More Mets Bright Spots

Matt Harvey pitched his first shutout, beating Colorado 5-0.
It's hard to believe he's been pitching so briefly that this is his first shutout. Harvey, now 9-3 with a 2.06 ERA, looked really sharp, getting just six Ks but hitting his spots, walking none, with a total of 106 pitches in under 2.5 hours. He also got hit by a line drive on his knee late in the game, but wild horses couldn't have dragged him off the field by then. Shutout, check. Complete game, check!

Wilmer Flores went 2-4 and got his first major league hit and RBIs.
The replacement third baseman's feats ease some of the pain from Wright's DL stint. John Buck also had 2 hits.

The Mets are in 3rd in the NL East.
Big deal, right? They're still 10.5 games behind Atlanta, but only 1.5 behind the Nats. And most snarkily, the Yanks are in 4th in their division, 11.5 games back. Small victories.

Oh, and, they just won again!
Gee gets the V. 2-1 over Colorado.

Pity the Yanks Not Named A-Rod

The media focused on A-Rod, whose face shall never grace this blog.

As a Mets fan genetically programmed to despise the Yankees, I never thought I'd say this, but I feel sorry for all Bronx bombers not named Alex Rodriguez. More specifically Derek Jeter, Mariano Rivera, and manager Joe Girardi, who seem like decent, hardworking men and who now, decades in, have been taken reluctant hostage to an absurd spectacle.

As if being a major league baseball player isn't enough of a daily circus, they now have to abide A-Rod's presence in the locker room, the horde of journalists, and all the attendant booing with each of his at-bats. Of course no one could anticipate this happening, and it's not as if he's alone in admitting to using PEDs. But he makes almost $150,000 A GAME, so if he cheated to gain that ludicrous amount of money (with the help of the evil agent Scott Boras), then he doesn't deserve it, beyond the usual conversation of: how in god's name can any human be paid that much for doing so little?

I know, as a fan, I guess I'm part of the problem. I watch many games, and take odd delight in the nuances and quirks of the sport, the languorous pace, the well-managed tedium of GaryKeithRon (especially Keith's ad hockery), the occasional, fleeting moment of delight. But I have to wonder if hitting a few more home runs than the next five guys really merits earning, oh, a Bentley's-worth more per game. That is, if you're not a cheater. Right — Alex cheated! So how about all the money he was paid? Does he return it, like Lance has been asked to? The wins? The rings? All scratched out, like Armstrong's seven Tour de France wins?

Meanwhile, back in Queens...

The Mets struggle. It's part of who they are. But this season's already been much more fun than I expected, mostly due to the emergence of the team's young pitching aces, Matt Harvey (his debut with a nosebleed sums it up, plus his "Who is Matt Harvey" gig for Jimmy Fallon), Zack Wheeler (flashes of brilliance in an otherwise steep learning curve), and Jenrry Mejía (ditto). Myth has finally merged with reality to produce some real optimism, and not the quaint kind that comes with Pedro Feliciano returning to the pen after not pitching for two years. 

Coach Wright?

David Wright has finally earned, legitimately, all the respect we all suspected he deserved, even in his fledgling years. Officially The Captain, coming off his Captain America performance in the All-Star game (okay, that moniker was a little much, even if it does fit his squeaky clean image), he has performed consistently all season, even though he essentially matched his career batting average. It's been less hot & cold this year. His defense has been relaxed, reflexive, spot-on, at times, yes, balletic. He has showed angry fire in the dugout (this is good, in contrast with his usual puppy-like demeanor), and he's always the first to high-five a teammate for a homer or good play. 

Has he ever misspoken in public? Not that I can recall. Yes, he can reel off cliches, but he's never put himself in a position where he needs to defend any questionable behavior or situation. He seems very nice, and very boring, and that's fine, if it keeps him consistent in the ballpark. He signed a longterm contract that just about guarantees he'll retire as a Met, making that #5 jersey a great investment.

However, he's injured. It's not as scary as when he was hit with a pitch two years ago and had a concussion. His hamstring is tweaked, which is concerning as one of the larger muscles. Going on the DL was the nightmare scenario that no one wanted to think about, both offensively and defensively. He cannot be replaced. The upsides are that Wright will get a bit of a rest, and opportunity knocks for third-base candidates Murphy, Wilmer Flores, or whoever. Wright is still in the dugout, cheering, giving notes, being an all-around optmistic presence. The day after he was injured, while the rest of us dragged our chins on the ground, he was smiling, popping sunflower seeds, wacking guys on the shoulder. In fact, he looked a bit like a manager in that short-sleeved windbreaker. Hmm...

Mercifully, the Mets don't really have a player who's, how shall I say this, an A-Rod type. Jordany Valdespin, one of the dozen suspended for 50 games for using PEDs, was sent down to AAA a while back, and threw a tantrum in the locker room when he heard. You can't blame him, because by all reports, it's depressing and you're surrounded by guys who hate being there, just on the brink of the big show. But apparently Valdespin's maturity has always been an issue, plus he wasn't able to outperform these shortcomings. (As A-Rod attests, put up the numbers and your teammates will put up with you, if begrudgingly.) But nowhere near the jerkery of A-Rod.

This season's Mets' goats are led by Ike Davis, who is scorned but not disliked. You always feel like he's just an at-bat away from hitting .320. One thing: we haven't seen him go over the dugout rail for a catch, like he seemed to do every week last year. Daniel Murphy has become seasoned at second, looking by all rights a pro, and hitting pretty consistently. His self-loathing isn't apparent this year; I've even seen him crack a smile. (It looks weird.)  Quintanilla is sort of a cipher at short, but he's getting the job done without much flair or controversy and let's face it, no one will erase the memory of José Reyes, ever. Byrd has become well-liked, and aside from his problems with the sun on Sunday, has done fine in right. Eric Young is on the brink of good, getting a timely hit (hello, walk-off!) and looking pretty fast around the bases until he gets caught off. Josh Satin's cooled down since Davis returned and pushed him off first, but he's still hitting .295. Looks like Flores was called up, so we'll see how he looks tonight. 

Just relish the fact that the circus is in Chicago for now, but will be back in the Bronx in short order, and not in Queens.

Ovations for Romeos and Homers

The back of the giveaway t-shirt commemorating the No-han. The front's less graphically appealing. 

The good news
Looks like Johan's okay, two starts after his no hitter, as he led the Mets to a 5-0 win over the Orioles last night at Citi Field. If the game wasn't perfect, the weather was—still spring-cool on the summer solstice and longest daylight day of the year, in advance of a smothering heat wave. Not a full house by any means, there were still enough of us on hand to shower Lucas Duda with ovations as he circled the bases during his home run trot while banking 3 runs. 


Even better news
The Mets' two wins over the Os, dominant in their AL division, continued this season's baffling feast-or-famine streakiness, after getting swept by the Yanks, sweeping the Rays, and getting swept by the Reds. Just another chapter in a season that began if not in gloom then with indifference, but that has blossomed into a fascinating story, not the least of which is the tale of RA Dickey and his knuckleball. A mysterious pitch at the heart of a mystical and mystery-filled 2012 season, which is nearly halfway done, sadly.


Some icing on the cake
Will Dickey start the All-Star Game? Normally I pay little attention to the ritual, as much marketing vehicle as recognition for accomplishments. But with odds on Dickey to start, as well as team leader David Wright at third, I may just have to watch.


Romeos and Juliets
Speaking of ovations, on Monday I saw ABT's Romeo and Juliet, starring Natalia Osipova and David Hallberg. These two have been getting a lot of buzz, and it's obvious why: they both leap like springboks, have heartachingly beautiful lines, limitless extensions, and a charming chemistry. But a season full of similarly dazzling talent (Gomes and Vishneva on Friday were just as moving, in a more mature and grounded way) can present one curtain call and bouquet after another, in a sort of numbing repetition. 

Natalia Osipova and David Hallberg in their command,
post-act 1 curtain call. Photo: Ardani Artists

Ovation as remote control
But after the first act curtain came down on Monday, the applause didn't fade as it normally does after a minute or so. It lulled, then built again, and the stage manager had the good sense to round up David and Natalia and usher them onstage in front of the pulled-back curtain for an impromptu bow. It was something I'd never seen, and reassurance that the audience does indeed play an active part in performances. And it reminded me of a post-home run curtain call that fans demand of sluggers.


Ballet fans answer to practically no one
This is more obvious at the ballpark, where fans are goaded by means of ear-splitting synthetic music and beats to clap and yell as loud as possible. Well, the team has either earned it or not, in my book: a crazy video and loudspeakers aren't going to make me put my hands together otherwise. At the ballet, it's simply earned or not. Even if there were slips and bobbles (speaking of, how about bobble head ballet dancers?), if the dancers poured their hearts into it, they'll be rewarded with ovations. Some ballet fans are as fervent as Mets fans. And some of us are both.

Johan's No-Hitter—Will the Devil Come Calling? Who Cares!

Terry Collins hugs Nohan Santana. Photo: AP

Anyone see a monkey run by here, the one that finally got off the Mets' back now that Johan got a no-hitter? Didn't think so, cause it was flying like it was headed toward Oz.


With that dubious marker now fallen by the wayside, that's one less badge of shame for the Mets to wear. The fences got moved in and now homers are increasing (if not exactly gushing yet), but that's not what the Mets are about anyway. It's just one less hurdle. The Madoff situation is somewhat under control. Now if Ike Davis could just manage to get his average above .200 and the shortstops would stop falling like flies... And now, with the no-no, one less. 


Back to the no-hitter, and the stories within the story. Let's start with Beltran's hit up the third base line that was called foul. In St. Louis, the headline was "NO HITTER*." You can't blame them for being bitter, but really, how many strike/ball calls does every home plate umpire blow during each game? And those decisions could certainly sway outcomes, if not as egregiously as this one. Still, that's the beauty of the game... so many intricate moving parts that build a story with each game.


Catcher Josh Thole, just off the disabled list for the dreaded zombie-land concussion, calling a no-hitter. And Baxter's self-sacrifice, throwing himself full-speed, left shoulder first, into the padded outfield wall to make a catch and save a hit. If anything sums up being a Mets fan, it's seeing him lying there, crumpled on the ground, writhing in pain, while knowing he saved a no-hitter. Pride and pain, my friends. Nothing comes easy.


And the big story, the one that perfectly embodies baseball's Faustian bargain—Terry Collins deciding to leave Santana in to pitch after his pre-game limit of 115. In the middle of the 7th, Santana left the dugout and went into the clubhouse. Would he just pack his shoulder in ice and call it a night? Heck no. When he returned with his helmet on, the crowd went wild. The bat in his hands may as well have been Gandalf's staff. "You shall not pass!" Then and there, it felt momentous, supernatural, and the happy ending would unspool, out by out, in 134 pitches.


Collins, ruminative in his post-game comments, pondered that if in five days Santana had a lot of soreness, he might regret his decision. But even given that possibility, there was no way he could take Johan out. So: facing a historical achievement for both yourself and the Mets, versus possibly overtiring or even damaging your 33-year-old, just-surgically-repaired shoulder, what do you do?


You pitch a no-hitter, that's what you do. And pay the devil when he comes a calling.


p.s. - today's game is on, bottom of the 6th, and RA Dickey's got a 3-0 lead (not a no-hitter). We've gotta be in for some serious doom and gloom soon, ammiright Mets fans? That's the spirit!

Cultural debrief—May 20

What's a blog for if not to empty one's head? This week's stuff, unpacked...

David sporting a Ducks hockey jersey.
If you were batting .409, you could
pull this off too.

David Wright and the Mets

David Wright is leading the MLB with a batting average of .411. Only a fool would believe he could sustain this pace through the entire season, so let's appreciate it while we can. And his dugout contretemps with manager Terry Collins the other night may have aired internal dirty laundry, but it was by no means a bad thing, showing the spine that Wright has but hides behind his puppy-like persona. (After the Mets pitcher hit the Brewers' star, Collins pulled Wright to avoid retaliation, as Wright suffered a concussion last year and still has a broken finger.) His usual public face is so affable and conciliatory that we rarely see that fire, but there it was. And the Mets are fun to watch now, with small ball, one sizzling hitter in Wright and another in Murphy, and RA Dickey -- Renaissance pitcher and wiffle ball enthusiast (watch him learning a few things from the kids here) who climbed Mt. Everest and listens to Chopin's nocturnes on his drive home. Whee.

Coda: as of May 20, the Mets have lost 4 of their last 5 games, tied for third in the division. Wright was rested yesterday and is still batting .409.

David Hallberg & Natalia Osipova in Giselle

ABT's overabundant casting

Gomes or Hallberg? Osipova or Vishneva? Everyone should have such problems. With the many international guest dancers that ABT features in addition to its abundant "home grown" ranks, picking which shows to see is a sport. I saw Giselle with Julie Kent and Marcelo Gomes last Tuesday. Kent (born in 1969) is still physically lithe enough, but she's never struck me as impetuous enough to be the rebellious teen called for. Yet she and Gomes have danced together so much that they are perfectly harmonious as partners. Of course the dancers are portraying characters, so the semblance of reality is moot, but some dancers are naturally better suited to roles. Not so Giselle for Kent, I'm afraid. And yet Gomes is the complete dancer now—technically fine and regally handsome, but it is his acting and partnering that vault him above all others.

Natalia Osipova, however, is a natural Giselle—gamine-like, strong-willed, with an inner spark and a preternatural ballon (although her act 2 tutu was about 4" too long). She was paired with David Hallberg at Saturday's matinee for a sublime, possibly perfect performance. Both soar like gazelles, and their chemistry is wonderful—poetic and heartachingly sublime. That Hallberg joined the Bolshoi, in part to dance with Osipiva, just as she left the company only adds to the poignancy.  

Ernesto Neto, photo courtesy Tonya Bonakdar and the artist.

Chelsea Galleries—caught a few interesting ones with some high school pals:

Ernesto Neto (Tanya Bonakdar, ends May 25) is known for his goofy, likable amoebas-in-pantyhose sculptures; here he enlarges the scale of the mesh to fishing net-sized, the sand is now rubber balls, and you can tunnel into them like cocoons.

Tauba Auerbach (Paula Cooper, ends June 9) weaves canvas strips to create subtly textured, variegated surfaces, and paints crinkled, unfolded fabric as subject matter.

Anish Kapoor (Barbara Gladstone, ends June 9) is showing a giant, iron diving bell-like sculpture. You can stand in its hollow and hear your voice ricocheting off its sides; it's impressive for its immensity and weathered, steampunky appearance. At Gladstone's other gallery (which I did not see), in a departure, he has a series of lumpen, dripped, unpainted concrete sculptures that resemble stalagmites.

Richard Avedon (Gagosian, 21st St, ends July 6) took portraits of countless throngs, but this exhibition focuses on four groups of subjects around 1970, including Warhol's Factory klatch and Abbie Hoffman's extended family. Cleverly designed partitions isolate each mural-sized photo, pinned behind huge panes of glass like dead butterflies.

Cindy Sherman (Metro Pictures, ends June 9) shot Icelandic landscapes around the time of the recent volcanic eruptions, herself in vintage Chanel outfits, and Photoshopped the results—bizarre, jarring juxtapositions.