Goodbye, Old Friend

Why would a grown man get all emotional about the close of a building, infamously derided as a hokey dump, with a papier mache apple gimmick as one of its most famous features? When that grown man was just a boy, he would go with his Dad to attend this blue/purple monstrosity and see villains like Bobby Bonilla and Bret Saberhagen, and heroes like Eddie Murray and Todd Hundley. John Franco would be one or the other, depending on the day. The most vivid sensory image was the aroma of a Kahn's hot dog. That boy would go with his Dad, roughly ten times or so a year, to see those guys in the blue and orange mostly lose until the late 90s or so.

I stood above my seat in the Upper Reserve, Section 25, Row O, Seat 3 at 5:06pm today, seeing the worst come to fruition. Intense anger flooded my veins as, for the third year straight, the 25 guys to whom I had trusted my heart ripped it up like so much confetti that rained down over an hour later.

This latest failing was soon deemed irrelevant, as the anger became reflective sadness. I needed to see that video of Mr. Met packing up and leaving Shea Stadium while recalling that building's greatest memories like I needed a hole in my head. Thus the first tears welled up.

One summer afternoon in 1998, while the Mets were looking like contenders for the first time in nearly a decade, my Dad came home from work beaming. He told me that it looked like the team might be in the running for some guy whose name sounded like pizza, and that this guy was an incredible baseball player. I was twelve, so still had to rely on him to determine whether something the Mets did was good or bad. When he did actually come to Queens, he struggled a bit and drew the ire of a few pessimists, but my young mind saw something in him that can only be described as heroic. For eight years, there was no equal in my mind to Mike Piazza. As much as everyone knows I love David Wright, he still has quite a bit to go before he takes the crown of my favorite baseball player of all time. And it's a beautiful thing to know that in 2005, one man's last Mets season was the other's first.

So spending the final minutes in my home away from home, while not being able to comprehend a Mets game without a Shea Stadium, the guy whose named adorned my back for nine years was introduced during the park's farewell ceremony. The dam that was holding back those welled up tears instantly burst. For the first time in at least three years, I was openly sobbing uncontrollably. At this point, I was finally facing the fact that this personal mecca to which I've eagerly gone probably about 200 times, during meaningful games in September, already-meaningless games in July, two straight drizzly 40 degree April nights, a 95 degree night which preceded a New York City blackout, days with parents, best friends, girlfriends, and even a few by myself, four playoff games including Flushing's only game won in the 2000 World Series, a concert this July that nearly brought the house down, and the final three contests to ever occur in William A. Shea Municipal Stadium, that this Holy Ground would soon be a parking lot for a place called Citi Field. Too much to bear, and I felt terribly that it didn't see a happier finale. The dimming lights followed by the blue and orange flares shooting from the rafters moments after the greatest Met of my Dad's generation, Tom Seaver, threw the final pitch of the house to the greatest Met of my generation, Mike Piazza, was the only thing that the organization did right all day. And you know what? As I was walking down the ramps, snapping pictures at Mr. Met's various phrases underneath those exit signs I had seen so many times, I announced that no matter what the price, I would be on hand at 7:10PM on April 13th, 2009 to usher in a new era of magic.

But I'm still calling it Shea.

A Weekend to Remember

Now that my heart has stopped palpitating, I can write without the jitters. Tomorrow night begins wbat, as a baseball fan, is a wet dream. And as a Mets fan, it's a heart attack on a platter that will turn into either a wet dream or a cold corpse.

Indulge me on the crazy math and possibilities here. The Amazins' are one game behind Philadelphia for the NL East division title. They are tied with the Milwaukee Brewers for the NL Wild Card. The past 159 games do not matter right now. The 2008 season, as far as three teams in the National League are concerned, is three games long. Let's go from worst case to best case, shall we?

1. If the Mets win fewer games than Milwaukee and Philadelphia, they will be playing golf on Monday.
   
   
2. If the Mets win fewer games than Milwaukee and the same number of games as Philadelphia, I will commit suicide with David Wright's putter on Monday, because this is the best possible outcome we can have without actually getting anything.
   
   
3. If the Mets win the same number of games as both Milwaukee and Philadelphia, the Phillies are the division champs. Mets and Brewers play at Shea on Monday to decide the wild card.
   
   
4. If the Mets win the same number of games as Milwaukee, just one more game than Philadelphia, and the Phillies win one fewer game than Milwaukee, we have ESPN's and the media outlets of New York, Philadelphia, and Milwaukee's wet dreams. A three-way tie for two spots. This works as follows:
   
   The Mets and Phillies play in Philadelphia on Monday to duke it out for the division:
   
   4a) If the Mets lose this game, the Phillies are division champs, and the Mets play the Brewers on Tuesday at Shea. Winner is the wild card champ.
   4b) If the Mets win this game, they are the division champs and the Phillies play the Brewers in Philadelphia for the Wild Card.
   
   
5. If the Mets win one more game than Milwaukee, they are in the playoffs no matter what. This creates a wild card berth for the Mets if the Phillies win one more game than them.
   
   
6. If the Mets win one more game than Milwaukee and Philadelphia, the Mets finish tied in the standings for the NL East with Philadelphia. BUT since the Mets have a better head-to-head record against the Phillies this season (10-8), the Mets are the division champs without having to play a tie-breaker.
   
   
7. If number six above occurs, and the Phillies also win one more game or the same number of games as Milwaukee, the Phillies win the wild card, with the Mets still the division champs.
   
   
8. If number six above occurs, and the Phillies win one fewer game than Milwaukee, the Phillies play at home against the Brewers on Monday for the wild card, with the Mets still the division champs.
   
   
9. If number six above occurs, and the Phillies win two or three fewer games than the Brewers, Milwaukee is the wild card champ and the Mets are still the divison champs.

So there you have it, boys and girls. Nine scenarios. Quiz in five minutes. Lets go Mets.

I've calculated out each and every scenario, because I'm beyond obsessive. Eight-six scenarios exist, in which the Phillies make it 73 times (84.9% probability), the Brewers make it 45 times (52.3% probability), and the Mets make it 54 times (62.8% probability).

Only two can make it. WHO WILL THEY BE?!

Best Frenemies Forever!

This week at the Democratic National Convention, we saw tensions between an envious, experienced old-hand and a smug up-and-comer who now rules the roost simmer at the end of a long week. That's right, the respective hosts of MSNBC's Hardball and Countdown put aside their bickering for the sake of unity last night.

The Peacock organization's spunky liberal child has kept me enthralled with its political coverage this year. Why, you ask of this centrist? It's the talent pool, really. When the CBS Evening News and ABC's World News are off the air, no one sees those networks' fine reporters. However, when you own a 24-hour cable station, anything can happen in a big spot. Hey, Tommy B.! Not doin' anything? Here, come on camera, talk about uhh, the 1968 DNC! Bri Wi, charm us with a tale of a run-in with a PUMA. The place hasn't had mandatory watching like this since Seinfeld and Friends were riding high.

Then there's Snarky and Looney. I've now completely gotten over the departure of Chris Russo from WFAN because Keith Olbermann and Chris Matthews are the new Mike and the Mad Dog of politics. Tie these two egomaniacs to a desk in Denver for twenty-six hours over four days and I hope you're not allergic to cats because the fur flies! But when the Anointed One gave his nomination speech, the Democrats weren't the only ones singing Kumbaya. These boys were complimenting each other back and forth on each other's analysis to the point where you thought this was a promo for a Brokeback Mountain Special Edition DVD. Fortunately, evidence of this has been spared from YouTube, so you'll have to take my word for it. I'm pretty sure that more often than not they detest each other, but boys and girls, this Must See TV continues at 5pm Monday in St. Paul. Granted that they both carry Senator Obama's water, however, it will be interesting to see the dynamic next week. But since Olbermann goes into spasms within twenty-five feet of a Republican, his general state of anger might be more directed at his guests than his yellow-haired (no, not blonde, yellow) co-host.

Speaking of the Red Team, America was spared the horror of a full 4% of the Senate running for the executive branch today. Senator McCain going with Sarah Palin gives us something new to look at, satirize, and spit out over the next two months. And to all those who criticize her for her lack of foreign policy ticket, look at the Democratic headliner. Subjected to a blind taste test, I don't think I have to guess whether most Americans would rather a president with no foreign policy experience, or a vice president with none.

I also like Governor Palin because she's mom-like. And moms know how to organize and run things!

My prayers and thoughts go out to the very funny Rob Bartlett this week. If you're familiar with his genius, then YOU CAN ACT LIKE A MAN and send good wishes his way at www.myspace.com/therobio.

Say Somethin' Funny, Mikey

Well, wow. My New York Metropolitans continue to dominate and "run roughshod over the National League" in exciting fashion. Two and a half games up on Philadelphia. But I'll keep my excitement to a dull roar until we actually, God forbid, clinch a postseason spot.

Speaking of my favorite sports team in the entire universe, the station on which their radio broadcasts are carried has suffered another dangerous blow. Sixteen months after Imus in the Morning was pulled from the WFAN airwaves, the also-crucial afternoon drive spot has lost its Mad Dog of Mike and the Mad Dog. Since the age of roughly twelve, the show has been my afternoon soundtrack, either while procrastinating on homework or, in recent years, driving home from school. It also seems that the Mets contract with your flagship station for New York sports is up next year. If the Mets go elsewhere, then Mark Chernoff, turn your transmitter off now.

For the record, Mike Francesa, as the remaining survivor of the team on WFAN, will now have a show known as "Francesa on the FAN." But as anyone who has heard the man speak would know, the correct enunciation of the show's title is: Francesuhh.........onnnnnnn the FAN."

As of the end of next week, I will be living in my big boy apartment in Astoria. While Manhattan was my original goal, both the low price tag of the neighborhood and its eternal charm kept me in my native borough. I don't think I'll be making a move without this guy.

I expect to be roused from a peaceful sleep early tomorrow morning by that magical text message from the Obama campaign stating who his Number Two will be. To paraphrase Dick Morris, if Senator Obama gives the nod to Tim Kaine, it will be a recent state senator picking a recent mayor of a city with a population of 200,000. I basically see tomorrow as Election Day. Ceteris paribus, if Hillary Clinton is his nominee, Obama wins. If not, hello Mr. President-elect McCain.

In watching the Olympics lately, and seeing Brian Williams proclaim during promos, "I'm in Beijing, but I'm from Jersey, and I'm 4 New York!" I've been reminded of this from 1992, with familiar figures Len Berman, a hairier Al Roker, Chuck Scarborough, and Sue "The F*** Are You Doing?!" Simmons.

Done! Done! Done!

My academic career launched on September 9, 1990, in Mrs. Blaine's pre-kindergarten class. From there, I endured eighteen years of academic rigor until I retired from academia on August 1, 2008 after Dr. Estelami's Marketing of Financial Services MBA class. With a little help from AP classes in high school and a marvelous summer study abroad program in London, I managed to finish my bachelor's in seven semesters and my master's in an additional two. Mind you, I am not gloating at all. But reflecting on the whole journey begs the question, "What the heck kind of masochist am I, anyway?"

I now have fifty-one days of freedom until I begin working full-time. What's a boy to do? Well, first of all, there has been lying on my floor since June an untouched twenty pound box of CPA review materials. I also plan on finishing John McCain's second memoir Worth the Fighting For. Watching MSNBC until I'm blue in the face and can't hear the words "hardball" or "countdown" without turning violently ill is also an aspiration. I also have this little thing called a "gym membership" which has served me well so far, but I figure I should continue the habit of working out regularly before I'm stuck in an audit room for ten hours a day with Three Musketeers bars and Starbucks fat-accinos. Six weeks from tomorrow is the half-marathon in my native borough, at which I plan on finishing in a personal best 1:55.

Then there's this little thing called an "apartment" that has been breathing down my neck. The easy way out of this dilemma would be to stay at home, rent-free, which my parents would fully endorse and would be quite acceptable as they feed me quite full and are very good people to be around. However, the commute from midtown to my house during normal hours averages an hour, and on weekends when I'm carousing the town I can expect to crawl into bed at 4am if I leave a bar at 2. Also, not to invoke the "well if everyone else jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge, would you" maxim, but it would be slightly strange to be the only one among my colleagues who still lives in his or her childhood home.

Let summer begin.

On Aspirations

Sometimes, I wish I could lay this blog out like the Drudge Report. That would lead me to post a lot more. At 2pm on a typical day, you might see something like:

CAN'T BELIEVE HE ATE THE WHOLE THING
REPORT: It was very "yummy"...

But He Just May Be the Lunatic You're Looking For

Dear Christie Brinkley,

Now that your divorce from that dolt who didn't deserve your beauty and grace is final, give the people what we want and go back to your one true love: Billy Joel. What kind of "steam" were you blowing off with him over 4th of July anyway? The Piano Man deserves your loving back in his life, and no one likes his ditz of a new wife anyway. Methinks that if you're lonely for a man, he'll still say, "Take me as I am."