Monday, June 4, 2012

Friday, June 1, 2012: Mets 8, Cardinals 0. 50 Years in the Making

The top of the sixth inning has ended, and rather than letting myself be drawn into yet another no-hitter tease that only ends in heartbreak, the only thing I’m choosing to agonize over is the kind of ice cream I want to order.  

It’s the first Friday in June, and I’ve spent the previous few hours traveling from my office outside of Philadelphia to Wildwood, NJ.  For all intents and purposes, it is the southern tip of the Jersey Shore – Exit 3 on the Parkway,  about as far as you can go before needing a ferry - and I’ll be spending the weekend with my wife, three-month old daughter, sister-in-law, her husband, and their three-year old daughter. 

My wife, Kate, and I have always shared a special relationship with my sister-in-law Beth, and her husband Bob.  Our first official date was their wedding, and they live so close to us now that it’s rare when we see each other fewer than five times a week.  Kate and I were both at the hospital when their daughter, Haley, was born at about one in the morning, and Beth flew out to be with us when we left the hospital with Gracie after her birth. 

We’ve already vacationed together, taken care of each other’s kids, and been through some agonizing situations together. The only bad thing I can say about any of them is that they’re all Phillies fans. 

So they can’t possibly care less that something is cooking at Citi Field on this first Friday night in June. 

But it doesn’t matter.  I’ve just realized that Santana is working on a no-hitter.  In the past, any occurrence of this - whether its in the third inning or the seventh - results in an immediate dose of cold water when the opposing team, as if a switch went on, knocks a base hit to keep the drought alive. 

Having listened to the pregame on the drive to Wildwood, I’m only able to get back to the broadcast in time to listen to the top of the sixth.  Watching or listening having just arrived at the shore house would have been rude, but I allow myself to catch up during a long drive several towns over to get ice cream.  On the way I hear the controversial call on Carlos Beltran’s foul ball – as Mets play-by-play announcer Howie Rose so wonderfully articulated the following day “The lines were drawn too far left anyway,” - and realize that the no-no is still intact.

When I make this realization and Santana goes on to record the final two outs in the sixth, I allow myself to wish, but it doesn’t last long. 

By this point of the season, it’s common knowledge that Santana’s maximum pitch count will be 115, tops.  He is, after all, recovering from a surgical reconstruction of his pitching arm, and had never thrown more than 125 pitches in a game before that.  Through six innings he’s already hovering around the 90-pitch mark, and there’s no way he’ll be able to finish at this rate.  On top of that, there’s already been some rain in New York with more in the forecast and if the umps call for the tarp, his evening will be finished. 

It’s not happening tonight.  Maybe ever.  I opt for chocolate chip cookie dough. 

Some cool things happen in the bottom of the sixth.  Kirk Nieuwenhuis and David Wright get on base in front of Lucas Duda, who promptly smacks a dinger to run the lead to 5-0.  Bob is amused since he thinks Lucas Duda has a funny name, and he certainly heard it enough in the finale of the Mets’ series against the Phillies earlier in the week when the right fielder hit two meaningless home runs.  

Then the seventh inning starts and who comes to the plate but Yadier Molina. 

Molina’s new teammate, Carlos Beltran, is the face of the 2006 NLCS defeat, having watched Adam Wainwright’s unfairly good curveball drop in for a strike to end the Mets’ last, best hope for a World Series, but the game would not have been over if it wasn’t for Molina.  On that October night in 2006, Molina simultaneously punched 50,000+ Mets fans (still celebrating Endy Chavez’s miracle catch, I should know, I was there) in the gut with his two-run homer in the top of the ninth.  The homer propelled the Cardinals to a World Series victory and the Mets to over five years of frustration.  I still have this image of the game ending seared in my mind!

Three of these four men played a part on Friday.  The wound is still fresh.

The son-of-a-bitch was going to do it again. 

After David Freese popped out harmlessly to first, Molina smoked a line drive to left field that, on the radio, sounded like the end.  That is, until Howie Rose almost screamed Mike Baxter’s name, who dove with a full head of steam toward the wall to make the catch and keep the no-hitter intact. 

Mike Baxter is from Whitestone, Queens.  He grew up in the Mets’ backyard, attended games as a kid, and -based on a report from SNY field reporter Kevin Burkhardt – called New York’s WFAN radio to cheer, gripe, and defend the Amazin’s.  He had grown up without a no-hitter just like the rest of us, and now he was going to do something about it, goddammit. 


He made the catch on Molina and lay prone on the warning track from a long time, having plunged head and shoulder-first into the padding on the wall. Molina thought he had a homer, and circled the bases until he was corrected.  Santana applauded the catch with his hand and glove before he realized something was wrong.  The trainers went out to check on him, and eventually escort him to the dugout to a standing ovation.  Not tonight, Molina.

The subsequent groundout to Ike Davis was without incident, and the tension mounted.  Seven innings down.  Six outs left to get.  107 pitches.  Johan batting second in the bottom of the inning.  What happens now? 


Insufferable troll Adam Rubin brings up Francisco pitching the ninth.  My Phillies friend Erik (seriously why do I surround myself with these people) texts me, I assume to try and jinx it.  We’re almost back from the ice cream trip, but are making a stop at a bar close to the house to get some wings.  Don’t judge us. 

Omar Quintinilla pinballs an infield hit off of Rafael Furcal to get on base, and we have our answer.  Santana will bat.  This game is his to finish.  I can hear the ovation over the radio and there is another when he executes his sacrifice bunt perfectly.  Then, fans need to wait SIX MORE BATTERS as the Mets tack on three more runs, and in my mind, Johan Santana’s arm forms into a useless hunk of ice as he sits on the bench.  Eventually the inning ends and he goes out to the mound again. 

Tyler Greene flies out softly and Shane Robinson strikes out, which at this point in the game is NOT COOL.  Strikeouts mean more pitches.  Furcal, another thorn in the Mets side for years draws a walk and then the moment we’ve all dreaded.  Terry Collins goes out to the mound.  In my mind I can already see the completely unsatisfying “Mets combine for no-hitter” headlines in my head, and am sad.  Then I am simultaneously exhilarated and terrified when Collins leaves the mound without Santana, potentially putting his job on the line for a chance at history. 

His faith is rewarded when Beltran, yes that guy again, hits a scary-sounding line drive that humpbacks and safely hits the outfield grass, but only in my imagination, since Daniel Murphy is able to grab it at second.  Eight down, one to go.  Three more outs to history. 

I immediately text those who might care.  My friend Al, who is a Dodger fan, but Mets well-wisher.  My uncle, whose sister and mother are the reasons for my being a Mets fan – not unlike vampires creating other vampires.  My friend Elliot, whom I affected in a similar fashion during our freshman year as roommates at Seton Hall University.  The same message for all.  “Put the meta on now.”

I meant to say Mets, but my iPhone still hasn’t gotten the hint after three weeks of use. 

Al is the only one to respond during an uneventful bottom of the eighth.  “Hmm” he says, not saying the words, well aware of the etiquette.  Josh Thole, who would later admit he just wanted to get the inning over with, strikes out.  Omar Quintinilla gets a single, the nerve.  Santana doesn’t dare swing, even though the Cardinals pitcher almost walks him before the umpire puts Santana out of his misery by calling him out on strikes.  Andres Torres grounds to first, and the ninth inning begins. 

My heart is pounding.  This is still not new territory for the Mets.  Tom Seaver took a perfect game into the ninth in 1969 before allowing a bloop single to Jimmy Qualls.  All told, the team has had 35 one-hitters, each one as unsatisfying as the last.  Before Holliday bats, I get a text from Al “whew, Holliday was the scary guy there.”

He’s ahead of me, I think, and I frantically inform him of such and close out Messenger.  I want this experience on my own.  Rose’s alarmed call of Holliday’s sharp line drive to center doesn’t phase me.  That one was a free Bingo spot, one where I could breathe easily.  The next two outs wouldn’t be.  If this was happening or not, I wanted the pure experience. 

Rose’s tone escalates when Allen Craig flies to left, but there isn’t the undertone of defeat and it hangs up until it lands harmlessly in Nieuwenhuis’ glove. 

One to go. 

A rainstorm which had been threatening for most of the evening has arrived, and so have we, back at the beach house.  Beth and Bob bring Haley inside before most of the rain begins to pour, andI’m free to go inside and watch either history or disappointment on television. 

I stay right where I am.  All of this has been happening while I was listening on the radio, and if I mess with that and it ends, I’ll never forgive myself. 

I tell my wife to leave my daughter in her car seat.  If this happens, I want to be able to tell her about it.  I’ll bring her in when it’s over. 

“I want to hear what happens,” Kate tells me, God bless her. 

Naturally, the next batter is the defending World Series MVP, David Freese, and Santana runs the count to 3-0. 

I almost want Santana to walk him.  Then I think about Collins’ last mound visit after a four-pitch walk and Johan’s pitch count of 131. 

Ok, don’t walk him. 

Freese, possibly thinking the same thing, takes a called strike.  Then he fouls off a changeup. 

Full count.  133 pitches.  Two outs in the ninth.  No Mets pitcher has ever been this close. 





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I don’t even feel the drops as I get out of the car, unlatch Gracie’s car seat and rush inside.  I am ready to soak in everything, and will start with the live look-in that MLB Network or ESPN would surely have established. 

I’m horrified to see the Phillies game on the television. 

Beth and Bob tell me that the NBA playoff game is on ESPN and the network didn’t switch over.  And then, as if on cue, the Phillies announcers receive the news and cut to the SNY broadcast, and I see what I've been waiting to see for a long time.  



The ultimate victory, having the live celebration from Citi Field broadcast on the Phillies’ own network.  I see Santana being mobbed by his teammates (and one jackass in jorts.)  Santana is saluting the fans.  He knows, he gets it.  A hobbled Justin Turner gets him with a whipped cream pie.  He’s sitting with the long-suffering WFAN reporter for the Mets Eddie Coleman, getting sprayed with champagne. 

It’s glorious. 

I’ve waited every day of my 29-year existence for a Mets no-hitter.  My daughter has one at three and a half months.  Nonohitter.com has already shuttered its doors.  Every online sports site  in crashing due to traffic. The eyes of the baseball world are on Queens. Yesss. 

Over the next few days, I soak it all in.  I buy newspapers for the first time in ages.  I read every behind-the-scenes recount of the tale.  And the more I hear, the more cosmic the entire situation seems. 

You want subplots?  How about the catcher of the Mets’ first no-hitter nearly missing the game, as he’d missed the previous 27 games with a concussion?  How about a kid who grew up bleeding blue and orange sacrificing two months of his season to preserve the no-hitter?  How about eight runs, eight hits and 134 pitches:  1 + 3 + 4 = 8, alluding to the number of the recently deceased Gary Carter, whom many said played some divine part of the game? 

But here’s my favorite. 

How about the three architects of that heartbreaking 2006 NLCS loss; Beltran, Wainwright, and Molina, being prominent figures in this game?   Wainwright the losing pitcher.  Beltran the not-double.  Molina the hitter of the Baxter Ball. 

Could this have been one huge message from the universe that the underachieving, frustrating, LOLMets of the past five-plus seasons are no more? 

I’m not sure.  But if they make the playoffs, just remember that I told you that it was. 

This was awesome.  Baseball is awesome.  

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