Grandma and Santana
Normally I would have a lot to say after the Minnesota Twins traded Johan Santana to the New York Mets. How many times in any one person's life does the best player in a sport get traded to your favorite team?
Even better, how many times does the best pitcher in Major League Baseball get traded to your favorite team for three guys who barely, if ever, played in the majors, and another guy who is basically a track star in a baseball uniform? It doesn't happen. If it does, it's once in a lifetime.
The three pitchers the Mets traded have potential — much like Alex Escobar, Alex Ochoa, Bill Pulsipher, Paul Wilson, Damon Buford and countless other busts in Mets history had potential — but potential doesn't win games or championships. Performance does. Santana is the ultimate in performance.
The one position player the Mets traded, the track star in question, is Carlos Gomez. To give you an idea of how I see Carlos Gomez, picture this: My older brother used to play slo-pitch softball in a league in Bristol. He had a teammate who was a stereotypical Irish guy. He would drink like a fish after the games (before I think, too), he had red hair, a ton of freckles and to top it all off, his name was Mickey. He was a muscular guy, all jacked up, and every time he got up to the plate, he would take a monster hack.
Now, picture a 5-year-old playing his first T-Ball game, taking a swing and only connecting with the tee. Mickey and the 5-year-old would get the same results, lucky if the ball reached the pitcher's mound.
Anyway, Gomez, Mickey and the T-Baller basically have the same swing. They swing for the fences, chop the ball down the third-base line and beat the throw to first for an infield hit. From seeing that for a half seaso, I could care less that Gomez got traded. It's just my gut instinct. I don't think he's going to be that great. He may be good, but not great. So, to recap, the Mets traded four guys who have accomplished nothing in the major leagues for the best pitcher in baseball. Sounds good to me.
The only problem(s) now is that the contract extension may not get worked out, Santana could reject the trade, the pitcher I never heard of could fail a physical and any number of Mets-type issues that seem to always pop up will eventually pop up. Kevin Mulvey could have a partially torn labrum, Santana could say he wants to go to the Sox or Yanks instead and Omar Minaya could hold out and try and make it a three-way deal to re-acquire Victor Zambrano.
I'm not getting my hopes up until I see Johan Santana in a Mets uniform on a pitcher's mound in Port St. Lucie in March. Not a minute before.
However, the main reason I can't get excited right now is more of a family matter.
Every family has its members that have quirks, funny habits or traditions. One of my favorites was that every time I spoke with my grandparents on the phone, one would answer and the other one would hurry and grab the other phone and turn it into a conference call. They used to summer in Vermont and spend winters in Daytona Beach — not a bad gig if you ask me — but as they got older and health issues popped up, they stayed in Daytona year round.
The funny part of the conversations was trying to talk to both my grandmother and grandfather at the same time. We would chat about what was going on, what was new, the weather or anything else that came up. Gramps knows I'm a huge sports guy, so inevitably the conversation would turn to that. My grandfather was a Michael Jordan fan back in the Bulls heyday but he would always talk about the Miami Heat or the Orlando Magic, mainly because that's what was in the local papers every day. After all, NBA games don't end by 8 p.m. (his bed time) so what was in the papers was what he knew about.
My grandmother, not into a sport not called NASCAR, would then sit quietly on the line while me and my grandfather would talk about the Florida sports scene or the Celtics or the Mets or whatever was going on up north. My favorite part was when she had enough of listening to me and Gramps talk on and on about details of a game that happened a week ago and she would finally chime in, loudly, and say, "Well alright then!" That was her way of saying, "I don't know what the hell you're talking about but you guys sound like nerds and I'm bored, so wrap it up."
I always waited for, and loved, that part of the conversation. It was just her. Loving, caring, patient — to a point — and completely real. She was the best.
She died on Monday. It was her time to wrap it up. In a world full of complainers, whiners, prima donnas and spoiled brats — especially a sports world full of them — she didn't complain. If you looked at the NFL injury report in Week 16 and went through what was wrong with each player, well, she probably had entire teams beat just on her own. She lived her life — all 86 years of it — for her family.
While most Mets fans can rejoice today about the news of Johan Santana, I just can't. At least not yet. But maybe that's a good thing. The high points of Mets seasons usually come around January anyway. I'll mourn for now. Hopefully I can rejoice in October.
Even better, how many times does the best pitcher in Major League Baseball get traded to your favorite team for three guys who barely, if ever, played in the majors, and another guy who is basically a track star in a baseball uniform? It doesn't happen. If it does, it's once in a lifetime.
The three pitchers the Mets traded have potential — much like Alex Escobar, Alex Ochoa, Bill Pulsipher, Paul Wilson, Damon Buford and countless other busts in Mets history had potential — but potential doesn't win games or championships. Performance does. Santana is the ultimate in performance.
The one position player the Mets traded, the track star in question, is Carlos Gomez. To give you an idea of how I see Carlos Gomez, picture this: My older brother used to play slo-pitch softball in a league in Bristol. He had a teammate who was a stereotypical Irish guy. He would drink like a fish after the games (before I think, too), he had red hair, a ton of freckles and to top it all off, his name was Mickey. He was a muscular guy, all jacked up, and every time he got up to the plate, he would take a monster hack.
Now, picture a 5-year-old playing his first T-Ball game, taking a swing and only connecting with the tee. Mickey and the 5-year-old would get the same results, lucky if the ball reached the pitcher's mound.
Anyway, Gomez, Mickey and the T-Baller basically have the same swing. They swing for the fences, chop the ball down the third-base line and beat the throw to first for an infield hit. From seeing that for a half seaso, I could care less that Gomez got traded. It's just my gut instinct. I don't think he's going to be that great. He may be good, but not great. So, to recap, the Mets traded four guys who have accomplished nothing in the major leagues for the best pitcher in baseball. Sounds good to me.
The only problem(s) now is that the contract extension may not get worked out, Santana could reject the trade, the pitcher I never heard of could fail a physical and any number of Mets-type issues that seem to always pop up will eventually pop up. Kevin Mulvey could have a partially torn labrum, Santana could say he wants to go to the Sox or Yanks instead and Omar Minaya could hold out and try and make it a three-way deal to re-acquire Victor Zambrano.
I'm not getting my hopes up until I see Johan Santana in a Mets uniform on a pitcher's mound in Port St. Lucie in March. Not a minute before.
However, the main reason I can't get excited right now is more of a family matter.
Every family has its members that have quirks, funny habits or traditions. One of my favorites was that every time I spoke with my grandparents on the phone, one would answer and the other one would hurry and grab the other phone and turn it into a conference call. They used to summer in Vermont and spend winters in Daytona Beach — not a bad gig if you ask me — but as they got older and health issues popped up, they stayed in Daytona year round.
The funny part of the conversations was trying to talk to both my grandmother and grandfather at the same time. We would chat about what was going on, what was new, the weather or anything else that came up. Gramps knows I'm a huge sports guy, so inevitably the conversation would turn to that. My grandfather was a Michael Jordan fan back in the Bulls heyday but he would always talk about the Miami Heat or the Orlando Magic, mainly because that's what was in the local papers every day. After all, NBA games don't end by 8 p.m. (his bed time) so what was in the papers was what he knew about.
My grandmother, not into a sport not called NASCAR, would then sit quietly on the line while me and my grandfather would talk about the Florida sports scene or the Celtics or the Mets or whatever was going on up north. My favorite part was when she had enough of listening to me and Gramps talk on and on about details of a game that happened a week ago and she would finally chime in, loudly, and say, "Well alright then!" That was her way of saying, "I don't know what the hell you're talking about but you guys sound like nerds and I'm bored, so wrap it up."
I always waited for, and loved, that part of the conversation. It was just her. Loving, caring, patient — to a point — and completely real. She was the best.
She died on Monday. It was her time to wrap it up. In a world full of complainers, whiners, prima donnas and spoiled brats — especially a sports world full of them — she didn't complain. If you looked at the NFL injury report in Week 16 and went through what was wrong with each player, well, she probably had entire teams beat just on her own. She lived her life — all 86 years of it — for her family.
While most Mets fans can rejoice today about the news of Johan Santana, I just can't. At least not yet. But maybe that's a good thing. The high points of Mets seasons usually come around January anyway. I'll mourn for now. Hopefully I can rejoice in October.
posted by Mike W at
2:04 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home