Mets, Yankees and the perils of Pop-Tarts

Pop-Tarts used to be carefree. But now I’m wrestling with big decisions.

The pastries taste good whether you toast them or eat them right out of the package. They’re made by Kellogg, based in Michigan, and made right here in Grand Rapids. How can you not love that?

So I was pretty excited when Kellogg rolled out a special, limited edition Printed Fun Pop-Tart featuring Major League teams.

“Favorite or foe, every team has its own Pop-Tart Toaster Pastry in this MLB Limited Series,” the box reads. “Find all 30, and prove you’re a Crazy Good baseball fan.”

The box even comes with a checklist. I’m in – especially since they were on sale at Meijer. 

There are about a million different Pop-Tart flavors these days, and I’m assuming Kellogg picked strawberry for the MLB edition in reference to Darryl Strawberry, the former Mets slugger.

My first box was uneventful, with the Nationals, Marlins, Dodgers, Blue Jays. Yum. We can reflect on nice times with those teams, visiting ballparks and meeting players.

A few days later I opened the second box. The first package – each sealed bag has two Pop-Tarts – produced a Padres Pop-Tart. The brought swift memories of the disastrous first game at Citi Field and Mike Pelfrey serving up a homer to the first batter he faced.

I put it right in the toaster. No need to dwell on unpleasantness.

The second one in the bag –I saw blue and orange, a familiar skyline—It was the Mets! Yes!

The search was over and the MDP – Most Desired Pastry – was obtained!

But this produced the first dilemma. What can we do with a collectible Pop-Tart? The basement baseball room is the family shrine to all things Mets, and surely there could be a place for the Mets Pop-Tart among the bobble heads, posters and yearbooks.

But how long would it last? None of the other collectibles in the room are edible. It’s not like someone makes a screw-down Pop-Tart plastic protection slab like the ones used for baseball cards.

We considered shadow boxes and those little easels you can use for little picture frames. No decision has been made and we’re open to suggestions.

So the Mets Pop-Tart remains in the bag in the box, safe from danger.

Today I was ready for another Pop-Tart and happily opened a bag, hoping that there could be a second Mets Pop-Tart in one box.

Then it happened. A Pop-Tart with a big NY, but not the one we all love. It was a Yankees Pop-Tart.

I quickly dropped it on the counter.

I suppose that deep down, I knew this could happen. But with 30 teams and only eight Pop-Tarts to a box, I was hoping to be spared.

Shouldn't there be a warning on the box? It does say in big red letters "Due to possible risk of fire, never leave your toasting appliance or microwave unattended."

So why not add: "Warning. This box could contain a Yankee-decorated Pop-Tart. Apologies." 

Even worse, it’s a Yankees Pop-Tart during St. Derek F. Jeter’s final season. 

While this Pop-Tart would have better range at short than Derek, it lacks his intangibles.

If Yankee myths were true, he’d make all the other Pop-Tarts in the box better. I can tell you that is not the case, because I ate the Rockies version that also was in the bag, and it tasted like a regular strawberry Pop-Tart.

So here’s the second dilemma: What am I going to do with this thing?

I’m can’t eat it. I can only imagine what it tastes like – old, broken, over-hyped. Yuck.

It’s not like I can give it to my family. The last thing I want is crying kids. “Daddy, we thought you loved us!”

I could take it to work. At my old job, people would leave things on the kitchen counter and it would be gone in seconds. At one point we realized it was pretty sad that we were pouncing in Panera Bread leftovers from a honcho meeting. It didn't stop us, because we like Panera Bread. But it was still sad.

Not even the squirrels wanted this thing.

I thought maybe I could stick it in the bird feeder and keep the squirrels away.  Maybe the Blue Jays and Cardinals could peck away at it.

No luck. It scared them away, too.

Tomorrow I’m going back to poppy seed bagels. It’s much safer.

The cathartic booing of Derek Jeter

The scoreboard flashed the signal for mass booing

Yankee shortstop Derek Jeter announced today that the 2014 season will be his last as a player.

This will no doubt unleash a torrent of weeping and praise from the Yankee-centric media. I mean, even more weeping and praise than usual.

It’s not going to be an easy year.

Someone has to provide balance, and that person is me.

Here’s a tale from the archives about when Will and I went to see the White Sox play the Yankees, and St. Derek got the booing he so richly deserved. And yet, it was a cathartic experience for this long-suffering Mets fan.

So while Tom Verducci starts getting ready for an ocean of soft rain, he’s a story from 2010 to help soften the blow.

You have to realize that since my time covering Mickey Weston, I don’t boo athletes.

Except for two, that is.

Chipper Jones has simply inflicted too much damage on the Mets over the years to go without some sort of recognition, and we can’t exactly cheer him. But Chipper’s been broken down for the past several seasons, and it been a decade since he’s had Met blood on his hands.

The other, of course, is Derek F. Jeter.

Usually this booing occurs in the relative quiet of my home. But Will and I had the rare opportunity to voice our displeasure to Jeter in person on Frank Thomas Day, and this is the final report of that adventurous afternoon.

Chipper earned his boos for doing his job, and I’m sure he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Jeter, however, is an on-going insult. He’s not just your basic Yankee, Jeter is Mr. Yankee, and truly is reflective of everything that is wrong with the franchise in the Bronx. Over-hyped, over-paid, over-exposed, over-credited and over-privileged.

We all know that the best shortstop on the Yankees is playing third base because it would be unthinkable to ask the Captain to change positions, despite the very obvious fact that Jeter has the range of a fire hydrant.

(Note: Here is another tale from the archives listing players who have more range than Derek Jeter)

Yet there are scribes like Ian O’Connor who give Jeter a complete pass. I can only assume O’Connor Tweeted this with a straight face: “Despite all the sabermetrics, there is a hell of a value in Jeter's ability to turn every ball hit right at him into an out. #yankees”

I pointed out to the brilliant folks at the Crane Pool Forum that a Major League shortstop is supposed to be able to turn every ball hit right to him into an out. 

Several posters noted that, in fact, minor-league shortstops also are expected to field the ones hit right at them.

Upon further thought, I realized that all players at every level are expected to turn routine plays, even people on my champion coed softball team.

Yet, Jeter has apologists like ESPN’s Joe Morgan, who watch him turn a routine six-bouncer into an out, and proclaim nonsense like “Jeter’s so good, he makes that play look routine.”

Witness the reaction to Jeter’s recent incident of shame against the Rays. A pitch came inside, Jeter leaned back and the ball hit the bat, obvious to all. That would be called a strike on most batters. Yet Jeter started carrying on as if he had not only been hit, but that the ball pounded his hand into hamburger. He was awarded first base, and the next batter hit a home run.

Replays indicated that Jeter is better actor than a shortstop. Exposed as a liar and cheat, Jeter told reporters after the game that it’s his job to get on base any way possible. Funny, but I don’t remember Yankee greats like Gehrig, DiMaggio and Mattingly flopping around and calling for the trainer when they wanted to get on first base. Usually they just hit the ball.

But the fawning New York media again gave Jeter a pass, citing his “intangibles.” Imagine how different the reaction would have been had the faker been Carlos Beltran.

Yes, Jeter has five rings. He’s also surrounded in the lineup by at least five All-Stars. Let’s see him take is legendary intangibles to Pittsburgh and take the lowly Pirates to the World Series. That will never happen.

So all of this pent-up angst had built up by the time Jeter stepped into the box against Sox starter Gavin Floyd in the first inning.

Boooooooooooooooooo!

It was a long, heartfelt display that seemed to take the other people in the section by surprise. 

Frankly, I expected more people to join in. Sox fans were more interested in voicing displeasure toward Nick Swisher, a former under-achieving South Sider now over-achieving with the Yanks.

Jeter meekly popped out the right. This was followed by cheers, followed by Cousin Tim’s legendary “O-ver RA-ted, clap, clap, clap-clap-clap” taunt, which generated a far-greater response at Shea in 2008.

This scenario was repeated in the third and fifth innings, and involved Jeter strikeouts. They were swinging strikeouts, of course, since no umpire is bold enough to call Derek Jeter out on strikes.

We were started to get some cranky looks from a group sitting to our right, all clad in ugly Yankee T-shirts. I did not fear them because, like in a libel case, truth is the best defense and deep down all Yankee fans must know that the emperor isn't wearing any pinstripes.

I actually missed Jeter being announced in the eighth inning, and the delayed booing at Will’s prompting resulted in Jeter walking, and then advancing to second on a wild pitch.

Luckily we were afforded one last chance in the top of the ninth, when Derek the Menace strode to the plate with two out.

I let loose with the much-deserved booooooo when the Yankee fans to the right hatched an obviously premeditated defense. They were attempting to drown out my boo with cheers. It was six on one.

I would not, could not, lose this battle.

I produced a deep, dark, loud boooooooooooooo that arose from the depths of my blue-and-orange soul. It was cathartic. Every injustice endured at the hands of Yankee fans and their media fawners seemed to be set loose, released from my heart and through my cupped hands.

Everything from the McKenna Junior High taunts of 1977 and 1978 through the bat-tossing, Timo-jogging fiasco that was the 2000 Subway series and the Castillo pop drop of 2009 had broken loose.

This was, without a doubt, the longest, most resonating booooo I've ever produced. Philadelphia fans strive to create a booo this loud and long. And yet it was purifying all at the same time.

The weak cheers of the T-shirted gang of six were no match for my disgust and suffering. This boo rose from our perch in the upper deck to hover over U.S. Cellular Field like a fog. 

This was a boo intended to envelope Jeter in self-awareness and shame. I was expecting him to return to the Yankee bench, plop down – and see his teammates all slide away, disgusted.

I started to feel pity for Jeter. Deep down, he knows the truth. Hype doesn't outlast history.

I’m confident that all 10,000 of the Frank Thomas bobbleheads handed out that day nodded in agreement.

I easily outlasted the Yankee posers. Cleansed of decades of Yankee hurt, I could have continued into extra innings. And I feel the need to boo him no more.

Reggie Jackson is right, there should be two Halls

I actually agree with Reggie Jackson about something.

Reggie and Ian O’Connor of ESPN-New York where having an otherwise nonsensical conversation about whether Yankee pitcher Andy Pettitte would have a clear path to Cooperstown if he would beat Cliff Lee in the ALCS game that night, which, of course, he did not.

O’Connor’s a Jeter-obsessed Yankee hack of the highest order, and it’s laughable that Pettitte would be in the Hall of Fame with his 3.88 career ERA, steroid confession, a mere three All-Star Game appearances and complete lack of awards.
And this goofy discussion included this line:

“But Jackson also believes there should be a second Hall of Fame for the real Hall of Famers. In other words, he believes there are too many ballplayers enshrined in Cooperstown, men who were too mortal on the playing field to be sculpted into bronze baseball gods.”

The problem is, Yankee hacks think all of their players – at least those deemed “True Yankees” -- are fit to be enshrined, even Derek F. Jeter! And because some of these hacks actually hang around long enough to get BBWAA ballots, a number of unworthy players have found themselves with plaques.

Reggie’s right. There should be two parts to the Hall of Fame. One would be for the Seavers, Aarons, Robinsons and the rest of the greatest players. The other would be for Yankees who are otherwise undeserving, but were enshrined anyway.

Reggie, the career leader in strikeouts, his underwhelming .262 batting average, and his abuse of a fan’s glorious Hall of Fame autograph ball, would be in the latter.

Alas, he’s hardly alone. When the Hall curators decide that they are too busy planning the Mike Piazza exhibit and need me to help sort out this new wing, here’s who I’d start ripping off the wall:

Phil Rizzuto: Let’s get this one out of the way. Rizzutto has 38 career home runs, just 1,588 career hits and a weak .272 average. Plus he’s got just 149 career steals. So he wasn’t fast, couldn’t hit for power and couldn’t hit for average. That must be why it took 38 years after his career ended before the Yankee hype machine could convince enough people on the Veterans Committee that Rizzuto was something more than a just an average player on a stacked team.

Joe Gordon: Gordon’s stats are even more pedestrian than Rizzuto’s. He retired in 1950, but he must have done something to make the numbers more convincing over the next 59 years to get him elected in 2009. That’s impressive, considering he died in 1978. And his plaque is among the most confusing. Sometimes the Hall lists the player’s nickname after his formal name, like “The Franchise” following George Thomas Seaver. But this one reads Joseph Lowell Gordon, “Joe,” “Flash.” Did the Hall really need to add “Joe” after a guy named Joseph?

Tony Lazzeri: Lazzeri played between 1926 and 1939. He was added to the Hall in 1991. If you have to wait 60 years before you think someone is worthy, he’s probably not worthy.

Earle Combs: A centerfielder, Combs is another guy the Vets snuck in 30 years after he stopped playing. He played only 11 years – just one over the minimum to be considered – because he was injured crashing into a wall in 1934 and into a teammate in 1935. Guess that’s good news for Jason Bay and Carlos Beltran.

Red Ruffing: Ruffing’s an unusual Yankee enshrinement because it took only 20 years for him to be elected. About the best you can say about his 3.80 ERA is that it’s slightly better than Andy Pettitte’s.

Rich Gossage: If Gossage was so good, then why did he bounce around to eight other teams? Oh, and so you wouldn’t be confused, the Hall noted that this guy named Richard also went by “Rich.”

Bill Dickey: The Yankees retire everyone’s number. I’m sure Boone Logan’s already planning his number retirement ceremony. But it took so long for the team to retire Dickey’s No. 8 that they had already given it away to Yogi Berra, who went on to glory as a Met.

Waite Hoyt: Typical Yankee induction, meaning that it took 32 years for mystique and aura to convince enough Veterans Committee that his .359 ERA and lackluster .565 winning percentage were something worthy of keeping company with Walter Johnson and Cy Young.

Herb Pennock: Pennock has 241 wins, which at least is one more than Andy Pettitte. And his 3.59 ERA is the same as Waite Hoyt’s. Guess that makes him your typical undeserving Yankee.

Lefty Gomez: Amazingly, it took only until only recently for the Hall of Fame to take action against a Veterans Committee that seemingly never met a Yankee it didn’t like. Gomez doesn’t even have 200 wins, and was slipped into the Hall after 29 years.

Whitey Ford: Like Pettitte, Ford’s a confessed cheater. From his Wikipedia entry – and you know Wikipedia is never inaccurate: “After his career ended, Ford admitted to occasionally cheating by doctoring baseballs in various ways, such as the "mudball," which could only be used at home in Yankee Stadium: Yankee groundskeepers would wet down an area near the catcher's box where Yankee catcher Elston Howard was positioned; pretending to lose balance on a pitch while in his crouch and landing on his right hand (with the ball in it), Howard would coat one side of the ball with mud. Ford would sometimes use the diamond in his wedding ring to gouge the ball, but he was eventually caught by an umpire and warned to stop; Howard then sharpened a buckle on his shinguard and used it to scuff the ball. Ford admitted in several interviews to doctoring the ball in the 1962 All Star Game at Candlestick Park to strike out Willie Mays.”

Mickey Mantle: Look, Mantle and Ford were known to be inseparable. If Ford was a confessed cheater, Mantle was, at best, an aider and abettor. Perhaps, when sober, Mick was the mastermind behind all the cheating. Mantle took those dark, dark secrets to the grave, so we'll never know for sure. I'll just assume the worst.

I’ll concede that Lou Gehrig was a decent enough player, and Babe Ruth gets in, no doubt on the strength of his fine seasons with the Red Sox and Braves. Manages McCarthy and Huggins are in because, well, you have to let an occasional manager in or they all get a little cranky. DiMaggio had a nice little hit streak that he parlayed into a lot of positive pub.

Casey Stengel was probably furious that there’s a Yankee cap on his Hall plaque cap instead of his properly glorious Mets cap. You can’t see Yogi Berra’s cap logo, so I’m assuming it’s the properly interlocking orange NY.

So that leaves, what, five legitimate Yankees in the Hall? At least Reggie – and possibly Pettitte and Jeter – will have plenty of company in their new wing.

Yes!

The booing of Derek Jeter

You have to realize that since my time covering Mickey Weston, I don’t boo athletes.
Except for two, that is.

Chipper Jones has simply inflicted too much damage on the Mets over the years to go without some sort of recognition, and we can’t exactly cheer him. But Chipper’s been broken down for the past several seasons, and it been a decade since he’s had Met blood on his hands.

The other, of course, is Derek F. Jeter.

Usually this booing occurs in the relative quite of my home. But Will and I had the rare opportunity to voice our displeasure to Jeter in person on Frank Thomas Day, and this is the final report of that adventurous afternoon.

Chipper earned his boos for doing his job, and I’m sure he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Jeter, however, is an on-going insult. He’s not just your basic Yankee, Jeter is Mr. Yankee, and truly is reflective of everything that is wrong with the franchise in the Bronx. Over-hyped, over-paid, over-exposed, over-credited and over-privileged.

We all know that the best shortstop on the Yankees is playing third base because it would be unthinkable to ask the Captain to change positions, despite the very obvious fact that Jeter has the range of a fire hydrant.

Yet there are scribes like Ian O’Connor who give Jeter a complete pass. I can only assume O’Connor Tweeted this with a straight face: “Despite all the sabermetrics, there is a hell of a value in Jeter's ability to turn every ball hit right at him into an out. #yankees”

I pointed out to the brilliant folks at the Crane Pool Forum that a Major League shortstop is supposed to be able to turn every ball hit right to him into an out. Several posters noted that, in fact, minor-league shortstops also are expected to field the ones hit right at them.

Upon further thought, I realized that all players at every level are expected to turn routine plays, even people on my champion coed softball team.

Yet, Jeter has apologists like ESPN’s Joe Morgan, who watch him turn a routine six-bouncer into an out, and proclaim nonsense like “Jeter’s so good, he makes that play look routine.”

Witness the reaction to Jeter’s recent incident of shame against the Rays. A pitch came inside, Jeter leaned back and the ball hit the bat, obvious to all. That would be called a strike on most batters. Yet Jeter started carrying on as if he had not only been hit, but that the ball pounded his hand into hamburger. He was awarded first base, and the next batter hit a home run.

Replays indicated that Jeter is better actor than a shortstop. Exposed as a liar and cheat, Jeter told reporters after the game that it’s his job to get on base any way possible. Funny, but I don’t remember alleged Yankee greats like Gehrig, DiMaggio and Mattingly flopping around and calling for the trainer when they wanted to get on first base. Usually they hit the ball.

But the fawning New York media again gave Jeter a pass, citing his “intangibles.” Imagine how different the reaction would have been had the faker been Carlos Beltran.

Yes, Jeter has five rings. He’s also surrounded in the lineup by at least five All-Stars. Let’s see him take is legendary intangibles to Pittsburgh and take the lowly Pirates to the World Series. That will never happen.

So all of this pent-up angst had built up by the time Jeter stepped into the box against Sox starter Gavin Floyd in the first inning.

Boooooooooooooooooo!

It was a long, heartfelt display that seemed to take the other people in the section by surprise. Frankly, I expected more people to join in. Sox fans were more interested in voicing displeasure toward Nick Swisher, a former under-achieving South Sider now over-achieving with the Yanks.

Jeter meekly popped out the right. This was followed by cheers, followed by Cousin Tim’s legendary “O-ver RA-ted, clap, clap, clap-clap-clap” taunt, which generated a far-greater response at Shea in 2008.

This scenario was repeated in the third and fifth innings, and involved Jeter strikeouts. They were swinging strikeouts, of course, since no umpire is bold enough to call Derek Jeter out on strikes.

We were started to get some cranky looks from a group sitting to our right, all clad in ugly Yankee T-shirts. I did not fear them because, like in a libel case, truth is the best defense and deep down all Yankee fans must know that the emperor isn’t wearing any pinstripes.

I actually missed Jeter being announced in the eighth inning, and the delayed booing at Will’s prompting resulted in Jeter walking, and then advancing to second on a wild pitch.
The scoreboard flashed this international call for mass booing.

Luckily we were afforded one last chance in the top of the ninth, when Derek the Menace strode to the plate with two out.

I let loose with the much-deserved booooooo when the Yankee fans to the right hatched an obviously pre-meditated defense. They were attempting to drown out my boo with cheers. It was six on one.

I would not, could not lose this battle.

I produced a deep, dark, loud boooooooooooooo that arose from the depths of my blue-and-orange soul. It was cathartic. Every injustice endured at the hands of Yankee fans and their media fawners seemed to be set loose, released from my heart and through my cupped hands.

Everything from the McKenna Junior High taunts of 1977 and 1978 through the bat-tossing, Timo-jogging fiasco that was the 2000 Subway series and the Castillo pop drop of '09 had broken loose.

This was, without a doubt, the longest, most resonating booooo I've ever produced. Philadelphia fans strive to create a booo this loud and long. And yet it was purifying all at the same time.

The weak cheers of the T-shirted gang of six were no match for my disgust and suffering. This boo rose from our perch in the upper deck to hover over U.S. Cellular Field like a fog.

This was a boo intended to envelope Jeter in self-awareness and shame. I was expecting him to return to the Yankee bench, plop down – and see his teammates all slide away, disgusted.

I started to feel pity for Jeter. Deep down, he knows the truth. Hype doesn't outlast history.

I’m confident that all 10,000 of the Frank Thomas bobbleheads handed out that day nodded in agreement.

I easily outlasted the Yankee posers. Cleansed of decades of Yankee hurt, I could have continued into extra innings.

Helping the Yankees with Derek Jeter's range problem

Watching the Mets take out C.C. Sabathia on Sunday Night Baseball to win the Subway Series, one thing became apparent.

Actually, there were several things, but let’s focus on one of them. Friends, despite what Joe Morgan said, Derek F. Jeter has no range.

None. Nada.

The reason the Mets could rip doubles up the third base line was because ARod was playing so far over that he was practically a co-shortstop.

The charitable folks at the Crane Pool Forum discussed during the game Jeter’s, um, issues, and decided to help the Yankees with this problem.

Here, submitted with love and respect, are potential players who, right now, have better range than Derek F. Jeter.

1) Roadkill opossum: Well look, he can cover both sides of the highway. And he’s already got pinstripes.

2) Garden gnome: A tribute to the Yankee farm system. Will have to lose the facial hair, though. But if Johnny Damon can do it. Hmmm, he can already throw better than Damon.

3) A tree: A little difficult to bring on the road, especially in stadiums with artificial turf.

4) The wax Jeter from the museum: All the range and twice the personality. Can also fill in for Derek’s busy advertising schedule.

5) A rock: Waiting patiently for his Yankee Moment, then he can be rolled out to Monument Park to be with the other True Yankee monuments.

6) Lady Liberty: Dressed for the occasion. Then again, the Yankees’ record on diversity isn’t good and they’re probably not going to let a lady take the field until every other team but the Red Sox makes the move.

7) Don Zimmer. Look! Zimmer already knows how to dive for a ball, as evidenced by this impromptu lesson from Pedro. When was the last time you saw Jeter dive?

8) A garden slug: Leaves a trail of silvery Yankee aura whever he goes. But no salt in the dugout, please.

Well, that should tide the Bombers over until the next Subway Series, when we can offer base running assistance to Francisco “Pump, Trot and Whine” Cervelli.

I resolve to be a better Mets fan in 2010

Tonight the ball drops – both in New York and here in Grand Rapids – marking the end of a year that I’m really not all that sad to see go.

A new year marks a new opportunity to take stock in what we as Mets fans think, do and go about our business.

We Mets fans survived 2009, and it was rough. We can get 2010 off to a great start by changing some of our behaviors to cleanse away the stench of the last decade and embrace this shiny new one.

It’s a tradition to use this day to make resolutions. Here are my ten resolutions for 2010 Mets fans. Please hold me accountable.

1) I resolve to not freak out every time another team signs another team signs a player the Mets didn’t particularly want, and think that the other team’s general manager is smarter or better than Omar.

OK, the Giants signed Mark DeRosa. He’s kind of old and hurt, and there really wasn’t a position for him on the Mets. So we really shouldn’t get all worked up worrying that Omar missed out on a guy we shouldn’t be chasing in the first place.

2) I resolve not to get all worried when a free agent the Mets are after has not been signed by a deadline set by New York Daily News sports columnists.

Opening Day is in April. It’s a good idea to have Jason Bay and people like him in uniform by that date, and maybe even a little earlier. But just because the News shows a back page photo of a crying child in a Mets cap in December does not mean that Bay will never sign, or that the season that starts four months from now already is a lost cause.

3) I resolve to not whine and get upset every time Bob Klapisch writes a column taking cheap shots at the Mets.

As reporters, we are always amazed when people purchase pit bulls, make them pets, give them names like “Diablo,” and then are shocked when the pit bull eats the neighbor children.

Pit bulls eat children. It’s in their nature. It’s what they do. They don’t stop being pit bulls because you make them a pet.

Bob Klapisch is a known Mets hater. He will not change. He cannot change. I must stop reading his columns and being shocked when he does what he does.

4) I resolve to not complain about the lack of Mets history and colors on display at the Mets' ballpark.

I’m pretty sure the Mets are the ones playing at Citi Field. It’s not that hard to figure out, especially when I see Oliver Perez is on the mound and he’s given up five walks by the third inning.

So I don’t need blue and orange trim in the mens room to remind me I’m in the right ballpark or posters of Tom Seaver to remind he played for the Mets, because I have a lot of those in the basement baseball room. I don’t have a live-sized Tom Seaver statue in the basement, however. Hint, hint.

5) I resolve to not complain when Derek Jeter gets undeserved praise for doing things people on my coed softball team are able to do -- without much fanfare.

Well, who are we kidding.

6) I resolve only to complain about things Derek Jeter actually does or says, as opposed to super-powers assigned to him.

That’s a little more realistic.

7) I resolve not to get drawn into nasty arguments with Phillies fans.

Hey, they’re a rough, disagreeable lot. Make no mistake. They like to fight and wear mean-spirited t-shirts.

We need to show Phillies fans compassion. It must be difficult to root for the most losing team in the history of professional sports. Let them yell and boast about their three division titles.

But we must not engage them, unless they say bad things about David Wright or question Jose Reyes’ health or make implications about Daniel Murphy’s fielding or take issue with K-Rod’s save celebrations or make snide remarks about the orange button on our caps or the drop shadows on the jerseys or suggest that Johan Santana is not the best pitcher in baseball or call attention to Carlos Beltran’s big mole.

If any of those things happen, the gloves are off, understandably so.

8) I resolve not to panic when a Mets player goes on the disabled list.

OK, when they ALL go on the disabled list, it’s a cause for concern. But 2009 can’t really happen again, can it?

9) I resolve not to hate Curtis Granderson now that he’s a Yankee.

Curtis is still a really nice guy who cares for the community. Now he’s just a nice, caring guy in a really ugly uniform with overrated teammates and fawning columnists.

10) Speaking of uniforms, I resolve not to get suckered in and buy the ugly new batting practice cap just because Major League Baseball decides it can get fans to buy more caps by changing the design every two years.

I am SO sticking with this one. Unless there’s a good sale on MLB.com or if I somehow get the new jersey and need to cap to match. But I standing firm and I mean it.

There! I shouldn't have too much trouble sticking with those simple resolutions.

May your 2010 be filled with happiness and health, filled with a summer of celebrations!

Counting our many blessings -- and the turkeys, too

I just finished preparing the mashed sweet potatoes and the steps that will lead to my turkey’s stuffing, events that can only signify that my favorite holiday is approaching.

I love Thanksgiving because I have so much to be thankful for, and I appreciate them all. I’m blessed, and I realize it.

So let’s launch into the annual list of all that is good – and the accounting of the turkeys who try to spoil all the fun.

I’m thankful that I have a job that I love. One and a half, actually. I don’t take this lightly, because Michigan is hurting bad. It’s been a rough year in my state and in my profession. We’re hanging on, and don’t think there isn’t a day when I don’t thank the Lord for this blessing. And I’m glad that I can continue my adjunct teaching job in the spring semester. Working with such wonderful students tells me there are still talented young people who are dedicated to journalism and have hope for the future.

Turkey! Hallmark. People mocked in the past when I bemoaned the Hallmark Christmas Ornament Curse. But I was distraught when I learned that Johan Santana was this year’s decoration. Of course, he had season-ending surgery just after the ornament was released. And he took most of the team with him, leaving us with an especially dreary season.

I’m thankful that I was able to see our beloved Mets three times this season, twice in the spring and on Aug. 5 in our Citi Field debut. And amazingly – considering my past -- the Mets won all three. The 9-0 destruction of the Cardinals in August was viewed from spectacular seats provided by my parents – awesome – and was marred only by Jon Neise being carried off the field to join the DL party. But my son was able to see his first Mets game in New York, and I got all weepy seeing my glorious FanWalk brick, provided by Cousin Tim, who was there to join the celebration. And we all caught up with blogging buddy Greg Prince at the game, too. It was a very, very good day.

Turkeys! The ESPN Sunday Night Baseball crew of Jon Miller and Joe Morgan. Look, I like Miller, one of the best voices in the game. But Morgan is killing me, and he’s an anchor around Miller. When Morgan is not reminding us that he “played the game,” he’s praising Derek F. Jeter. Jeter doesn’t even have to be playing at the time. But it’s darn near embarrassing when he is. How many times have you heard this scenario: A weak, routine five-bouncer to short, which Jeter gets only because it’s hit right at him, then promptly throws to first base, bouncing twice along the way. “Look at Jeter get to that ball,” Morgan will exclaim. “He makes that play look easy. Derek just brings that something special every time he steps on the field. He makes everyone around him better. I know how players do that, because I played the game.” Gag.

I’m thankful for my iPhone, which is very close to surpassing my iPod as the greatest device ever. It is life-altering. The apps are incredible for both work and home. I’m especially thankful for the “Lose it” app. All I’m saying is that I installed it on July 7 and now I’m 50 pounds lighter. Really. And there’s the app that tracks how far and fast I can run, with the pause button so I can flick over to the maps app so I can get unlost while running in Texas and find my way back to Aunt Darlene’s house. Yes, this happened.

I’m thankful for lax security in the Astrodome and tour guides who don’t mind giving individual tours of Minute Maid Park. That trip to Texas offered all kinds of adventures.

I’m thankful that the Baseball Hall of Fame is taking the task of adding executives and pioneers more seriously by adding a keen and brilliant mind to the selection committee. That would be Tom Seaver, who is being lured from the vineyards next week to make sure these knuckleheads don’t mess things up again.

Turkeys! Sadly, the Hall still managed to goof things up. The committee to consider managers and umpires includes Tom Verducci, the infamous Yankee hack who actually declared that cyborg/reliever Mariano Rivera should start the 2008 All-Star Game so applause could fall on him like soft rain. I almost gagged on the turkey just typing that again. But seriously, this is a bad idea. Is there any doubt that “The Duce” will start the meeting by protesting that there are non-Yankees on the ballot? Do we not believe that Verducci will, with a straight face, make a case that Billy Martin should have a spot in Cooperstown, then try to slip in Ralph Houk and Joe Girardi and goodness knows how many once and future Yankee managers into the Hall? Then he'll move along to Yankee coaches and bullpen catchers and the grounds crew and Derek F. Jeter's parents for their role in making the world a better place. I, for one, hope that they don’t put Verducci in charge of counting the ballots.

I’m thankful that the Mets are not totally screwing up the new uniforms all the way. We love the team. You know that. But sometimes it makes questionable decisions when it comes to tinkering with the astonishingly great uniforms the Mets were blessed with. This week the team announced it would feature cream-colored pinstripes intended to honor the 1969 champs. I’m down with that, even though the typical Mets pinstripes are the best uniforms in baseball. But for reasons I can not figure out, they are leaving the black drop shadow on there. Help me figure this out. If you are going to recreate a uniform from 1969, why exactly are you keeping the feature from the past decade? We know the Mets. The team makes progress in increments. That’s why we’re getting a Mets Hall of Fame a year after the ballpark opens. As long as we’re headed in the right direction, it’s all good.

I'm thankful that I was allowed to coach the greatest church coed softball team ever. One a communication-forced forfeit prevented us from smashing through the playoffs. We settled for the consolation championship -- excellent -- and lots of wonderful fellowship. And now I can start planning and plotting for next year.

I'm thankful that I was able to hear Audio Adrenaline's Mark Stuart and Will McGinnis one more time. One of my favorite bands, Audio A called it quits a couple years ago when Stuart started losing his voice. Now he and Will tour as Audio Unplugged, and share their stories as they play a few songs, which is easier on Mark's voice. I had the chance to meet them after a recent concert, and share how much their music inspired me, especially when I was looking for ways to connect with the middle school youth groups. They probably hear that kind of thing all the time, but maybe not. I didn't want the opportunity to say "thank you" slip by.

I hope this holiday finds you happy and healthy and in appreciation of the blessings the Lord has given us. Even in the toughest of years on and off the field, may we never forget what is special about our lives, and the people we get to share them with.

Like I was saying, Johan Santana's season-ending surgery can be blamed on Hallmark

Not that I like saying “I told you so.” But I sure wasn’t shocked when Johan Santana went down with season-ending surgery a couple weeks ago.

This was to be expected. Not only is he the latest victim of the Hallmark curse, he is proof it exists.

People, especially friends in the Crane Pool Forum, scoffed when I exposed this. But the track record speaks for itself. There is no denying it at this point.

Here's the post from July.

In case you missed that one, it’s become an established fact that whomever Hallmark selects to be this year’s Christmas ornament is destined to spend the holidays and the rest of the off-season recovering from a catastrophic injury — or worse.

Here’s the quick listing as a refresher.

2009: Our Johan, season-ending surgery

2008: Nomar Garciaparra, played just 55 games and drove in 28 runs

2007: David Ortiz, robbed of his power — 55 homers to 35 — due to mysterious ailment or lack of “supplements.”

2006: Alex Rodriguez, reduced to batting eighth in post-season, photographed with strange woman in Toronto, dated Madonna, dumped by wife, outed for steroid use back in 2003, hip ailment, deemed never to be a true Yankee.

2005: Albert Pujols, missed three weeks the next season, allowing Ryan Howard to steal his MVP Award.

2004: Barry Bonds, life pretty much went to hell.

2004: Willie Mays, other than the shame of being depicted as San Francisco Giant instead of a New York Giant or Met, Willie is one of the rare exceptions to the curse.

2003: Jason Giambi, linked to BALCO scandal, Yankee taint.

2003: Ted Williams, died, head lopped off, frozen.

2002: Derek F. Jeter, became smug, homely, over-rated weasel with no range. Team hasn’t won a series since this ornament was cast.

2002: George Brett, like Mays, seemed to be the rare exception.

2001: Sammy Sosa, had one more decent season before the wheels came off, another player allegedly outed by leaked test results.

2001: Mickey Mantle, was dead by six years when ornament came out. Remained dead.

2000: Mark McGwire, was hurt for much of the season, hit just .187 the following year. ùù 2000 and 1999: Ken Griffey Jr., was traded two months after Christmas ornament came out, with Hallmark issuing a second one the following year.

1998: Cal Ripken Jr., went from playing 161 games in 1998 to just 86 in 1999. Here’s where the curse kicked in, when Hallmark started going after active players.

1997: Hank Aaron, a safe and glorious choice.

1996: Nolan Ryan, the first ornament, sadly depicting Ryan playing for some Texas team instead of his glory days, winning his only World Championship with the 1969 Mets.

You just can’t make this stuff up.

About the only thing we can do now is start e-mailing Hallmark requesting — no, demanding — that they produce ornaments of Phillies and Yankees in 2010. All of them.

And David Wright? He doesn’t exist, as far as you know, Hallmark.

Reason for Mets 2009 struggles revealed: It's Hallmark's fault. Santana is cursed.

All has been revealed. I now know why the Mets season has gone into the dumpster.

Yes, the injuries. But I’m talking about what caused the injuries.

It’s the Hallmark curse.

I popped into a card store Saturday for the unveiling of the 2009 ornaments, and there, much to my horror, was Johan Santana hanging with the other over-priced Hallmark collectibles.

I’m all for decorating my baseball room Christmas tree in colorful Mets designs. And I even bought a Santana ornament made by Forever last year.

But I didn’t want Hallmark even knowing that the Mets existed. Because every player picked by the company for its “Day at the Ballpark” series soon watches his career and life spiral down.

1996: Nolan Ryan

The series started out with Ryan, a safe, reasonable choice. But there was an obvious faux pas. The ornament depicted The Express as a Ranger, where he is best remembered for giving Robin Ventura noogies, instead of with the Mets, where he won his only championship. And did you see the photo of Ryan with Tom Seaver in the latest Sports Illustrated? He looked like Don Zimmer! Retirement has not been kind.

1997: Hank Aaron

Also safe. Who wouldn’t want Hammering Hank ushering in the holidays? I hang this one front and center on my tree. Sadly, Hank had to watch his glorious career home run record broken under a cloud by Barry Bonds.

1998: Cal Ripken Jr.

The Iron Man, of course, set the consecutive games record several years before this ornament was released. The next season? Ripken went from playing in 161 games in 1998to just 86 in 1999.

1999: Ken Griffey Jr.

It was hard not to love Junior in his Mariners days. Sadly, two months after Christmas, Junior browbeat the M’s into shipping him to the Cincinnati Reds.

2000: Ken Griffey Jr.

After the whole trade debacle, Hallmark asked for a mulligan and issued another Griffey ornament. It was actually the same pose, but with a new paint job. A bad one, in fact. It showed a solid red jersey with only a sleeve patch to indicate it was in fact a Reds uniform. And, of course, Junior has never been the same.

2000: Mark McGwire

This was he first two-ornament year. Hey, why mess with one player’s career when you can trash two? McGwire was hurt for much of 2000, but still hit .305 with 32 jacks and was rewarded with an ornament. The next season a broken-down Mac gimped with a .187 stick and 29 homers and four years later showed up before Congress all weepy and looking like a deflated balloon from the Macy’s parade.

2001: Mickey Mantle

After the double jinx of 2000, Hallmark played it safe by picking a player whose career couldn’t possibly be hurt. Heck, they picked a player who’s life couldn’t be ravaged by the curse – one who was dead for six years. Not that it appears on my tree. I don’t put Yankees on my Christmas tree.

2001: Sammy Sosa

Sammy hit 64 homers in 2001, and then showed up on Christmas trees. He had one more decent season before going from King of the Windy City to corking bats, ticking off teammates and getting run out of town. Next thing you know, Sammy, who seemed to speak English well enough in his assorted television ads, needed a translator to say practically nothing when hauled before Congress. After a season where he seemingly was not quite the Sammy of old, he found himself out of a job, and finally, his positive test from 2003 leaked.

2002: George Brett

Brett, a clean-cut and respected guy, was already in the Hall of Fame when Hallmark decided to test the curse and make him an ornament. Truth be told, a guy like Brett was needed to off-set the horrible karma from the other guy selected for that year.

2002: Derek F. Jeter

Talk about cursed. Derek F. Jeter went from being an over-rated, smug Yankee punk with no range to an even bigger over-rated, smug Yankee punk with even less range. And the Yankees have not won World Series since Hallmark cast him in plastic.

2003: Ted Williams

After the whole Jeter fiasco, Hallmark must have decided that it needed to salvage the whole line of ornaments. And why not the Splendid Splinter? He was one of the best players of all time, though a little crusty in his later years. And he had died the year before, so there was nothing embarrassing that could happen. Except, of course, when it was revealed that his son talked Dad into lopping off his head and freezing his body after death, and having the rest of the family going to court to reclaim the body.

2003: Jason Giambi

Oh, if that wasn’t enough, the second guy selected that year was soon to be linked to an alleged steroid scandal. Did Hallmark learn from Jeter? Apparently not. Look, when you dance with the Yankees, bad things are going to happen.

2004: Willie Mays

Ahhh. Here we go. The Say Hey Kid. No ‘roids, no goofy family members. It’s all good. Except, of course, that the former Met is for some reason depicted as playing for some other team.

2004: Barry Bonds

Well, Barry’s life pretty much went to hell after Hallmark dropped this baby. He barely played the season after the ornament was released, and we all know what’s happened since. Hmmm. With Bonds, Sosa, Giambi and McGwire, you could have a little theme tree working.

2005: Albert Pujols

Hallmark clearly tried to learn from its past mistakes and picked a picked a squeaky clean player from a great baseball city. The next season, Pujols broke down and missed three weeks of the season, losing just enough of the season to allow Ryan Howard to pad his stats just enough for misguided sportswriters give Howard the MVP award.

2006: Alex Rodriguez

OK, let’s see. Since getting his Hallmark ornament, ARod:
-- Slipped into a prolonged batting slump that became so bad that Manager Joe Torre batted him eighth in some post-season games.
-- Used his contract escape clause to get out of his record-setting contract, inviting mountains of criticism, even after taking the Steinbrenners to the cleaners for an even bigger contract.

-- Was caught by the New York Post trailed him leaving assorted establishments in Toronto with a young lady who didn’t appear to be Mrs. A-Rod. Then, he was found leaving Madonna’s apartment, also without Mrs. ARod.

-- Discovered that Mrs. ARod didn’t want to be Mrs. ARod anymore.

-- Was alleged to have tested positive for steroids back in 2003 trying to earn that monster contract, tarnishing whatever positive reputation his still had.

-- came down with a mysterious hip ailment that caused him to miss a chunk of this season.

2007: David Ortiz

Hallmark robbed Ortiz of his power. Big Papi went from 54 homers to 35 to 23 to 11 this year, with his average dipping to .221. Keep in mind that Ortiz is a DH, so all he’s supposed to do is hit. Since he’s not doing much of that anymore, well, the Chowderheads aren’t going to want to keep him around.

2008: Nomar Garciaparra

This was a surprise pick, because Nomar was already in decline when he was fitted for the tree. But 2008 was a nightmare. Battered by injuries – including one that mysteriously came when the Dodgers needed a roster spot for Manny Ramirez – Nomar played in just 55 games and drove in just 28 runs. Now he’s in Oakland, with just two home runs and a weak .267 stick.

And now Hallmark has chosen to curse Our Man Johan. We’ve already seen some of the carnage. The Murphy drop. The disastrous game against the Yankees. The Mets inability to score runs when he’s on the hill. And, finally, the disintegration of the entire team around him, one at a time.

Thanks a lot, Hallmark.

Look, would it be too hard to mix in a couple Phillie ornaments?

Sorry Derek Jeter, but birthday cards don't lie

My daughter made me what is probably the coolest birthday card ever.

But for it to make sense, you have to know she likes the I Can Has Cheezburger site, where people post photos of their cats with funny things written on them. Most of the cartoons reveal that cats confuse "is" and "are" and have poor spelling habits.

Here's some examples:



I knew she was working feverishly on my card using her mad computer skills. And I laughed out loud when I saw what she came up with.

Obviously, the girl -- and our cat Tug -- know their baseball.

If it works for Obama, it works for the Mets Guy

This is all Greg’s fault.

No doubt inspired by this week’s inauguration, he introduced me to a cool Obamicon.me Facebook application — found here -- to show a nice photo of his pet cats.

His activity and all that followed kicks off this week’s Deezo Friday Five.

1) No doubt you saw Barack Obama’s iconic "Hope" campaign posters. The program allows you to use any photo and turn it into a mock Obama poster. You can even pick the word on the bottom, since "Hope" is now so ...cliché!

Being a presidential junkie, I quickly created one using my own photo, then created a special Mets Guy version.

My only regret is that I couldn't adjust the colors to use blue and orange.

Then I started exploring the possibilities — for both good and bad. Cousin Tim, a known bad ass, got one from our day at Shea.

Speaking of Shea, Greg offered a version that certainly would have garnered some votes.

Tom would win in a landslide, just as he did when he was up for the Hall of Fame.

My cat, Tug, would get more votes than Duncan Hunter. So would Gene.



Then, once you start speaking the truth, you can’t stop.

Sorry, Derek F. Jeter. But deep down you know it’s true.

So I figure now that I have a cool poster, I can start campaigning for president, or at least a spot on a local school board.

2) I’ve come full circle on the Citi Field Inaugural Season patch.

Clearly, this is a Mercury Mets moment.

For the unaware, most teams several years ago participated in a "Turn Ahead the Clock" promotion that featured playing a game in futuristic uniforms.

Some were pretty cool. But the Mets created an odd Mercury Mets persona that wasn’t just bad. It was shockingly awful.

And I was reminded that when the Mets screw something up, they don’t just do something that kinda sucks.

No. When the Mets mess up, they seek to define the bottom. Paul Lukas of Uniwatch fame called the patch the worst ever.

Of course it is.

There have been plenty of dull, lifeless patches that are quickly forgotten. But now, any time a bad patch is revealed, it will be compared to the Citi Field patch. And it will fall short.

We must embrace this. It is our destiny.


3) Speaking of destiny, when we kick ass on something, we aim right for the top.

Now I shall refer to the glorious new Home Run Apple.

No team in baseball shall ever attempt to hoist massive celebratory fruit once this new Citi Field Apple rises for the first time.

Published reports say the new, fiberglass Apple is 6 feet tall and 18 feet in diameter — far bigger than the 9-foot-tall original. When a Met hits a homer, the apple will rise 15 feet.

It’s being made in Minnesota and will be installed in the new park sometime in February.

And once it rises, every Phillies fan that used to be content with their bonging Liberty Bell outline will reflect upon their inferiority.


4) The McFarlane people turn out some sweet baseball figures, and I especially love the Cooperstown series, expect that it tends to have A) too many Yankees, and B) players who are not in Cooperstown.

Occasionally, they have C) players in the wrong uniform.

I saw the new figure of 1969 Met Nolan Ryan and wondered aloud why anyone would want him in a Rangers uniform when he could be depicted in his glorious Mets pinstripes.

Seriously, does anybody remember Ryan pitched for the Rangers, Astros or Angels?

Plus, the new figure has him all bloody. I thought this might be from the day when Nolan got a little snotty with future Met Robin Ventura, and Robin had to run to the mound and teach him a thing or two.

But no, Nolan apparently cut his lip because he had trouble fielding his position in a late-season game against Kansas City.

Would have been so much better to show him mowing down Orioles in the 1969 Series.

5) There’s a chance I was a bit of a wise guy in college. That leads us to the strange case of the Three-Pronged Adapter.

You need the background. I worked as a desk aide in the dorm while I was at the University of Missouri, a job that included handing out keys to people who lock themselves out of their rooms, calling maintenance and other tasks devoted to keeping Floyd Cramer Hall a happy place.

Part of this entailed writing in the daily log anything that happened that people in the following shifts needed to know about.

There were about six of us, and one was deemed "head desk aide" which was as important as it sounds.

Except that the person who held this post took it very seriously. And she spent much time developing policies and protocol that needed to be followed.

Then came the new vacuum.

It had a three-pronged plug, and all the outlets in the dorm had outlets with two slots, making it hard to use the vacuum.

This was not an issue for the two guy floors in our four-story building, since guys didn’t think about vacuuming their floors until the over-sized mice fed on Domino’s pizza droppings started to carry out what limited furniture we had.

But the residents of the two women’s floors cared about such things, and someone was dispatched to the hardware store to buy an adapter.

The HDA, as we shall now call the head desk aide, then distributed a long list of rules pertaining to the three-pronged adapter. Let’s just say no one was going to walk out the door with that thing without signing their life away. Closing on a house was easier.

The point was that the three-pronged adapter was too precious to let out of our sight, and we would be held responsible should be go missing. One would think that it would have been easier to just spend another couple bucks and buy about 10 of the tools, but that’s not how we did things.

Writers view an empty page as a challenge. And after reading this missive, I spent time I should have spent studying to create a whole back story for the three-pronged adapter, noting that it was too dangerous to be let out of our sight.

The people manning the desk on the following shifts only added to the story, and by the end of the next day, the three-pronged adapter had a prison jumpsuit, a Jason mask and a bloody knife extended from little paper arms.

The HDA, predictably, hit the roof. So did her boyfriend, who was a fellow desk aide, and, as far as we could tell, was the only one of us who actually read the policy manuals and was her chief defender.

The HDA’s calls for more order and respect for authority went unheeded, and the legend of the three-pronged adapter grew.

When I graduated in December, the remaining desk aides smuggled the three-pronged adapted out of the office without filling out the forms and presented it to me as a farewell gift.

And I’ve kept it these 22 years as a playful reminder of my Missouri years.

This year, we were setting up some Christmas decorations and, amazingly, needed a three-pronged adapter and pressed him into service.

I filled out none of the forms. Always fight The Man!

Searching for Seaver and Starbucks

I hope this new year finds you happy and healthy. We celebrated by heading to downtown Grand Rapids to see the Plain White T’s play outside in sub-20-degree weather and had a blast.

We came back in time for cheese fondue, a warm fire and watching the balls — plural, one in Grand Rapids and the other in Times Square — drop on television.

The waning days 2008 also required some searching, as you’ll see in the first Deezo Friday Five of 2009.

1) I was searching for a shirt to help my sister celebrate her Tom Seaver birthday and came across this slice of glory.

I’ve never seen a Tom Seaver shirt like this, and promptly declared it to be the Greatest Shirt Ever.

The photo was from an eBay listing, and the shirt is a medium, which wouldn’t even fit my son anymore. So I searched and searched online to find a store or site selling it.

None. The only place it would show up was that same eBay posting.

Greg suggested I contact the vendor to see if he has more, or if he could tell me where he got the shirt. Again, a strike out, as the vendor said he had only the medium and didn’t know where got that one.

His listing said the shirt was produced by Majestic, and I scanned the company’s web store, but didn’t see the shirt. Then I fired off an e-mail to the customer service department complete with an attachment showing the design. No word back yet.

So, if anybody has seen this design and knows where I can find one of these beauties, please let me know.

While searching, I came across this orange Seaver shirt that also is really cool, though doesn’t have the retro look of the other design.



2) Speaking of things that are hard to find. Mrs. Mets Guy is a knitter and fell in love with Starbucks’ Christmas decorations, which included shiny red balls with green balls of yarn used to make wreaths.

We’re in Starbucks enough that I know far too much about the baristas and baristos — is that what you call a guy who works there? — and one day I mentioned her appreciation of the wreaths and asked if I could buy one after the holidays.

The manager said he’d be happy to save one for me. And the day after Christmas I was in there and noticed that the wreaths were down, and assumed the manager had one in the back waiting for my all-to-frequent arrival.

Alas, he said he was confronted by a customer as soon as he opened the doors, and she was very insistent. I think he forgot.

But it’s not like there’s only one Starbucks in the area, or even on that street.

So Monday I went to another, noticed the wreath was still there and inquired. The manager said there were a number of people interested, and she made a rule that they would go to the first person who asked for them on New Year’s Day. And they opened at 7 a.m.

So I set the alarm for 6:15 a.m. despite watching the ball drop and staying up late the night before, and was in the Starbucks parking lot by 6:45 sharp.

I jumped out of the car as soon as the manager turned the key. And she said she doesn’t know what happened, but the wreaths were gone. But I was welcome to a free coffee as a token of apology and some of the other decorations.

I walked out disappointed, but with a tall caramel frappuccino and some other ball and yarn decorations.

Then I realized that there were still more Starbucks, and went across town to another, and saw that not only was a wreath in the window, but there were three in the store!

“About the wreaths,” I asked.

“Stop,” the barista said, cutting me off. “They’re already claimed.”

I predict that next year, Starbucks will come up with a scrapbooking motif to continue tapping into the lucrative craft and latte market.



3) Johan Santana can kick Derek F. Jeter’s butt in baseball bocce.

I know this because I got an awesome Wii baseball game for Christmas — MLB Superstars — that has real players and mascots doing everything but play baseball.

Santana, David Wright and Jose Reyes are among the guys playing bocce on a baseball diamond, dodging gophers and lawnmowers.

They also shoot snacks into the stands using those hot dog-shaped guns mascots use. Mr. Met, in fact, is seen roaming through multiple games, sometimes causing trouble, like when he kicks the ball around in baseball golf.

Some of the gaming sites are wailing on the game. They don’t get it.

There are plenty of games where you can play baseball. But most of us obsessive types notice that the sport bleeds into all the other things we do.

If I’m going to play golf — and you can create your own person in the game — of course I’d rather play it with David, Jose and Johan, and I’d rather play it by hitting the ball with a bat and it would be great fun for all of us to gang up on Derek F. Jeter.



4) My in-laws have a suicidal mailbox.

Or, I should say they had a suicidal mailbox.

We visited last weekend, surviving a challenging, five-hour trek through some of the densest fog ever. We pulled up and debated whether we passed the house, backed up a little and felt a big THUD.

Turns out the mailbox somehow hurled itself into the path of my Vue. It’s not like I could have possibly backed up the driveway and into it. Can’t be my fault.

But we went to Lowe’s the next day and happily picked out a new one -- the Mail Master -- and installed it.

I say happily because this could have been worse in two ways.

First, the wooden pole that goes into the ground and supports the box could have broken, which means we’d have to somehow dig out the old one and get cement to set in the rain-soaked ground. No telling if that would have worked, or how long it would have taken.

Then, it could have been the neighbor’s box. If you think it’s hard to explain to a relative how you ran over their mailbox, image doing it to a stranger without them calling the police.



5) Tuned to the MLB Network debut Thursday night.

Have to say there was much fear when the first thing they do is show an old Yankee game, then roll out Phillie big mouth/shortstop Jimmy Rollins for the “Hot Stove” show.

But, despite Rollins, the show was pretty neat. And next week they’re showing the Ken Burns Baseball epic.

That first aired in 1994, the year of the strike. I was covering the All-Star Game FanFest and was invited to a media breakfast to talk about the documentary.

We were seated at round tables, most with a retired player. I was at a table with former Brooklyn Dodger Joe Black and several people who had no business getting a press pass and, based on their indifference, had never heard of Joe Black.

I knew he was the 1952 Rookie of the Year, and had spent eight years in the Negro Leagues before getting a crack at the majors. I think I impressed him when I correctly pronounced the name of his team, the Elite Giants, which sounds like e-LIGHT Giants.

“I think you’re the first white guy to pronounce that the right way,” he said with a smile. He then patiently allowed me to pick his brain, and I listened to all kinds of neat stories about the Jackie Robinson and playing in Brooklyn.

A person who I believed to be a former player walked around the room with a beaming smile, shaking every hand and introducing himself. I had never heard of Buck O’Neil until then.

Of course, by the time Burns’ masterpiece was finished, O’Neil had become baseball’s newest ambassador and a national treasure.