Just Be A Manager, Mr. Randolph.

In an interview with the (Bergen Record), Mets manager Willie Randolph has made race a primary element of his job.

Randolph excluded Ozzie Guillen from the conversation, but wanted to know why the traits often admired in the calm, cool and collected likes of Joe Torre are portrayed as flaws in Torre's former third base coach.

"Is it racial?" Randolph asked. "Huh? It smells a little bit."

In my opinion, this is a poorly executed diversionary tactic on Mr. Randolph's part. He may or may not be aware of doing so, but by dragging an instantly controversial issue into the arena, Mr. Randolph is diverting attention away from the REAL issue: his competence as a manager of a professional major league baseball team.

While I cannot speak for any other Mets fan, I have never booed or cheered Mr. Randolph because his skin is darker than mine. I have never looked up to him, or down on him, as a symbol of racial success in a White Man's world. And I have never once compared him to any other person based on his race, ethnicity, gender, height, weight, mustache thickness, eye color, hair color, or any of his personal physical attributes.

I simply believe that Mr. Randolph is a poor baseball manager. And that is the only real issue that he should be talking about in the newspapers.

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Instead of hiding behind a racial smokescreen, Mr. Randolph needs to be studying psychology to learn how to better handle his players. The Giants' John McGraw, for example, was famous for taking advantage of his players' superstitions to get them to play better.

Mr. Randolph needs to be studying acknowledged great baseball managers like Bobby Cox of the Atlanta Braves, or Gil Hodges of the New York Mets, or Casey Stengel of the NY Yankees, to understand their successful baseball tactics, and to either apply or adapt them to his own struggling team.

Maybe Mr. Randolph could even benefit from learning statistical analysis. Davey Johnson of the 86 Mets was famous for his computer printouts, and there is of course no shortage of baseball statistics available. Randolph could become the first manager with a laptop on the top step of the dugout.

But instead of doing any of this, or even talking about managing a ballteam, or even just talkin' baseball, Mr. Randolph accuses all of us of racism.

Racism doesn't win ballgames. Good managing does.

Be a baseball manager, Mr. Randolph. Don't be a black manager, or an African-American manager, or a white manager, or an oriental manager, or a left-handed manager. Just be a good baseball manager.

Let's go Mets.

Matsui's Anal Fissure

I have not seen this medical term since reading an advertisement for the Flushing Colon and Rectal Center in The Queens Tribune back in '88:

Matsui, who signed a three-year, $16.5 million free-agent contract in the offseason, has been sidelined since March 21 while recovering from a medical procedure to repair an anal fissure. (source: MLB.com)

The Astros must have a policy of complete and unadulterated medical disclosure.

You gotta feel sorry for the guy. His new team has trumpeted to the entire world, "Hey, Kaz Matsui ... that's spelled M-A-T-S-U-I ... has got an anal fissure! Taht's right! An Anal Fissure!" It's nothing to be ashamed of, I'm sure anal fissures happen to many people many days. But it makes me wonder just how much the Astro management actually likes the guy.

See, if I ever got an anal fissure while in grade school, I would be utterly mortified and humiliated if anyone (like, my sister?) told anyone about it. If that happened to me while I was working at IBM, I would probably have been ENCOURAGED not to talk about it, and simply say something like "I don't know how I got this injury to my ass, ouch, I can't even sit down anymore. But thanks for asking."

And here I had thought that it would not be possible for Matsui to be treated any worse than he had been by Mets manager Willie Randolph. At least Randolph never said to the press, "He's out of the lineup because he's got an anal fissure."

Shame on you, Astros management! Where's your sympathy for a guy with an anal fissure? Honestly.

The Thrill of Reading

Earlier this morning, I picked up the final book of David Wingrove's behemoth of an epic tale, "Chung Kuo". This last book is virtually impossible to find, but I was fortunate enough to buy a copy through Doubleday Canada in the early years of this millenium.

Now less than 24 hours and 332 pages later, I am once again within 100 sheets of the end of this magnificent series.

And I find myself both impatient to get to the end, and reluctant to do so.

Books have always been like that for me. As a child, I would read and re-read every book in the house, sometimes devouring the same book twice in the same day. An exhilaration comes over me as I approach any book's final chapters, forcing me to read ever faster, the worlds streaming through my eyes and into my head at greater and greater velocity, until I literally gasp and sigh as the final period shoots past and nothing is left but the blank endpage and the thump of the book's back cover closing the door on its self-contained universe.

It truly is a great, great pleasure. Yet, even as the times between my page-flips grow shorter and shorter, I do not want the experience to end. I want to stay in the book's world, to experience the emotions of the characters, to feel the physical elements written on the paper, to see and hear and smell and touch (and occasionally taste) what is going on in the pages.

I know it's just a product of a feverish imagination, taking in the results of another person's own fevered imaginings, translating them through my own personal filters and bringing it to life in the dark and squishy confines of my own head.

One hundred pages to go. I can get that done in a half hour, and then I can go to bed. And then I get to do it all over again with another book, another world, any time that I want.

It's great to be alive and literate.

Mets: No-Name Starting Lineup

The Mets really know how to make things interesting. Maybe every team is like this, but our team just seems to find so much drama every single freaking spring training.

So as things stand now, the Mets are missing their first-string first baseman (Carlos Delgado, hip); second baseman (Luis Castillo, knee); catcher (Brian Schneider, something); center fielder (Carlos Beltran, both knees and legs); left fielder (Moises Alou, hernia); and while their front-line right fielder is apparently mostly recovered from the nasty collision sustained on saturday that gave him amnesia and a severe concussion, he has been transformed into a vampire that can neither tolerate bright light nor left-handed pitching. Oh, and a couple of their pitching staff are also down and out.

What's left to play? Running a team off of second-stringers and inexperienced minor leaguers is certain to cause some problems once the season begins at the end of the month. Seriously, there are only about 25 days left until Opening Day, and there is no viable major-league lineup available for manager Willie Randolph to use.

Who's actually healthy in Pt. St. Lucie? Well, the left side of the infield is fine with Jose Reyes and David Wright. The pitching staff is in good shape with Johann Santana, Pedro Martinez, John Maine, Oliver Perez, and Mike Pelfrey. The bullpen has closer Billy Wagner uninjured, along with Pedro Feliciano, Aaron Heilman, Jorge Sosa as the long man, and a collection of other healthy arms and bodies. Ramon Castro is not suffering any odd maladies yet, so he can do the catching.

And that's it for major leaguers.

This has got to be the most horrifying spring training I have ever seen. Cockeyed optimism is hard to come by when seemingly everyone in camp is either a re-tread, minor leaguer, or trying to keep important pieces from falling off of their bodies.

But I listen to what Keith Hernandez said on the spring broadcasts, along with Chris the SNY guy filling in for Gary Cohen these last few games. What looks like a potential disaster for those ailing A-teamers is a golden opportunity for these unproven, inexperienced, hungry young men in the minors. Suddenly, there are as many as SIX starting positions available on a team with the second- or third-largest payroll in the universe.

Which of these no-names will seize the opportunity and force Willie to bring him north and stick him in the opening day starting lineup? I've no idea, but I am hoping it happens.

Opinion: Helmets on the Ballfield

On this past Saturday, I got to watch the first Mets CW11 broadcast of a Mets 2008 spring training game. Playing the Dodgers and their new manager Joe Torre, the most interesting bit came when the cameras focused on Joe and his new coaches, including base coach Larry Bowa.

The discussion moved to Major League baseball's new Safety Decree to all base coaches: Thou Shalt Wear Batting Helmets to Protect Thine Lives. This new rule was passed due to a terrible, horrible, freak accident last year, when minor league base coach Mike Coolbaugh was killed after being hit in the head with a line drive.

Bowa flatly declared that he would not wear a helmet on the coaching lines. When a reporter asked him about his receiving a possible fine by MLB for his actions, Bowa said something like "How much is the fine for not wearing a batting helmet in the coaching box? Multiply that by 162 games each year, and I'll them write a check."

I laughed aloud and applauded to hear that. Playing or coaching baseball is not, after all, a construction site, where steel and brick and stone regularly rain down upon people and where hard hats prevent injury every day. Nor is baseball anything like the inside of an automobile, where a secured seatbelt is a proven factor in saving lives in the hundreds of accidents that happen every day.

And statistically speaking, poor Mike Coolbaugh died in a statistical fluke. As far as I know, and that is very little when it comes to baseball history, Coolbaugh is the ONLY base coach that has EVER been killed by a batted ball in the history of professional baseball. That comes out to over half a million Major League games, and likely another three to four million minor league contests. One death in four million games, over 36 million innings, and thousands of first base coaches. One.

A helmet may have saved Coolbaugh's life. Or it may not have; he was apparently hit in the temple and barely had any time to react to the batted ball. But his death, tragic as it was, is clearly an EXCEPTIONALLY RARE EVENT in the history of professional baseball. I do not believe any other base coach has ever suffered Coolbaugh's fate. Ever. I bet that even if you add in all the amateur games, sandlot games, little league games, American Legion ball games, everything, you will not find a second incident of a base coach being killed by a batted ball.

MLB's decree that coaches must now wear helmets is an excellent symbolic PR move, but nothing more. It is based on fear and hysteria, not on good sense or intelligent analysis. Seeing Bowa's truculent response, the Coaches helmet rule has clearly irritated the players and coaches, who see that a helmet protects MLB's reputation far more than it protects their heads.

Mets: The Chubby 8-Year-Old Fan

Ya know, I'm a native Noo Yawkuh, born in Queens, went to high school in Manhattan, worked in Albany for a while, went to school in various locations upstate, and am now working summers in Oneonta, NY, as one of the Directors of the New York Summer Music Festival. I can ride the subways without getting lost, can divert homeless beggar bums with a single glare, tell taxi drivers if they're going the wrong way, and find any open pizza joints even at 2am in the city.

All of that makes me a genuine, bona fide, tried and true, cliche-spouting New Yorker.

I have been a Mets fan since 1974, thirteen years into their existence. I attended as many games as I physically could from the time I was a chubby, bespectacled 8-year-old who brought a little blue baseball glove to every game. I hogged the TV for every single televised game, broadcast on WWOR channel 9. For some of the west coast games that started at 10pm, I would sit and fiddle with the radio well past midnight to hear Bob, Lindsay, and Ralph calling the games from an entire continent away.

I sometimes even cried when they lost a close game in the ninth (or eighth, or sometimes the first inning -- anyone remember Pete Falcone and his magic gopher balls?).

Just look at all that New Yorker and diehard Met fan stuff I've listed above. I consider myself the real thing. A NY and NY Met fanatic, and shall be until the universe collapses back into itself (if the Big Bang Theory is indeed correct, but sheesh, none of us will ever know for sure).

So why is it that guys like Fred Wilpon say nonsense like "New York is a real 'win now' mentality," or "NY is a total 'what have you done for me lately' kind of town"????

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I'm here to debunk all the nonsense that I hear about folk like me. From the mythical "fans" who supposedly demand the team "wins now" and screw the whole "build for the future" approach. It's total garbage, thought up by impatient General Managers and knuckleheaded owners who use the greatest city in the world - and the greatest fans in the universe - as excuses for their own screwups.

The team engineers the worst baseball collapse in history? Blame the fans for forcing the team to push their tired players too hard. Lose to the Yankees in the World Series? Fire the most colorful, annoying, entertaining, and baseball savvy manager in the league (Valentine) and scapegoat the city, saying NYC is tired of his antics and just wants to WIN. Etc etc etc.

While I love to hear about blockbuster trades that benefit the Mets, I certainly do not DEMAND them. Nor have I ever stopped watching/loving the Mets just because they sucked for many years.

From the post-Midnight Massacre years (featuring Dave Kingman, Mike Jorgenson, and other far from legendary ballplayers) through the world series win in 1986; from the Art Howe years (shudder), the Willie Randolph years (shudder), the Bobby Valentine Dynasty (yay yay yay) to the pathetic early 90s, I always ALWAYS was happy to drop everything to listen or watch the ballgame.

Just like any baseball fan, I want to see my favorite team win the world series every single year. But I also accept that will not happen -- even for Yankee fans (oh snap!) -- and that has no affect on the unreasonable love and affection and time and attention I slather upon my number one team, Da Mets.

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So please, to those zillions of readers who have been fooled into believing that we New Yorkers are the impatient, heartless, obscenely rich, and incredibly fair-weather buffoons that headline-hungry sportswriters and baseball execs have been selling you all these years ... please remember the chubby little 8-year-old who couldn't hold back the tears when reliever Bob Apodaca couldn't hold the lead in 1975 - and was right back in front of the TV the next night, cheering the team for the next 32 years and beyond.

Let's Go Mets. Even when you suck.

It's Finally Time for Cockeyed Optimism!

Finally, something happened this offseason worth blogging about!

MLB.COM: METS LAND SANTANA FOR FOUR PROSPECTS

A bona-fide pitching ace is coming to our favorite team in exchange for four spare parts. With a modicum of luck, this is going to be the trade that balances the tear in the space-time continuum that sent Hall of Famer Tom Seaver to the Reds for four spare parts in 1977.