Tag Archives: new york mets

Au revoir, childhood love of Lenny Dykstra

EDITOR’S NOTE: As I’ve been exhuming this blog over the past couple of days, I’ve found that I had a couple handfuls of draft posts saved up.  Some of them never went live for totally understandable reasons — they needed a Photoshop job that I never got to, a joke needed tweaking, etc. — and this was one of them.  Had the video, but never wrote what I wanted to.  So, here it is, hopefully as awkward and fun as I’d initially hoped. – DD

Seems like a pretty chill video of Roger McDowell and Lenny Dykstra having a woefully uncomfortable interview with Martha Quinn on MTV before the Mets went to the World Series in 1986.

Seems that way. Except for when Martha Quinn asks them what kind of band they’d like to be in, Lenny Dykstra says, “If I was in a band, I’d like to be in a band like Huey Lewis.”

Which is a sick bummer when you grew up worshipping Lenny Dykstra.  When you taught yourself how to hit lefty even though you were right-handed just because that’s how Nails hit. When you made your mom get “DYKSTRA 4” iron-ons for the back of your replica Mets “jersey” (which, back in the late ’80s, was basically a nylon T-shirt).

When you started to develop a soft spot for Duran Duran just because they were the dudes who sang “Wild Boys,” which was the song that played during the landmark montage sequence of Nails/Wally Backman hustle plays that totally tied together the 1986 Mets: A Year to Remember commemorative video — a soft spot that would later grow even softer when an 11- or 12-year-old you liked “Ordinary World” a little too much and started to wonder if that made you gay.

OK, let’s get back on track. Here’s that “Wild Boys” montage:

Seems like a hard-rocking WildBro wouldn’t want to be caught dead being “hip to be square.” But then, I guess I’m not the first person Lenny Dykstra has totally bummed out recently.

Still, though, it’s pretty sad. Feel like I need something to pick me up and boost my spirits.  Um … don’t mind me.  Just gonna go watch some football and make love to a woman.  BRB.


Athlete Christmas Lists: Daniel Murphy

Hey Santa, man … I don’t know if you can do this for me, but I don’t really know who else to ask.  Ever since I was a kid, I’ve had this dream burning a hole in my head — I see it every night when I go to sleep, and it stays with me all day, every day.  It’s all I can think about.  And I’m thinking maybe you’re the guy to help me out with it:

I want to be a herald of Galactus, Devourer of Worlds.

I know what you’re thinking: “Hey, man, you gotta talk to Galactus about that.” But hear me out, Santa. I know you’re the kind of guy that can make magic happen, and they always have such kickass powers and weapons and costumes!

And The Power Cosmic. Holy shit, The Power Cosmic. Don’t even get me started on The Power Cosmic.

Do you even realize what my BABIP would be if, every time I stepped to the plate, my body coursed with the raw furious matter-transmuting-and-obliterating energy of The Power Cosmic, just begging to be directed through my cosmic bat toward any rawhide-encased projectile? Significantly higher than .286, I’d wager.

Also, um, fucking FLYING? Through SPACE?!? Uh, yeah, dude. Sign me the hell up.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’d have to sacrifice the life force of my world and the existence of everyone I love to make this happen. I get it. But most people are bastards anyway. And if you’re asking me whether I’d rather be soaring through the Milky Way with a bat that directs The Power Cosmic or in a platoon with Carlos Delgado, keeping the seat warm for a kid named Ike? I think we both know the answer to that question.

Bet Firelord is a pretty decent guy, once you get to know him.  Maybe I could make my name like his name, kinda.  Like “Heatking.”  Or “Flameduke.”  Yeah, “Flameduke The Hitter.” So sick.

So, listen, I know that’s kind of a tall order, but I’d really appreciate it if you could set this up.  And I guess, failing that, Hangover on DVD.  Thanks, friend.

Fly safe,
Flameduke The Hitter ;)

A sincere plea to Darryl Strawberry

Dear Darryl:

Stop talkingForever.  Please?

Every word you say only serves to further ruin your already ravaged reputation.  Every time you open your mouth, you throw more dirt on the mnemomic casket containing the all-too-fleeting glimpses of the otherworldliness you displayed on the field.  You make it nigh on impossible to think of you as anything other than a complete cipher, a clueless cock and an utterly non-comprehending douchebag.  It’s painful, and I’d like you to stop it.

I was 4 years old when you, Doc, Mex, Nails, Ray, Kid and all the rest bestrode New York like gods.  I’m not 100 percent sure about this, but I think that the experience of watching you crash and burn, scorch the ground where the ashes fell and salt the earth underneath, is why my entire generation of Mets fans stays forever shook, never truly able to enjoy successes like 2000 and ’06.  You turned us into bitches, Darryl.

Because of you (and, perhaps even more tragically, because of Doc), we’ve seen visions of greatness dissipate before.  We’ve seen how the desire to fill the gap can lead to the Bobby Bonillas, Juan Samuels and Gregg Jefferies of the world; how those inevitable failures can lead to lengthy droughts without true cap-letter All-Star talent; how continually striking out in search of the Next Big Thing and watching the team you love play second fiddle to a loathsome juggernaut across the Triborough Bridge can spark an inferiority complex that we just can’t seem to shed.

Because of you, “Ya Gotta Believe” became “I’ll Believe It When I See It.”  And as we enter Year 23 since the tipping point of the dynasty that wasn’t, we ain’t seen nothing yet.

My head understands that it’s way too simple to pin this all on you, Darryl; management obviously bears the brunt of the blame, and I’m pretty sure the rest is Jeff Torborg’s fault.  But when it comes to the malformed emotional connection I have to the Mets, the inability to appreciate the good times and the gut-wrenching need to focus on the bad … well, I learned it by watching you, dude.

We’re always waiting for the other shoe to drop, because the last time we weren’t, it wrecked us something awful.  And yet, even though I know you’re a dyed-in-the-wool bad guy, it’s still surprisingly hurtful when you inevitably pop up, say/do/snort/drink/hurt something/someone you shouldn’t, then flash that $58,000 smile (deflation, you know) and say you’ll try to be good.  But you won’t.  You’re not a good dude, Darryl.  You were just drawn that way.

Now, please step away from the mic.  I’d like to read the Wiley SI piece in peace and pretend all this never happened.

Take care of yourself,

this is the city line.

NOTE: From a more removed perspective, MLB FanHouse’s John Walters writes: “… at least [Strawberry] takes stock in his addictive and competitive personality to make an honest assessment of himself. For those who have that kind of personality, the lure of the drug is much more powerful than the individual taking them.”  Which is a fair point.

A handful of things I’ve been pondering during a busy workday

    I’d always wondered what happened to Ron Lim, the sick-ass penciller behind some of my favorite comics of the ’90s.  Well, he’s here.  One less thing to think about, y’know? Here’s some more:

    • The New York Knicks are 16-24 heading into today’s game against the Big Nonconformist and his Arizona Fiery Hot Clusters of Gaseousplosion.  If Dominant Team Pringles can go 3-2 over its next five games, then this (click STOP on your browser once the page opens up) will have come partially true, and I will have accurately predicted the Knicks’ record through the first three-plus months of the season.  I will be insufferable.  And then, because my fivesight (one better than foresight, you see) is spectacular, the pain of a winless February will commence.  And I will be suffering.  In all things, balance.
    • Did anybody else find it a little weird that NBA.com dispatched a photographer to LeBron James’ hotel room to take pictures of him watching the inauguration with his kids?  There’s nothing wrong with the pictures per se (except maybe that they’re boring, but that’s to be expected, since the whole goal is to document a guy watching something on TV), and I understand that LeBron’s culturally important and famous and black, which means media outlets felt the need to pay attention to the way he responded to/consumed Barack Obama taking the oath of office, etc., etc.  It just seems sort of, well, dumb.  I mean, editorially, what was the endgame there?  Did they hope that as soon as John Roberts started spitting his game, LeBron would start freaking out, smiling wide, throwing chalk technology murdering rosin mixture up in the air and emitting unbridled seven-octave hosannas?  Seems unlikely, but hey, I don’t know the guy.  Then again, it’s possible I’m engaging in some inverse rationalization here; the project probably strikes me as dumb simply because of how uneventful and staid the photos are.  I’m still not 100 percent sure why it initially struck me as kind of creepy, though … may need to unpack that a bit more.  (Big hat tip to LeBron 2010.)
    • The adventurously titled New York Mets Online makes the argument that my favorite squadron should re-sign Pedro Martinez.  In a recent podcast, Bill Simmons made a similar point, suggesting the Mets bring Pedro back as a clubhouse guy (Kevin Millar with a Jheri curl on a diet of a little bit of mangu and an egg?) and an enticement/insurance policy in a run for Manny Ramirez.  But since Omar Minaya seems intent on killing my soul by saying the Mets aren’t looking at bats (despite a projected everyday lineup that features Brian Schneider, the rotting carcass of Luis Castillo, uber-unproven Daniel Murphy, and possibly both Ryan Church and Fernando Tatis), the Pedro handcuff wouldn’t seem to add anything.  More importantly, while I’m all for stockpiling arms (especially when, as is the case in Flushing, you’ve only got one reliably good one), it just seems karmically and psychologically unsound to expect Pedro Martinez to be cool with competing for a slot in the back-end of what will ultimately be a middling starting rotation.  Even if he doesn’t have it anymore — and let’s be clear: he doesn’t — Pedro just can’t be Tim Redding, or Claudio Vargas or even Bartolo Colon, a guy with a much more comparable resume who’s been forced into swing roles in each of the last two seasons.  He was a lightning bolt, a benevolent dictator … if he hangs it up now, fans can write off the last 2.5 seasons as an injury-riddled mess and remember him the way he should be remembered.  The longer he pitches, the harder it’ll be to do that.  Let another team participate in fading that memory; it shouldn’t be us.
    • A cool post over at Pounding the Rock lists the 21 “real, honest to goodness guys who matter” in the NBA.  Hard to argue with any of the selections; have a fun few minutes trying to make an argument for an omission, then hit their site to comment and complain.  (The only two so far that I feel I could argue for: Steve Nash and Chauncey Billups.)
    • I don’t like power rankings, but I do like the guys at Talkhoops.net and I have been reading their rankings today, so linking there is only fair.  However, disrespecting Dominant Team Pringles by devoting the comments on their team to Raptors talk … that’s a paddlin’.
    • After getting put on to sites like The Passion of the Weiss, Nah Right and 2dopeboyz by goatman, I’m starting to pay attention to hip-hop again, which has been very rewarding.  One conundrum, though: I’m having a lot of trouble with this Asher Roth kid. My introduction was the video of him performing “I Love College” on Carson Daly (who’s still alive, which is nice), which I did not like AT ALL.  Then I came across his “A Milli” freestyle, and I dug his lyricism and flow.  Which led me to download his mixtape, “The Greenhouse Effect,” and it’s more of the same … some great wordplay and inventive ways of jacking good beats mashed up with some horrendous winking joke tracks.  Hmm.  To help me resolve my internal conflict, I’d like very much if my half-dozens upon half-dozens of readers can weigh in and tell me how to feel about this: Should I like Asher Roth, or should I dislike him?

    Back, hopefully, with something more real tomorrow.