Multiple Levels of Ugly

Yesterday's post on the "Manny Granny" in Wednesday night's Dodger game represents a pinnacle in baseball fan euphoria.

Today's post on the New York Mets represents a nadir in baseball fan euphoria. The lowest of the low. One more nail wielded by my hammer in the Met coffin. This time, I think it's sealed for the ages.

You probably have heard the 2009 New York Mets, the on-the-field edition, are a mess. What an A&P might look like the day after a garbage truck careens through its front door.

"Clean up please. Aisle 1, Aisle 2, Aisle 3, Aisle 4, Aisle 5, Aisle 6."

Granted that injuries have taken their toll on a team which is tended to by a staff of doctors that got their medical degrees on eBay. Yet, this Met group is built from the same architectural plan used on past gutless editions of the team. The equivalent of installing a hockey rink on the deck of the Titanic. Constructed to lose in the worst possible fashion and in a manner that rips out the hearts of their fans on an hourly basis.

The Mets are fading fast this year and already have the look of a team that's already planning its NFL Football pool. The added punch in the head this summer is that 2009 is the inaugural season of that 800 million dollar English muffin called Citi Field. By September 1, the only things that will be swirling around all those outfield nooks and crannies will be barbecue sauce-stained wrappers from the pulled pork sandwiches they sell in that monstrosity of a food court. Suffice it to say, the biggest win in Citi Field this season was when Paul McCartney showed up for a couple of concerts.

To throw more lye into the chocolate milk of Met fans, we now have the latest controversy which is truly a microcosm of the claptrap Met front office and their absolute inability to do anything right. Assistant General Manager Tony Bernazard, who in the photo above reminds me of Lloyd "Room 222" Haynes, allegedly has held some regularly scheduled temper tantrums of late. He challenges a Double AA player to a fighter, and even removes his shirt in preparation for the battle. He argues with Met closer Francisco Rodriguez and he should be the last player you want to piss off. And, apparently, Big Tony got into a scuffle with his own staff in full view of Met fans in the stands.

Now, I already know that Bernazard is a complete piece of shit. From what I was told last year by a good friend of mine who is also a buddy of deposed Met manager Willie Randolph, Tony, with an able assist from current Met skipper Jerry Manuel and resident first baseman/dirtbag Carlos Delgado, blindsided and ultimately knifed Willie's managerial career to death. In the middle of that fracas was the resident GM/numbskull Omar Minaya, who probably knows more on how to fix an apartment radiator than he does construct a major league baseball team. Omar has about as much clout in the Met organization as I do, and you all know that I have none. Willie twists in the wind and effectively burns just like that windmill did at the end of "Frankenstein." And the Met front office comes off as country bumpkins in the public eye.

So, now, one more time, a public disgrace and the Mets announce that they are investigating Bernazard's actions and they "are taking them seriously." That's the same as if President George W. Bush reacted to the 9/11 attacks by calling for a broom and a dumpster. To me, anything short of Tony's firing and subsequent public beheading is unacceptable. As bad as the team is, the front office is worse.

At the core of it all is the real inoperable tumor. Jeff Wilpon. Son of the old and addled Fred Wilpon who is basically around only to answer the nurse's cry for more Jell-O. Jeff has moved into the role of calling all the shots for the Mets and virtually all of them miss their target. He shepherded the building of Citi Field and all its bizarreness. He engineered a seating and ticketing plan that truly fucked over longtime Met plan holders like me. And, now, he runs the team by having a lowlife like Tony Bernazard act as his snitch and mole. Tied up in inane press spin and convuluted rationale, Jeff Wilpon is now going down with the ship. And hopefully is the first to have his lungs fill with water.

I had my own run-in with Junior Wilpon a few years back when I still counted as a valued Met Saturday plan ticket holder. One season, they asked me to choke down as one of the year's games a March Saturday afternoon exhibition game against the Baltimore Orioles. I wrote a cordial letter to Jeff, basically stating that this game should be optional for purchase and certainly not at full season price. I got a note back from him. In his opinion, I was underestimating the importance of this exhibition game. After all, it was a rematch of the 1969 World Series teams. There was going to be tons of interest in this game. The tone was insulting and condescending. So much so that it merited a response from me.

I wrote Jeff Wilpon that, since I doubted that I could sell these tickets to any friends, he was more than welcome to sit in my seats on that afternoon. Apparently, it was a big game to him and I didn't want him to miss it. But, I also reminded him that he should wear his heaviest overcoat, gloves, scarf, and ski hat. March winds tended to get a little furious around the Shea semi-circular stands.

I never heard back from Jeff. But, in so many ways, he has let all the Met fans know what he thinks of them.

The Mets have no chance this year. Or, realistically, for as long as Jeff Wilpon runs the place. The Flushing Faithful's only fervent hope for the team rests in Jeff Wilpon's ability to crawl back up the dog's ass he was originally shit from.

Dinner last night: Salisbury steak from the Cheesecake Factory.