message more if all twenty-five (I don't care about the additional September call-ups) players lined the field after the final out to read this statement to the 30,000+ who stayed to go down with the ship.
I hereby provide my analysis of The Team, The Time, The Collapse:
If Mets fans can find a single rallying cry of anger, a single quote to point to as why we're so pissed-off at these bums, it was when Carlos Delgado waved the then-budding collapse off with: "I think at times we can get a little careless. We’ve got so much talent I think sometimes we get bored."
Reyes, Castillo, Wright, Beltran, Alou, Delgado, LoDuca, Green. What pitcher would ever think of wanting to face that row? Well, in September, he wouldn't while his team was behind anyway. But once his team inevitably came back from its five run deficit, he could go out to the mound with confidence that the Mutts would not score another run.
Pitching? HA. A man with 303 career wins couldn't get past 1/27th of a game. More on him later. But as the season wore on and a five inning effort from the starters was inevitable, the porous bullpen coughed up everything.
Now let's talk about the members of the most infamous New York sports failure ever individually - and whoever thought anyone could top the Yankees' choke against Boston in '04?
David Wright: It's easy to start here, because the kid deserves no blame. After a horrible April, he posted a season anyone would sign up for: .325 batting average, 30 homers, 107 RBIs. An leader on the field and off at the tender age of 24, he didn't get bored or mail it in, ever.
Carlos Beltran: Again, almost nothing bad to say here. Had some rough patches, but he was on fire in August and September. Team leader in homers and RBIs. I'll be very depressed if he gets traded this winter, which has already been rumored possibly for Johan Santana.
Moises Alou: Omar, Moises, and all of us knew going into the season that 'lou would miss a significant amount of time. My only regret is that we didn't have a twenty-year younger version of the man.
Shawn Green: Not a bad tail-end of a career. Shalom, Shawnie.
Paul LoDuca: I sincerely hope that my last memory of the Duke is not limping to the plate with two out and the bases loaded, then grounding out to the pitcher. Not a terrific season, but better than most catchers our there. But we need his fire. If you cut the man, he would bleed orange and blue.
Pedro Martinez: What he could have done for us in the post-season, we can only wonder now. At least a full year of St. Pedro Days is something to look forward to next year.
John Maine, Ollie Perez: Gutsy, gutsy, gutsy. They may not have had Cy Young years, but the heart they showed during each and every start spare them any blame or criticism from Mets Nation.
Carlos Delgado: I was never big on the guy. When we got him I said I would have been perfectly fine keeping a young Mike Jacobs. And his aforementioned comment burns me up. Notably, Jacobs was on the winning side of that field yesterday. Delgado left the game with a broken hand.
The bench (Endy Chavez, Carlos Gomez, Marlon Anderson, Ruben Gotay, Ramon Castro): Many days towards the end I would've preferred some of you out there starting. Great job pinch hitting and Alou-subbing, guys.
Lastings Milledge: Gone. Bye. Just go. Omar, trade this immature punk who you've given more than enough chances to for a bullpen arm. We need that a lot more.
Tom Glavine: What a thief. He comes in to fill out a 300-win career in a major media market with a lot of money because Atlanta was done with him. We proceed to give him five years. Besides his 300th win, what highlights has he given us? He bombed in his first Mets start in 2003, and he bombed his last three. And while Mets fans were jumping off the Whitestone Bridge in droves, he says, "It's not devastating, but it's disappointing." GET OUT OF NEW YORK IF YOU THINK OUR FANS DON'T CARE. The next time I see him at Shea, it better in a Braves uniform during a 10-0 Mets' rout.
Bullpen: Wow. I hope some of you thought to ask Tom Glavine for a ride out of Shea permanently. You stay, Joe Smith - Rick Peterson burned you out. Actually, give Heilman a chance in the rotation. And Wagner, I hope your back spasms turn into mouth spasms so you save 35 games next year without saying a damn word.
Jose Reyes: I saved my remaining disappointment for you. (Wow, notice how I've slipped into the second-person as I've gotten more upset). You wanna be a top-line shortstop? I think you have what it takes. I wouldn't put it past you to eclipse Derek Jeter as the greatest New York shortstop by the time you enter the Hall. But Derek's got something you haven't developed yet: maturity. Man has four rings. He deserves to show a little flair. Once you broke the franchise stolen bases record, you became Mo Vaughn. Not running out ground balls? Swinging at the first pitch and popping out all the time? DANCING with Lastings Milledge after you're already up 10-0? You were a huge part of the reason why the rest of the National League hated your team this year, buddy. Hanley Ramirez would've come out in a wheelchair yesterday to see you lose. I don't know if Rickey Henderson gave you this uncalled for arrogance. If he did, listening to him is a mistake and I don't think you have to worry about him as one of your coaches next year anyway. Wake up, kid. Grow up and be who we all thought you would be and who you've shown you're capable of being.
As for Omar and Willie, they have to be back next year. I remember dancing in my room the night in Winter 2004 when I heard on WFAN that Omar Minaya would be named GM. Firing Omar and Willie would send us back to the Jim Duquette/Art (Whowhatwhenwherewhy)Howe era. No one wants to remember that.
Omar: Pull off some crazy stuff like you did in 2005 and 2006. Figure out a way to trade Aaron Sele for Todd Lincecum. Get us a bullpen, and don't give up Wright, Reyes, or Beltran in the process. I assure you, people will piss on your house if you do.
Willie: Man, I can't fault you for not charging an ump Billy Martin style. I know you're Cool Hand Willie and the bite in your words are conveyed to your players in private and not in media tirades. That's how it should be. I don't want antics, I want wins. But you gotta lay into Reyes more. Don't let Omar make your decisions for you, either. Be your own man in your clubhouse and dugout. As mad as we are and as irrational as many are being in calling for your head, Mets fans would love to see you on a World Series parade float. Bottom line is, we love you. Now show us some love back.
Garykeithandron: According to the Sports Pope, the Mets booth is the greatest in baseball. I knew that long before he had that revelation today. Keith Hernandez would be the only man I'd replace Willie Randolph with in a heartbeat. However, he's said that he loves going to the stadium every day, in a suit and not a uniform. Whether it was a seventeen inning nailbiter or a 7-0 pounding by a west coast team at 1am, these three made SNY must-see TV. These three make a strong case for team MVP.
Wait till next year, right?
Saturday, September 15, 2007
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Getting to Know Me, Getting to Know All About Me
What has two thumbs and is insane enough to take a class on Labor Day weekend? This guy!
This class, however, had nothing to do with theory or learning content about your traditional subjects. If it were as such, I likely would have turned down the opportunity. Heading into my senior year I don't much worry about the accounting topics I haven't learned. Working this summer made me realize that the hands-on stuff is so much more important anyway. The most essential thing I want to glean out of the next few months is how to transition out of being coddled in academia into being open to the uncertainty that comes with real adulthood. Luckily this course fell squarely into that niche.
"Self Leadership and Life After Fordham" guided me on a journey from startling confusion to utter frustration, and finally to optimistic uncertainty. The professor challenged us to identify our strengths. This had nothing to do with using our talents to make us financially satisfied, but everything to do with matching those strengths to discover our "sweet spot" which will allow us to live the good life. This good life, according to the author Seligman, means happiness and success.
After completing a 240-question self-assessment, I discovered my top strengths were identified as gratitude, kindness/generosity, spirituality, zest and enthusiasm, and the capacity to love and be loved. Enter the aforementioned startling confusion and utter frustration. Am I a future accountant or an aspiring priest? I can't say I disagree with this strength assessment. These are all major pieces of who I am. But they always struck me as my general personality, not something that would necessarily form my career. Yet through further work in something called Hogan Personality Inventory, I discovered that my primary motivators were recognition, affiliation, and altruism. Money ranked fifth out of ten. I'm not sure I know a lot of accountants like that.
Upon revealing my strengths and motivators to the class, my professor told me these were all marks of a teacher. Funny thing is, I occasionally imagined myself working in the field during my twenties and thirties and then transferring careers once my family started to grow (read: get needy). I would love to teach either accounting or finance as I always find myself thinking of how I'd explain certain concepts to a group of college kids.
None of this has changed my decision to start in public accounting and then see what's out there after I become a CPA. What comes after is up to what I think at that point.
This class, however, had nothing to do with theory or learning content about your traditional subjects. If it were as such, I likely would have turned down the opportunity. Heading into my senior year I don't much worry about the accounting topics I haven't learned. Working this summer made me realize that the hands-on stuff is so much more important anyway. The most essential thing I want to glean out of the next few months is how to transition out of being coddled in academia into being open to the uncertainty that comes with real adulthood. Luckily this course fell squarely into that niche.
"Self Leadership and Life After Fordham" guided me on a journey from startling confusion to utter frustration, and finally to optimistic uncertainty. The professor challenged us to identify our strengths. This had nothing to do with using our talents to make us financially satisfied, but everything to do with matching those strengths to discover our "sweet spot" which will allow us to live the good life. This good life, according to the author Seligman, means happiness and success.
After completing a 240-question self-assessment, I discovered my top strengths were identified as gratitude, kindness/generosity, spirituality, zest and enthusiasm, and the capacity to love and be loved. Enter the aforementioned startling confusion and utter frustration. Am I a future accountant or an aspiring priest? I can't say I disagree with this strength assessment. These are all major pieces of who I am. But they always struck me as my general personality, not something that would necessarily form my career. Yet through further work in something called Hogan Personality Inventory, I discovered that my primary motivators were recognition, affiliation, and altruism. Money ranked fifth out of ten. I'm not sure I know a lot of accountants like that.
Upon revealing my strengths and motivators to the class, my professor told me these were all marks of a teacher. Funny thing is, I occasionally imagined myself working in the field during my twenties and thirties and then transferring careers once my family started to grow (read: get needy). I would love to teach either accounting or finance as I always find myself thinking of how I'd explain certain concepts to a group of college kids.
None of this has changed my decision to start in public accounting and then see what's out there after I become a CPA. What comes after is up to what I think at that point.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Flushing 2032
"Good afternoon, New York Mets? Yes, yes, just a moment." Roberta pressed the intercom button. "Mike, it's Bob Remsen. Shall I put him through?"
"Tell him I'll talk to him tomorrow. Citigroup can wait a day on the team's 401(k). I don't plan on retiring this weekend anyway."
"But what if I do?"
"Then this whole organization might as well fold. I still tell Omar that if it weren't for your pound cake the day Johan Santana brought his kids to see how he felt about the team's atmosphere, then the Phillies would've won the pennant in 2015."
"Oh, yeah right. Mr. Minaya wouldn't have any of that talk."
"I'm gonna head down to the stands, 'Bert. I've been waiting twenty-eight years to see the team retire numbers five and seven. I guess this officially means Jose's done swiping bags. Just when we could use a good shortstop, too."
"Michael, Michael, Michael. Don't worry! I'll get the boys we need, you just make sure we got the dough to pay 'em." The longest reigning general manager in the sport had just walked in, and even at seventy-four, he was still not one to have his baseball acumen questioned.
"I'm not sure if we could ever have enough cash to keep buying out Paul. But you da GM!"
I was one of the few who could get away with teasing Omar about our manager situation. For the past seven years, we'd gone through five managers. Paul LoDuca. Tony Gwynn, Jr. Paul LoDuca. Ed Travers. Paul LoDuca. Paul and Omar have always had a colorful relationship. Ever since the days of Paul saying and doing things to make the front office cringe in 2006 and 2007, it had been a rough road for the two. Everyone agrees that the only unbreakable bond between them is their common obsession with the New York Mets since birth.
"I'm tellin' ya, Mikey. If that little punk pushes down one more umpire over a questionable called strike in the ninth inning of a 12-3 rout, I'll make sure he doesn't manage so much as an ant farm!"
"That little punk's won ya four division titles and a World Series -
"Ay! Shut up already, you coming downstairs or what?"
"To party like it's 2007? Yeah, five minutes. My wife's bringing my David Wright jersey."
"Ay dios mio, Michael, you're our CFO, not our head cheerleader. It's bad enough you can't type with those four World Series rings on all the time. Like Fred always said, if we gave Mr. Met a checkbook and sat him at your desk, no one would ever know the difference. See you behind the plate."
I sat in my office a few more minutes, waiting for Julia to get to the stadium with my jersey and the kids. Being married to the New York City Schools' Chancellor always meant having to be patient while some principal whined to her about class sizes. My cell phone rang and I headed downstairs.
"Daddy! Did Mr. Wright ever hit a home run?" My youngest daughter was just starting to learn the terminology of our family's favorite pasttime.
"Yes, pumpkin. Mr. Wright hit lots of home runs. C'mon, I think he and Uncle Keith wanted to show you something before the game."
I led my wife and our three kids up to the Ralph Kiner Television Booth. The room has carried the same name since I was a teenager, and probably will until Gary Cohen and Keith Hernandez finally decide to hang up their microphones. They each only do a few innings a piece these days, but remain just as incredible as ever. Wright was beginning his second year in the booth, and SNY's ratings were at an all time high. My suspicion is that the population of female Mets fans exploded when they were able to stare at New York's favorite pretty boy every night on TV. I happened to think David was doing a good job, but the critics weren't being as kind. They did have a point though. Few people want to hear a play-by-play man gush about how Mets fans are the greatest fans in the world when the middle reliever has just been booed off the field after giving up yet another home run.
"Hey, Emily! You know what this is?" Keith was already in the booth.
"A babblehead!"
"Nope, Keith's a babblehead," David Wright said as he walked into the room. "This is a bobblehead. A Willie Randolph bobblehead. Has Daddy ever told you about him?"
"He was Daddy's favorite manager!"
"Mr. Wright's favorite manager too, Emily," Keith proclaimed. "I brought it for you."
"Thank you, Uncle Babblehead!"
Keith chuckled. "Stop corrupting Mike's girl, Dave!"
It was a beautiful night at Shea. It felt so liberating to say Shea again. One of my proudest accomplishments was negotiating with Citi to drop their name from the stadium five years ago. Omar wanted to kill me since buying out that contract put a strain on payroll, but Jeff Wilpon backed me all the way.
Nothing could top the gorgeous May evening. I had been working for my number one obsession for the past twenty years. We were in the midst of three straight years of sitting atop the NL East. My two favorite ballplayers of all time, Mets for life until they retired after the 2027 World Series, were about to have their numbers hung from the Jackie Robinson rotunda. With my beautiful family at my side, we took our seats behind the dugout.
"No one will ever touch this man's career record of 1,804 stolen bases!" bellowed Master of Ceremonies Tom Glavine from the field. "With a lifetime .310 average, he helped lead the Mets to six World series titles dating back to 2007. He'll tell you with his trademark smile that it was Pedro Martinez' Game 1 perfect game that did the trick, but that doesn't excuse our shortstop's .512 batting average during the Series. Ladies and gentlemen, as we take his number out of use for the New York Mets, please give it up for the shortstop, number seven, JO-SAYYYYY REYES!"
At the chorus of 45,000 people chanting his old familiar theme, Reyes came running as hard as ever onto the field. Lo Duca could be seen bellowing his name from the field as well.
I leaned over my GM's shoulder. "Omar, I don't care if he goes after the entire opposing team with a bat tonight, you can't fire him now."
"I'll do what I can, but if he lets Vegas win tonight, I might just lose it. Ever since they moved, he can't seem to get it through his fat little head that they're still the Marlins!"
The ceremonies continued. The love for Reyes was omnipotent. The same went for Wright a few minutes later. The old left side of the infield tandem raised each other's arms, reminiscent of all the times they strode down the ticker tape parades together. What a night to be a Mets fan.
"Tell him I'll talk to him tomorrow. Citigroup can wait a day on the team's 401(k). I don't plan on retiring this weekend anyway."
"But what if I do?"
"Then this whole organization might as well fold. I still tell Omar that if it weren't for your pound cake the day Johan Santana brought his kids to see how he felt about the team's atmosphere, then the Phillies would've won the pennant in 2015."
"Oh, yeah right. Mr. Minaya wouldn't have any of that talk."
"I'm gonna head down to the stands, 'Bert. I've been waiting twenty-eight years to see the team retire numbers five and seven. I guess this officially means Jose's done swiping bags. Just when we could use a good shortstop, too."
"Michael, Michael, Michael. Don't worry! I'll get the boys we need, you just make sure we got the dough to pay 'em." The longest reigning general manager in the sport had just walked in, and even at seventy-four, he was still not one to have his baseball acumen questioned.
"I'm not sure if we could ever have enough cash to keep buying out Paul. But you da GM!"
I was one of the few who could get away with teasing Omar about our manager situation. For the past seven years, we'd gone through five managers. Paul LoDuca. Tony Gwynn, Jr. Paul LoDuca. Ed Travers. Paul LoDuca. Paul and Omar have always had a colorful relationship. Ever since the days of Paul saying and doing things to make the front office cringe in 2006 and 2007, it had been a rough road for the two. Everyone agrees that the only unbreakable bond between them is their common obsession with the New York Mets since birth.
"I'm tellin' ya, Mikey. If that little punk pushes down one more umpire over a questionable called strike in the ninth inning of a 12-3 rout, I'll make sure he doesn't manage so much as an ant farm!"
"That little punk's won ya four division titles and a World Series -
"Ay! Shut up already, you coming downstairs or what?"
"To party like it's 2007? Yeah, five minutes. My wife's bringing my David Wright jersey."
"Ay dios mio, Michael, you're our CFO, not our head cheerleader. It's bad enough you can't type with those four World Series rings on all the time. Like Fred always said, if we gave Mr. Met a checkbook and sat him at your desk, no one would ever know the difference. See you behind the plate."
I sat in my office a few more minutes, waiting for Julia to get to the stadium with my jersey and the kids. Being married to the New York City Schools' Chancellor always meant having to be patient while some principal whined to her about class sizes. My cell phone rang and I headed downstairs.
"Daddy! Did Mr. Wright ever hit a home run?" My youngest daughter was just starting to learn the terminology of our family's favorite pasttime.
"Yes, pumpkin. Mr. Wright hit lots of home runs. C'mon, I think he and Uncle Keith wanted to show you something before the game."
I led my wife and our three kids up to the Ralph Kiner Television Booth. The room has carried the same name since I was a teenager, and probably will until Gary Cohen and Keith Hernandez finally decide to hang up their microphones. They each only do a few innings a piece these days, but remain just as incredible as ever. Wright was beginning his second year in the booth, and SNY's ratings were at an all time high. My suspicion is that the population of female Mets fans exploded when they were able to stare at New York's favorite pretty boy every night on TV. I happened to think David was doing a good job, but the critics weren't being as kind. They did have a point though. Few people want to hear a play-by-play man gush about how Mets fans are the greatest fans in the world when the middle reliever has just been booed off the field after giving up yet another home run.
"Hey, Emily! You know what this is?" Keith was already in the booth.
"A babblehead!"
"Nope, Keith's a babblehead," David Wright said as he walked into the room. "This is a bobblehead. A Willie Randolph bobblehead. Has Daddy ever told you about him?"
"He was Daddy's favorite manager!"
"Mr. Wright's favorite manager too, Emily," Keith proclaimed. "I brought it for you."
"Thank you, Uncle Babblehead!"
Keith chuckled. "Stop corrupting Mike's girl, Dave!"
It was a beautiful night at Shea. It felt so liberating to say Shea again. One of my proudest accomplishments was negotiating with Citi to drop their name from the stadium five years ago. Omar wanted to kill me since buying out that contract put a strain on payroll, but Jeff Wilpon backed me all the way.
Nothing could top the gorgeous May evening. I had been working for my number one obsession for the past twenty years. We were in the midst of three straight years of sitting atop the NL East. My two favorite ballplayers of all time, Mets for life until they retired after the 2027 World Series, were about to have their numbers hung from the Jackie Robinson rotunda. With my beautiful family at my side, we took our seats behind the dugout.
"No one will ever touch this man's career record of 1,804 stolen bases!" bellowed Master of Ceremonies Tom Glavine from the field. "With a lifetime .310 average, he helped lead the Mets to six World series titles dating back to 2007. He'll tell you with his trademark smile that it was Pedro Martinez' Game 1 perfect game that did the trick, but that doesn't excuse our shortstop's .512 batting average during the Series. Ladies and gentlemen, as we take his number out of use for the New York Mets, please give it up for the shortstop, number seven, JO-SAYYYYY REYES!"
At the chorus of 45,000 people chanting his old familiar theme, Reyes came running as hard as ever onto the field. Lo Duca could be seen bellowing his name from the field as well.
I leaned over my GM's shoulder. "Omar, I don't care if he goes after the entire opposing team with a bat tonight, you can't fire him now."
"I'll do what I can, but if he lets Vegas win tonight, I might just lose it. Ever since they moved, he can't seem to get it through his fat little head that they're still the Marlins!"
The ceremonies continued. The love for Reyes was omnipotent. The same went for Wright a few minutes later. The old left side of the infield tandem raised each other's arms, reminiscent of all the times they strode down the ticker tape parades together. What a night to be a Mets fan.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Later, P-Dubs
Posting here is my last official action on my PwC-owned laptop. This is my last day as an intern, and I will now take a one-year hiatus from the firm to finish my undergrad degree as well as start (and hopefully finish) my Masters of Business Administration in Finance. I've already been asked back to be an Associate in Fall 2008. At this moment, I'd say I am almost definitely going to accept the offer.
I'll probably post more frequently going forward. After my return from the Internship Development Program in Disney, that is. A paid trip to Disney? Man, these guys expect way too much from me.
Talk to you all on the other side of the Mouse.
I'll probably post more frequently going forward. After my return from the Internship Development Program in Disney, that is. A paid trip to Disney? Man, these guys expect way too much from me.
Talk to you all on the other side of the Mouse.
Sunday, July 15, 2007
It Gets Late Early Around Here
Good evening! Good morning! Aw, hell, what's in a time of day anyway?
I've yet to go to sleep. Well, that's not completely true. I napped between the hours of 11:30PM and 1:20AM. This between my double feature of New York Mets Baseball at 7:10PM and Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (in IMAX!!) at 3:20AM.
The internship is going pretty well. Manhattan living is, of course, going along famously. Sadly there hasn't been much to write about, but I'm not exactly tired. I just wanted to make an appearance. Cowabunga, dudes.
I've yet to go to sleep. Well, that's not completely true. I napped between the hours of 11:30PM and 1:20AM. This between my double feature of New York Mets Baseball at 7:10PM and Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (in IMAX!!) at 3:20AM.
The internship is going pretty well. Manhattan living is, of course, going along famously. Sadly there hasn't been much to write about, but I'm not exactly tired. I just wanted to make an appearance. Cowabunga, dudes.
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