Daily Archives: January 13, 2010

Gut punch

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So Carlos Beltran had surgery and will likely miss the start of the season. The team press release says he can return to “baseball activities” in 12 weeks, so throwing in some rehab on top of that, plus a couple of weeks of general nonsense time, I’d guess, conservatively, we won’t see Beltran back until sometime in May or early June.

That’s a bit of a gut punch given the way things went for the Mets last year. And it certainly doesn’t seem like a good omen for 2010. And it’s bad for fans of awesome baseball players in general.

As for the Mets, though, what now?

The first thing — and the most important thing — for Omar Minaya and everyone else, is not to panic. The Mets’ front office has done an impressive job so far this offseason not doing any major damage to the team’s farm system, and it would be a huge shame if it reacted to news that hurts the 2010 season by hurting the several that follow. The Mets have been known to cater to perception, and this one is going to sting, but there’s still plenty of time to figure out what to do before Spring Training.

Next step? Take Angel Pagan off the table in any potential deals, if that was actually being discussed. Pagan’s no Beltran, but he played like a capable starting Major League center fielder last season and, provided health, is likely as good an option to start the season in center field as anyone readily available.

A nice additional move might be signing Endy Chavez. Endy’s recovering from knee surgery of his own after a devastating injury last season and likely won’t be ready until May either, but the Mets are going to need someone to give Beltran’s knees a rest and defensive help in the outfield and Endy, when he’s right, provides that in droves. Since he’s reportedly willing to sign for only a Minor League deal, he’s certainly worth the flyer.

That doesn’t help the team out of the gate, though, and there’s not a ton on the free-agent market that does. Reed Johnson is probably the best bet to sign to be a fourth outfielder.

The truth is, the way I initially heard this news, several hours ago, it sounded way worse. Losing Beltran for a month or two is terrible, but if all the things that need to go right for the Mets to win in 2010 go right, they can weather that storm.  And there are a lot of little variables there, mind you, and Beltran will be another when he returns.

Performance-enhancing nihilism

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I wrote everything I wanted to write about performance-enhancing drugs in July. Not many people read it then and I don’t imagine many will read it now.

But I wanted to get down a few thoughts about Mark McGwire and the summer of 1998 while the topic is fresh in everybody’s mind, and since that window is closing fast, here’s that:

I was 17 that summer and going into my senior year of high school. I had my own car for the first time. I taught music lessons to little kids for gas money, went to as many Mets games as I could, and spent a whole lot of nights sitting around with my buddies talking about Mark McGwire and watching the highlights of his home runs on SportsCenter.

For whatever reason, it seemed like everyone knew he was going to break the record from Opening Day. So there was an epic quality to every blast, a sense of grandeur. Some of that probably had to do with his sheer massiveness, of course, and all the flashbulbs popping and all that.

And it seemed like everyone knew he was on steroids, too. Just throwing that out there. At least me and my friends did, and I don’t know why some bunch of Long Island teenage goons would be privy to any inside information. We joked about it. Giant baseball players took steroids. We didn’t think it was a good thing or a bad thing, I guess, just a thing. But it certainly didn’t make all those home runs any less awesome.

And it doesn’t now, either. Not to me, at least.

Maybe no one else realized or something. Or maybe everyone did, and maybe some of the outpouring of sportswriter sanctimony these last few days has to do with a lingering sense of professional embarrassment over not have done more to stop it or expose it at the time.

I don’t know. And I don’t really care. If I’m not going to take any moral high ground against the baseball players who used the drugs, then I shouldn’t take it against anybody.

The truth is, that era — the so-called steroid era — was the time I came to understand and appreciate baseball in the thorough and passionate way I still do today, and that’s all wrapped up in home runs and McGwire and those conversations from the summer of 1998.

And I guess I just don’t like being told that my heroes are somehow less heroic than someone else’s heroes who came before. History’s box scores are littered with liars, cheaters, racists, addicts and drunks. The juicers of the last couple of decades merely add more bulk to the moral gray area the rest of us already occupied.

I never hoped McGwire was any sort of bastion of integrity. Heck, I can’t remember any of those conversations that summer having anything to do with his character. I guess I never even really wanted to know the terrifying truth, to paraphrase the Simpsons. I just wanted to see Mark McGwire smash some dingers.

And that he did. Many, many times that summer. Now some people are going to tell me they somehow don’t count, or his legacy is finally officially soiled, or his Hall of Fame chances are shot, and I’m stunned only by how little I care.

I don’t care. I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care. I vehemently don’t care. I thought maybe I did, but screw it. I have my memory, and I can still remember so many of those 70 home runs. And they were triumphant and awesome and spectacular and heroic. And also, some might say, impure. Whatever. I don’t care.

Culture Jammin’: Rock and roll

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Occasionally I check Craiglist for bands in my area looking for a bassist. I’m rusty on the instrument and my amp is buried somewhere deep within my parents’ garage, but I miss playing shows and figure if I found the right group of area would-be rock stars it might be fun to join on as a hired gun of sorts.

So I saw an ad recently for a band seeking a bassist in my age range with his own equipment. I have that, so I sent an email. The next day, I got a response.

The guy asked me for a picture, so he could run it by his band’s manager and producer and see if I fit with the group’s image before they extended me an audition.

No, sir, you can not have my picture. First of all, this is Craigslist, so I recognize there’s a halfway decent chance you aim to cut and paste my head on some ugly naked guy’s body and sell it elsewhere on the Internet as porn, or something to that effect. I don’t know the mechanics of it, but I’m certain it’s sketchy.

Second, you just exposed yourself as about the lamest would-be rock star imaginable. Your band’s image? Bite me.

I happen to be achingly beautiful in a totally pliable way and I’m certain I could be made to fit in with whatever it is you’re trying to package, but now you don’t get to see my pretty face or hear my pretty bass playing because you and I don’t see eye-to-eye on what’s most important about being in a band at all.

Also, what band with a manager and producer is looking for a bass player with his own equipment on Craigslist? Shouldn’t a competent manager at least have access to the bulletin board at the local guitar store?

Look: I recognize that, to some extent, rock and roll has always been about the image. But… I don’t know. I hold very things to some romantic ideal, and music is one of them. I always thought the Internet would eventually emerge as this amazing instrument by which musicians would meet and collaborate and paradigms would be entirely shifted, and it just hasn’t happened yet.

And then I go out and try to find some guys to jam with, and I begin to figure out why. Image. What am I, joining Limp Bizkit?

I told the guy it didn’t sound like my scene and left it at that. I should’ve given him a good scolding though. Or better yet, I should have asked him for his picture, so I could see if the band fit with my image.

Anyway, here’s an image of me playing the bass, with a fake mustache. Fake mustaches are a big part of my image. Dig my white leather guitar strap. White leather is also a big part of my image.

I have no interest in starting a band, mind you. Organizing a band is a huge pain and not something I have anything like the time or energy to do.

I led a band in college that met with some minor amount of success for a college band, and so whenever I brag about that, people comment about how college kids playing shows for college kids must have been great for our collective love lives.

Not the case, at all. Until you get to the level of having managers and roadies, the only action you get after shows is the joy of loading hundreds of pounds of equipment into a Nissan Sentra. Plus a lot of that equipment is borrowed, so you’ve got to go about returning it to the people who lent it to you. Plus a lot more of it is “borrowed,” so you’ve got to go about returning it to your college’s music room before anyone notices it went missing.

And while all that happens, all the people who were in the bar you were rocking leave with other people from that bar, none of whom are busy playing Tetris with amps and the trunk of a Nissan Sentra. A huge percentage of them leave with my friend Dan, who, to this day, has never met better matchmakers than the members of the Moo Shoo Porkestra.

Items of note

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Got to give credit where it’s due. I love to point out that too many sportswriters go after crimes of the past and not enough try to expose what’s happening now, but John Harper calls for an HGH test today.

Bengie Molina apparently flinched a little bit in the longest, slowest game of chicken. But maybe Omar Minaya flinched too. I guess we’ll know soon.

Bassett passes along some excellent Jets-related imagery. The Revis one might become my new desktop background if it weren’t for Shaq with a panda.

Craig Calcaterra thinks Dan Shaughnessy might have gone all reductio ad Hitlerum on the Mark McGwire thing.