Water, Water Everywhere, But Not a Drop to Drink

Twelve hits.  Two runs.  Somehow the Mets managed to accumulate twelve hits last night, but still figured out how to dodge home plate almost every time.

I had the “pleasure” of taking this one in from section 422, on another windy and cold evening in Flushing, thanks to some free tickets from a court reporting service I sometimes use.  Early on, I thought the Mets were going to keep me warm with some real offense.  After all, they loaded the bases in the bottom of the first with one out.  But alas, yet another whiff by David Wright, and a matching gift from Ike Davis.  I’ve seen this scenario so many times, one would think I’d be used to it by now.  I guess it is actually starting to sink in:  as Wright strode into the batter’s box, I was thinking wild pitch, rather than two-run double.

Needless to say, Wright really heard it from the few fans that made it out to the game last night.  As the jeers rained down on him, I sat and shuddered thinking about what it will be like to watch the Mets ten years from now.  Ten years ago, boos were generally reserved for:

• The big villain on the opposing team;
• The umpires;
• The douchebag who wandered into your section in the fifth inning of the Mets-Braves game wearing his red Yankee jersey (open three or four buttons to reveal the big gold chain) and red Yankee cap (twisted to the side), pointing at the “NY” logo with one hand and making the “No. 1!” sign with the other; and
• Doug Sisk.

Seriously, for the most part, a Met only got booed if he was dogging it nightly or if he did something to call out the fans or the city.  Now, all it takes is a couple of bad ABs.  I pity Ike Davis if he ever goes three games without a hit.

Booing your own team for struggling is just completely classless.  Within your rights as a paying customer?  Sure.  But classless just the same.  If our fan evolution continues on this path, I imagine in ten years we’ll all be daring our sons and daughters to run on the field and get tased, or throwing up on those sons and daughters for fun.

Speaking of classless, and of feminine hygiene products, I’d like to give a shout out to the people sitting in section 423 last night.  This was douchebaggery at some of its very best.  (Thanks to Julie R. for that term.)  I particularly loved the guy wearing the fake tattoo sleeves, who was swearing from the moment he sat down (as the kids in my section stared in wonder).  These fine young people spent the whole night singing inane songs, usually about how David Wright sucks, or is “gay,” or both, or how “Takahashi ate [their] dog.”  They seem to like Ike Davis for now, though: the girl sitting with them whipped out a version of “Ice Ice Ike Ike Baby” that would make Vanilla Ice himself shake his head.

Anyway, it would be great if our kids didn’t learn to boo the home team every single time they fail to get the big hit or strike out the opposition.  Once upon a time, we supported the guys in white even when they lost.  Heck, once upon a time (long before my time, sadly) the guys in white lived in your neighborhood, rode the subway to work just like you, and when they struggled at the plate, you sent letters of encouragement and threw in a prayer for them the next time you were in church (or synagogue, etc.).

Putting aside that little bit of wishful thinking, let’s go back to twelve hits and only two runs.  That’s pretty bad.  It’s worse when the guy on the mound is a rookie no one has heard of, who’s throwing his fastball at about 85 MPH.  Meanwhile, John Maine had his “John Maine Inning” in the third, giving up back to back shots to Adam Kennedy (!) and Ryan Zimmerman.  Pudge acted his age… by putting on a hitting clinic and stealing a base.  Jose Reyes had a tantrum and got ejected, “Perpetual Pedro” sent Jerry Manuel (also ejected) a memo on overuse of relievers, Frank Catalanotto failed again (for the last time), Jason Bay continued to look mostly helpless, and the kosher stand ran out of soft pretzels in the fifth inning.  A disappointing night on many levels.

Oh, well.  At least my tickets were free.