A great day with the Mets -- unless you look at the scoreboard

If the final score was all that mattered, then Sunday’s trip to see the Mets in Detroit was a disaster.

But seeing the Mets in a regular season game in person for the first time this century and sharing the day with my 10-year-old baseball buddy daughter made the day special no matter what the scoreboard said.

Caroline wore her new Mets t-shirt purchased just for the occasion, and after much debate I opted for the classic Faith and Fear in Flushing t-shirt as the foundation for my black Robin Ventura road jersey.

I know, I know. I’m opposed to the black alternate uniforms. But my cousin Tim recently said he breaks his alt out when he needs to feel like a bad ass, and after Saturday’s loss I figured we’d need to look a little tough while cruising “The D.”

Caroline and I arrived at Comerica Park about 20 minutes before the gates opened because, well, I’m trying to raise her properly and getting there for batting practice is just the right thing to do.

We did have time to pose in front of the Tiger statue in front of the
ballpark. A family offered to take the shot for us despite our obvious allegiance. I wasn’t too surprised because it’s rare to see the Tigers faithful pile on opposing fans. I suspect that’s because the team was so bad for so long that the fans have forgotten how to be cocky.

Once inside, Caroline had a deal. She collects those flattened pennies, and learned from the official penny collector website that there were two machines inside Comerica. (Apparently there is one at Shea outside the pro shop, if the Web site is correct) The plan was to hit the machine by the carousel first, then let me hang out down by the Mets dugout. We’d hit the second machine at the gift shop when the Tigers came back out.

She was excited to quickly crank out four pennies, and I was pumped to see John Maine and Pedro Feliciano hanging out on the dugout steps. Jorge Sosa popped out, too, and even signed my Mets book.

Before long, there were other people dressed in Metsware lining the rail, all with a neat story. One guy snapping photos was from Northern Jersey and travels on business. He was able to prolong his stay in the area in order to see the Mets. Another was born in the Bronx and now lives in a Detroit suburb and brought his young son to see his team.

A couple in black t-shirts were holding signs that I thought were shaped like bats. One said “Welcome back, Jose” and the other said “Pink Panther.” I confess that I didn’t understand the signs.

“Jose Valentin has the best mustache in baseball,” the guy said. Apparently what I thought was a bat was actually facial hair. How does one judge a 'scache? What's a good one?

Usually it’s pretty lonely to be a Mets fan out here. There was much bonding.

Soon all the pitchers came out for stretching and sprints, led by El Duque. The whole team seemed kind of flat. Not a lot of joking or smiling. Virtually all of them completely ignored the fans. I know the autograph pests are drag, but they could at least look over and wave. Only Shawn Green responded, saying his injured foot felt good.

It was exciting to see all the guys in person as they stepped into the cage. David Wright launched fine batting practice bombs.

We completed our penny-squishing mission, grabbed some snacks and found our seats in the upper deck.

Concession prices at Comerica are just insulting. There’s crazy, ballpark crazy, then Comerica. An Icee goes for $4, and water – water! – is $3.75.

Up in section 215, a guy with a Mets t-shirt and Mets watch sat with his family, and a loud Mets fan sat two rows back. It’s one thing to cheer for your team, but I think this guy was trying to incite the low-key Tigers people.

I sat next to a nice guy from Ohio who roots for the Tigers but said he likes the Mets and hates the Yankees. I deemed him suitable for conversation after he revealed this information. Turns out he’s a Board of Education member, so we enjoyed chatting about school issues and how Tom Glavine expands the strike zone.

Speaking of Glavine, I thought we were well on our way after Wright’s three-run jack deep into the right field stands. But it was clear Glavine didn’t have his stuff.

The Tigers went ahead in the third and never looked back. The middle of the order knocked Glavine out and beat the snot out of Aaron Sele, who makes me long for the return of Darren Oliver.

Meanwhile, the Mets were doing nothing right. While still down by just one, we had Easley on third with one out and Delgado at the plate. I explained to Caroline that it was almost certain we’d tie the game. All Delgado had to do was put the ball in play. I told her the only thing that wouldn’t help was if he struck out – which he promptly did.

Another freaky thing was that Comerica Park has suddenly become home to seagulls. I have no idea why, and I've never see it that way before. But they were all over field and pretty fearless, too.

It was 10-3 in the top of the sixth, and Jim Leyland pulled starter Andrew Miller, presumably because the game was in hand. But as my school board member row-mate knew, the Tigers have a backdraft bullpen and no lead is safe.

And it was pretty sweet when Carlos Gomez launched our second three-run bomb of the game. The bottom third of our lineup – all of which were in spitting distance of the Mendoza line – had collectively sucked to that point, and after that point, too.

All through the Tigers scoring and Mets sucking, Caroline and I had fun flagging down the cotton candy and frozen lemonade vendors and teaching her to keep score. I also ran into a former colleague from the Flint Journal and we enjoyed catching up and marveling at how big our kids have become.

The final was 15-7. I can’t say I was stunned that they lost. I went back to my records – I’m enough of a geek to keep track of these things – and was stunned to find out I haven’t witnessed a regular season Mets win since bleeping 1991! How long ago was it? Dwight Gooden was the winning pitcher.

My streak of shame:

6/10/2007 Tigers 15, Mets 7
4/5/1999 Marlins 6, Mets 2
6/30/1997 Tigers 14, Mets 0
9/24/1995 Marlins 4, Mets 3
7/26/1995 Cardinals 3, Mets 2
7/21/1991 Mets 9, Dodgers 4

Derek F. Jeter was still at bleeping Central High School in Kalamazoo only dreaming about taunting us when I last witnessed a Mets win.

Yes, there were a bunch of spring training wins in there, but we’re talking regular season. Truth be told, I haven’t even seen a spring training win since 2001.

I’m either a jinx, unlucky or need to get to more games to improve the odds. Amazingly, I’ll have another chance this year because Will has invited me to see the Mets and the Cubs at Wrigley on Aug. 4.

I’ll be thrilled to see the Mets – but they might not be as thrilled to see me!

In other words...

If you think I'm tough on Derek F. Jeter, wait until you read this great post from the Toronto baseball guys, who has compiled 100 reasons to hate Jeter, which is a good start. Great job, guys! My favorite line: "What do you call a slow roller to Derek Jeter's left?" "Single up the middle!"

A sad streak ends this weekend

I have a dubious streak going. And weather permitting, it ends this weekend.

I haven’t seen our Mets play in a regular season game since 1999, which was Opening Day in Miami.

I’m not proud of that seven-year hiatus. But the team doesn’t come to Michigan often and my attempts to get to places where they do hang out — Chicago, Milwaukee, St. Louis or Cincinnati — have been foiled for one reason or another.

So I’ve been counting the years until the Mets’ inter-league schedule to rotated to the American League Central, and for that rotation to include a stop in Detroit.

Of course, I thought I’d be seeing our team in Detroit when my folks surprised me with a glorious early Christmas present — a ticket to World Series Game One — last October. But we know what happened. (Grumble grumble Heilman grumble grumble Molina SWING CARLOS! AAAARRRRRGHHHHH)

I’ll be at Comerica Park bright and early Sunday morning boldly proclaiming Mets fandom. I do not fear the wrath of Tigers fans. They are a humbled lot.

I was there last time the Mets were in town, too, and things did not end well.

On the plus side, the June 30, 1997 game was in Tiger Stadium, a worthy setting for such an event. That was the first year of inter-league play and it was so strange to see the Mets in that stadium.

Remember, 1997 was the Mets’ first winning season since 1990. The Tigers have stunk since I arrived in the state that year, and continued to do so until last season. I expected our boys to slide into town, launch some bombs into the short right field porch and head out of "The D" with at least two victories and probably three. Of course, these were the Butch Huskey-Carlos Baerga-era Mets and I should have known better.

My son — a day shy of his fifth birthday — and I got to the yard early, but that goes without saying. It was a tradition of sorts to yell "Cookie!" at then-coach Cookie Rojas, and we were in the front row watching batting practice when Rojas walked by on the field. In purely a reflex reaction, I yelled "Coooookkkkiiiieeeee."

I expected a wave, but Rojas started walking right for us and offered to sign something. I pulled a ball out of my backpack and we had a nice short chat.

And that was the high point of the night.

The Tigers scored two in the bottom of the first on a Bobby Higginson homer. He’d have two more by the end of the game.

Mark Clark surrendered eight runs in 5.1 innings. Someone named Joe Crawford — whom I have no recollection of whatsoever — gave up four more in 1.2 innings and Takashi Kashiwada finished the night by allowing two more.

That’s 14 runs if you’re counting. Only one would have been enough, since we didn’t score any.

So I left the ballpark a little more quietly than I entered. But I did buy a cool cap commemorating the series.

Shockingly, the Tigers won the other two games that weekend, and I took some serious ribbing at work. And I dished out some serious ribbing in 2004 when the Tigers came to Shea and we swept their striped butts.

Just shy of 10 years later, I’m heading back to see the Tigers and the Mets, this time with my daughter, who has become my score-keeping baseball buddy.

I was able to see two spring training games this year, but Sunday will be my first chance to see Reyes, Wright, Delgado and Beltran in a game that counts!

Naturally, there will be a full report Sunday night.

More lessons on the mighty river.

Kayak Version 2.0 is a wonderful thing, and twice now I’ve been able to take it out on the Grand River.

Last night I was headed up river and saw a sheriff’s deputy on a Wave Runner headed the other way.

It’s a wide river, and he slowed down as he passed and waved. I assumed he slowed s0 he wouldn’t create a wake that might topple me.

About an hour later I was heading back to the launch area noticed that he was loading the Wave Runner on his trailer.

I remembered being chastised by Connecticut Sister in this space a couple weeks ago for not having a life vest. She said it was the law, and I had an inkling that she might be right, especially since she quoted the law and provided a link and everything.

But I dismissed this advice, especially since I haven’t seen anyone else wearing one.

I saw the deputy and the trailer and thought, "Wouldn’t it be funny if he gave me grief for not having the life vest." Not funny as in "ha-ha," but funny as in "It would suck to have to admit she was right."

I decided not to take the chance and float down river a little, then work my way back to the launch.

I returned a little bit later, and while the Wave Runner was up on the trailer, the cruiser was still there.

It was getting late and thought it was silly to worry, so I paddled up to the launch and not-so-gracefully extracted myself and started walking back to the car.

The deputy, who was doing some paperwork, started making small talk.

"You have a nice ride?" he asked.

"Sure did!"

"You went in the right direction. I was really choppy down the other way," he said.

"Yeah, the wind seemed to be picking up. But it was nice going up river. Have a good night."

Then it happened.

"Hey, you’ve got a jacket, right?" he asked. And he asked this in a way that made me believe that the only correct answer was "Yes."

I’ve watched NYPD Blue. I know the only thing to do at this point is lawyer up. Running probably wouldn’t have worked, especially since I was carrying a kayak and wearing water shoes.

I had a right to remain silent. I tried to remain calm. Then I lied.

"Yes," I replied. "Yes, I do." Jon Lovitz was more convincing.

"OK, because I noticed that you weren’t wearing it when I passed you."

"Oh yeah!" which is non-committal, avoiding a second lie, yet not confessing.

"OK, have a good night."

I took this to mean, "I know you’re lying, since you’re not wearing this vest and there’s barely enough room in the kayak to store a water bottle much less a life vest. So consider this a friendly warning and get your soggy butt to Dunham’s tomorrow and get yourself properly equipped. If I catch you on the river without at life vest again, you’re headed to the hotel with the striped sunshine. And listen to your sister."

Needless to say, I am now properly vested.

The Hallmark curse is real, keep D-Wright off my Christmas tree

Hallmark will probably announce its choice for this year’s baseball ornament, and I’m crossing my fingers it won’t be Carlos Beltran, David Wright or Jose Reyes.

Don’t get me wrong, I’d love to see any of our stars dangling from an evergreen branch on my baseball room Christmas tree.

But as I pointed out last year, the award is cursed. Almost everyone depicted has seen their careers go down in flames shortly after Hallmark unveiled their pose in plastic.

Sammy Sosa, Mark McGwire, Barry Bonds, Jason Giambi, Ken Griffey Jr. – all of them fell to pieces or suddenly came under an unsavory cloud.

Not even the dead were safe. The Ted Williams ornament was announced, and next thing we knew the Splendid Splinter’s presumed temporary resting place in the only cold place in Arizona was revealed and all kinds of controversy broke out.

Last summer I predicted Alex Rodriguez was doomed after Hallmark offered him up. Let’s see if the curse held true:

-- The former steady fielder soon could have been called ClankRod after an ugly spate of errors.

-- He got called out in the press by Jason Giambi for his lack of leadership and performance. That’s like being criticized by Ashlee Simpson for lip-synching. Nevertheless, Alex’s teammates and manager didn’t exactly come to his defense.

-- He slipped into a prolonged batting slump that became so bad that Manager Joe Torre batted him eighth in some post-season games. That’s probably the first time a reigning Most Valuable Player viewed the scenery from that far down in the line-up, but it earned him a neat new nickname: 8-Rod.

-- In the off-season it was revealed that 8-Rod might actually use an escape clause to get out of his record-setting contract after the season just to get the heck away from the Bronx. There’s something like $80 million left on the table he could potentially walk away from to sign with a team that might not bat him eighth.

-- During spring training Alex felt the need to announce that he and Derek F. Jeter aren’t best buddies. Now, there’s no shame in that. We’re talking about Derek F. Jeter here. Thank goodness he has some standards. But players typically don’t hold press conferences to tell which teammates they consider friends and the Jeter-lovin’ Yankee apologists that pass for the New York media pounced.

-- Rodriguez has a monster April. Sadly or him, the calendar flipped and then MayRod slipped back to Earth and he could no longer carry the gimpy, elderly Yankees on his back. The team slipped to sections of the AL East standings typically reserved for teams with bad names and bad uniforms like the Tampa Bay Devil Rays.

-- Alex decides he's in Little League again, and as a Blue Jay player went after a pop-up, the highest-paid player in baseball yelled, "Ha!" or "Got it!" or "Jeter is over-rated," depending on who you want to believe, to distract the player. The Jays were ticked, and Manager Joe Torre yet again didn't quite come to his star's defense.

-- Then last week happened. Alex might have been a slumper, a clanker and a whiner, but he’s always been squeaky clean. Then the New York Post trailed him leaving assorted establishments in Toronto with a young lady who didn’t appear to be Mrs. 8-Rod.

This might have been a family friend, a relative, Yankees front office employee, Ontario Province tour guide, pizza delivery person, body guard…we don’t know. But Alex’s response was “I don’t comment on my personal life.” That non-denial prompted the Post to bestow a new nickname: StrayRod.

Now, I don’t care who Alex spends his time with and one can debate whether it was proper for the Post to have photogs tracking ballplayers away from the stadium. But it’s safe to say it’s not the kind of attention an image-conscious ballplayer wants to attract.

In short, since Hallmark released the ARod ornament his career and life has crashed and burned.

So David, Jose and Carlos: Don’t return a phone call to anybody from Hallmark!


My past as wall art

My son’s exploration into classic rock continues.

I came across my old concert tourbooks while cleaning out the basement and thought my 14-year-old might want to check them out since he’s been filling his iPod with rock from the 1960s, 1970s and 1980s.

Then I saw him measuring an AC/DC book and found out he was liked it so much he wanted to look for a frame to hang it on his wall.

Heck, they make frames for album covers, and they were on sale this week. So we headed back into the basement and pulled out the boxes of LPs not seen since we bought a CD player years ago.

I told him he could pick what he wanted, and I would not try to influence him. It was fun pulling out the colorful old sleeves, each one a memory. And we pretended the Wham! album wasn’t there.

Here’s the six he picked:

1) Moving Pictures, Rush. Probably my favorite album cover, which just happens to be on my favorite album. I used lyrics from “Tom Sawyer” on my campaign posters when I ran for treasurer in my junior year. Neat play on words, too, with the front showing workers moving pictures into a museum, and the back showing a film crew making a motion picture of the activity.

2) Led Zeppelin, Led Zeppelin. The first Zep disc of course has the famous shot of the exploding Hindenberg. Aircraft disasters aren’t my idea of wall art, but I can’t deny the album is classic. It’s also a reminder that bad things happen in New Jersey.

3) Rocket to Russia, Ramones. The first and third Ramones album covers are pretty much identical, with a black and white photo of the band in all of its ripped-jean, leather jacketed glory. He’s been wearing my already ragged Ramones t-shirt for about a year, so I wasn’t surprised by this choice.

4) Ghost in the Machine, The Police. This was a surprise, since I know he’s been listening to “Message in a Bottle” from Regatta de Blanc, and I thought he’d pick that one. Regatta has a better cover, too, but he seemed to like this one better.


5) Paranoid, Black Sabbath. So ugly, so 1970s. And so confusing, too, with a blurry, cartoonish warrior jumping out of the woods at night. I recently read that the band wanted to name the album, “War Pigs” after one of the other songs, and that would make a little more sense. But it’s not like a lot of things related to Sabbath make too much sense. I noticed that the title song is rapidly moving up the play count ranking on iTunes and I’m not playing it.

6) For Those About to Rock, AC/DC. The band’s follow-up to Back in Black was not especially strong, but my son liked the copper-colored cover with the cannon. Probably his weakest selection, but then again he didn’t have to purge the memory of the Madison Square Garden concert and Angus Young’s extended solo and mooning.

I kept my promise not to push any personal favorites, though I did offer up “The Wall,” and Twisted Sister’s “Come Out and Play” only to be rejected. And I didn’t even try to suggest “Destroyer” or “Rock and Roll Over,” two absolute classics!

Thank you, Mike!

You'll notice some changes in the format. I finally figured out how to best use to awesome logo designed for me by my friend Mike at Tales of a Transplanted Mets Fan. What you're seeing is downtwown Grand Rapids, with the tall building being the Amway Grand Plaza Hotel. And of course, Shea Stadium.

Fudge, "Happy Feet" and Mets fans far from home

Fudge is the main export of Mackinac Island. Sadly, employees here did not let me buy one of their hats!


You never know where you will run into another displaced Mets fan.

I’ve spent part of each of the last two weeks at Mackinac Island, which is one of Michigan’s prime tourist spots.

It’s a beautiful little island located between the state’s upper and lower peninsulas, which means it’s about three hours from civilization. It’s accessible only by ferry, and is famous for banning motorized vehicles -- which means it is overrun with bicycles and horses.

I’m allergic to horses so I try to keep my distance. But I’m a quick learner. If you see a puddle and it hasn’t rained, you don't do splashing around.

But I digress. The main exports seem to be fudge – there are 17 places to buy it – and t-shirts. Luckily, I like both.

Last week I went north as a chaperone with my daughter’s fourth-grade trip. It’s a four-hour bus ride, and I think the kids were freaked out after being forced to watch “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang” on the coach’s DVD player. It’s been years since I’ve seen it. I think if Truly Scrumptious had sang one more song the kids would have started throwing their Crocs at the screens.

After surviving the horse-drawn carriage tour – barely – and touring Fort Mackinac and the Butterfly House, we had some time to shop for fudge and souvenirs.

I entered one store and heard a ball game on the radio, then heard the “Let’s go Mets...FAN” jingle. There are few sounds nicer to these ears, especially if it dislodges “Toot Sweets” from my head.

“Hey, is that the Mets?” I asked to the guy behind the counter. “Awesome!”

Turned out the owner is a New Jersey native. He said he ordered XM Satellite radio just to be able to hear Mets games while he works in the store.

“People come in all the time, hear a game and ask if the Tigers are winning,” he said. “I tell them ‘I have no idea, I’m listening to the Mets.’”

Naturally, we had a nice conversation about the struggles of being Mets fans located to the Midwest, and how well the season was going on.

I couldn’t stay too long because my daughter still was looking for a store selling a little stuffed puppy with magnetic paws and one of those machines that squish pennies for her collection before we had to catch the ferry back to the mainland.

On the bus ride back the kids watched “Happy Feet,” which was as traumatizing to the adults as “Chitty” was to the kids.

Why do the penguins run around singing Queen songs? Where do they hear these songs so they can learn them in the first place? Why do the little penguins run around talking like a Latino street gang? How come Mumble can speak right after being hatched? Why did they name him “Mumble?” If I saw dancing penguins, I would not take that as a sign they were telling me we were eating too much fish. Why are they trying to make me feel guilty for eating fish? I like fish!

We stopped at McDonalds on the way home, and I almost ordered a McFish just to show the penguins who is atop the food chain.

I returned back to Mackinac Island this week with my family and parents. By the way, it’s pronounced “MACK-in-aw” despite how is spelled. The reason might have been explained on the horse carriage tour the previous week, but I probably missed it while sneezing. Damn horses.

And even more strange, the city on the mainland across from the island is Mackinaw City, spelled the way it is pronounced. I do my best trying to figure the state out. It's a struggle.

We naturally shopped for more fudge and t-shirts and squished pennies and of course made it back to the shop owned by the Mets fan.

I heard a game playing again, though I knew the Mets wouldn’t be playing until that night.

“You’re the guy from last week!” the shop owner said. I asked what game was on the radio.

“Yankees,” the guy said.

“Dude, I thought you were one of us?” I said, fearing he was one of those people who claims to root for both teams. That would expose him as a fraud, since we know no one can root for both Mets and Yankees.

“When the Mets aren’t on, I listen to the Yankees. I like to hear them lose.”

Relieved, I approved when I son picked out a sweatshirt to buy. Mets fans stick together.

Milledge, Giambi, "that stuff" and those words

Two New York ballplayers are in the news this week for saying stupid things.

One said he cheated by taking “that stuff” and said Major League Baseball should apologize to its fans for him and people like him taking “that stuff” and “that stuff” didn’t really help him put up monster numbers that he parlayed into a $120 million contract.

The other sang a stupid song on a CD that apparently was never widely released.

Guess which player some columnists are saying should be run out of town on a rail?

Wait, I forgot this tidbit: The player with “that stuff” is a Yankee, while the potty mouth is a Met.

Now you get it.

Mets prospect Lastings Milledge apparently thinks he has a future as a rapper called L Millz, and raps on a song called “Bend Ya Knees” where uses N-words, B-words, H-words and plenty of other words that should get his mouth washed out with a Costo-sized bar of soap.

This has unleashed all kinds of moral outrage from Yankee-friendly columinists spouting headlines like “Mets should cut ties to Milledge.” A Newsday columnist apparently thinks he’s a mind-reader and suggests Omar has had enough of Lastings and is looking to deal him for a bag of balls and a Pat Boone CD.

Then you have Yankees occasional first-baseman/ARod gadfly Jason Giambi.

Giambi reportedly told a grand jury during the BALCO investigation in December 2003 that he used steroids and human growth hormone. He then had a press conference where he apologized without saying what it was he was apologizing for, then attributed his sudden weight loss to yoga.

Then last week Giambi got loose in an interview with USA Today where he said the Major League Baseball should apologize for players using steroids.

"I was wrong for doing that stuff," Giambi told the newspaper. "What we should have done a long time ago was stand up -- players, ownership, everybody -- and said: 'We made a mistake.' We should have apologized back then and made sure we had a rule in place and gone forward. ... Steroids and all of that was a part of history. But it was a topic that everybody wanted to avoid. Nobody wanted to talk about it."

Then we get the classic: "That stuff didn't help me hit home runs. I don't care what people say, nothing is going to give you that gift of hitting a baseball."

Let’s start with Lastings, who I believe is all of 23.

I don’t like listening to music with those words. But when I was that age I liked a metal hair band called W.A.S.P, and it’s best song was called “Animal (I boink like a beast)” only singer Blackie Lawless used a word other than “boink.”

As my long-suffering college roomie Tony can attest to, we’d play “Animal” at top volume during the dorm’s “Hell Half Hour,” a venting study break during finals. That was as wild and crazy as I ever got.

Then I turned 24 and 25 and W.A.S.P didn’t seem so cool any more. Now, I look back and cringe. And I suspect that when Milledge is a little older he’ll look back and cringe about “Bend Ya Knees.”

Until then, we should just look the other way until L Millz realizes he’ll make a lot more money hitting bombs instead of rapping them.

And frankly, I don’t understand why people get upset by anything said by an entertainer, be they a singer, movie star or radio shock jock. Why do we care? That stuff just doesn’t matter.

Then we have Mr. Giambi.

First off, you’ve got to love the “That stuff didn't help me hit home runs” line, which is kind of like Bill Clinton saying he didn’t inhale. Giambi doesn’t seem to be putting up the kind of numbers he used to, even after moving to Yankee Stadium and its pennant porch in right field that is designed for lefties like Giambi.

But more importantly what’s with this “Major League Baseball owes fans an apology” stuff?

No, Jason. YOU owe the fans an apology, and not the wishy-washy one you gave where you didn’t say what you were apologizing for.

Assuming “that stuff” is steroids, here’s what Giambi should be saying:

“Dear fans. I cheated. I took a substance that enhanced my performance. In fact, I performed so well that I was given an MVP award that should have gone to Alex Rodriguez, who, despite being a complete wuss, has never been linked to drug-taking.

“I used ‘that stuff’ to pile up numbers so I’d look better in my contract walk year. Then I turned my back on the loyal Athletics fans to sign a seven-year, $120 million contract with the Evil Empire.

“Yes, other players were taking ‘that stuff’ too. But I am responsible for my own actions.

“I apologize to baseball fans everywhere except for Yankees fans, who deserve everything they get. Hell, these people still cheer Derek.

"Oh, and I have overlapping tattoos on my shoulder and arm, which shows poor planning.”

What Lastings did was stupid and immature. But what Giambi did was offensive.

Lessons learned on the mighty river

Kayak version 1.0 -- prior to the maiden voyage.

I had a feeling something was wrong when the people in the canoe gave me strange looks instead of waving.

I knew for sure things were going south when I got that damp feeling and realized my seat had filled with water.

It was not shaping up to be a good first day with my kayak.

I’m not a woodsy guy by any stretch, but I had a great time on two float trips while at the University of Missouri, and I’ve enjoyed the rare times I’ve been able to get the kids to go canoeing on the nearby Rogue River.

But no one in the family will go canoeing with me after the great tipping incident of 2005. So I figured a single-person kayak would be the best way to enjoy paddling around in the numerous rivers in our area.

I’ve wanted one for a couple years, but knew there was no way even a small boat would fit in our Saturn sedan.

But in February we obtained a more spacious Vue, and when the sales person said an eight-foot two-by-four would fit, I was thinking of something a little wider.

So this year for my birthday I asked for cash to put toward a sweet ride.

I had two requirements: That it is no longer than eight feet so it could easily fit in the car and that it has an open top. That makes it more of a raft than a kayak, but I had fears of tipping and getting stuck. This turned out to be tougher to find than I thought.

But Dunham’s had a bright orange Pelican that fit the bill and was easily in my price range.

I placed the vessel on the floor of the showroom and sat on top. It felt a little small. And then I noticed the tag said it had a 200-pound weight limit. I am somewhat north of that, and asked the salesman if that would be a problem.

“Not at all,” he said. “They put a real conservative number on there just to be safe.”

Sounded good to me! And it fit in the car.

A colder-than-normal April and Sunday softball practices meant my new toy remained in the garage until this past weekend.

I boldly brought it down to the launch on the mighty Grand River and climbed in while the family cropper documented the event.

I wasn’t more than a couple feet into the river when I discovered it was a struggle to keep the kayak from tipping. It seemed to ride kind of low in the water, too.

I headed upriver, thinking it would be easier to float back. The Grand River is where Grand Rapids gets its name, but there’s nothing resembling a rapid. But this was still tough. I wanted to at least make it to a bridge not far from the launch then head back.

And I was closer to the bridge when the guy and a kid in a canoe came floating the other way.

It’s a pretty wide river but the canoe seemed intent at passing within 15 feet of me.

“Hi!” I said to my fellow sea-dogs. The guy said nothing and just stared at me.

“Hi!” I said again, a little louder, thinking he maybe didn’t hear me.

“Uh, hi,” he said, with a funny smirk.

I didn’t know what was up with that, but kept paddling toward the bridge. Then I felt the dampness. My seating area had filled water. I should have worn a swim suit instead of shorts.

I realized there was probably more water than should be in there through normal splashing. I looked a little more closely.

My kayak was bending in half. Water was rushing in over the sides. So that’s what the canoeist was looking at.

AHHHHHH. I swear I could hear Celine Dion singing “My Heart Will Go On” as I spun the thing around and paddled as fast as I could in the other direction.

I made it back to the loading area, completely dejected. And very wet.

Loading it back in the car, an SUV pulled up with a teacher I recognized from a local environmental science school. He had a much larger kayak, and asked if I knew how long it would take to float from downtown Rockford to the river.

I must not have looked too impressive, wet shorts and all, and stammered out an answer.

“What’s it like going out there in a little thing like that? It might be fun in the surf or something,” he said before pulling away.

Clearly, this was not going to work. I feared I just wasted all kinds of money and would have a big, orange reminder of failure in my garage. And everything in my wallet was soaked.

I did save the receipt. Was there even a slim chance that Dunham’s would take back a slightly used, slightly bent kayak?

The manager came right over and said, yes, despite what the salesman said the weight limit is kind of a serious thing.

But there would be no problem with an exchange or return. They were having a sale, and a slightly larger kayak might do the trick.

They had lots of 10-footers that were only $30 more than my previous model, but all were of the closed-top variety. He explained that these models were more stable in the water, and allowed me to climb in and out a couple times to see that I could handle it.

It doesn’t quite fit in the Vue, and it doesn’t quite as easily fit in the garage. But I figured I’d give it a try.

But the next day I had to wrestle to fit the new, larger kayak between the garbage can and the kids’ bikes. I brought it out on the lawn and sat inside to think.

“This is stupid.” I thought. “I should just bring it back right now, get the money back and forget the entire thing.”

But I figured I should give it one more chance, and I didn’t want to wait until the next weekend. It was already around 8 p.m., but I figured I could just make a quick trip into the river and know for sure rather than mope all week.

I put on the swimsuit and water shoes and loaded the kayak in the car. I wasn’t optimistic. In fact, I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t go past the launch spot and head right to Dunham’s.

But I did stop at the river, carried it to the water and slipped in – tags still attached and everything. There were struggles to avoid a fisherman’s line, but once out in the river I found the bigger kayak to be much more stable.

I didn’t worry about tipping once as I headed out toward the bridge. In fact, it was pretty cool.

This time a power boat headed toward me, close to the same spot where I encountered the guy in the canoe. This time the people on board waved and smiled, not that we could talk over the drone of the outboard engine.

This did present a challenge – a wake. I wasn’t sure what to do but headed into the wave. Got a little wet and was a little unstable, but survived. I know for sure I’d have been swimming at that point had I been in kayak version 1.0.

But I made it under the bridge in no time, easily turned around and made it back to the launch – and looked forward to my next adventure on the high seas.

Now, here are a few lessons I learned.

1) Kayak manufacturers are not kidding when they set weight limits.

2) People in canoes are smug bastards. Don’t even wave to them.

3) The Yankee’s streak of division titles is over and the team should conduct a fire sale to unload their elderly stiffs – if anyone will take them!

4) Do not say or even imply bad things about the Jets or Dolphins or you risk pitting cousin against cousin in the comments section.

5) There is no reason to bring your wallet on a kayak. Hide it in the car where it will stay dry.

6) It is impossible to look cool, calm and collected when the entire bottom area of your cargo shorts is soaked.

7) Derek F. Jeter is vastly overrated and a punk.

8) When you enter a sporting goods store with an orange, eight-foot kayak in your arms, you will quickly attract the attention of salespeople who will wave frantically for the manager.

Bat-chuckers, moles and knowing the enemy

Moles are the Yankees of suburban lawn pests.

My community college newspaper adviser once suggested that I had a problem recognizing gray areas.

He said I quickly decided that someone was either good or bad. And once a person was deemed one or the other I was either fiercely loyal or an enemy until death.

He was correct. And he was quickly dispatched to the “bad” side of the ledger, where he remains until death.

Truth be told, it’s important to identify the enemy and move on. And this summer there are two.

1) Moles

No matter what you’ve heard, I’m not one of those suburban lawn maniacs who obsess about the quality of their grass.

I like to keep it tidy and trimmed to be a good neighbor, but I’m not out there every day dumping expensive chemicals and manicuring the spots around the flowerbeds.

And I tend not to care about what’s living under the lawn as long as it doesn’t upset what’s on top.

But for each of the last three days I’ve pulled out of the driveway and discovered massive dirt piles, evidence of the most vile lawn vandals there are – moles.

We have some small mole battles every year. I caught one alive several years ago and set him free on the soccer field next door. At least I assume he landed safely.

This year the buggers seem to have declared war. And the one in the front yard seems intent on destruction.

It is SO on!

I consulted a co-worker who prides himself on mole slaying. He recommends two types of traps. The first one is called a “strangler” where Lawnwrecker T. Mole climbs on through then hits a paddle that releases spring-loaded device that squeezes him toward the bright lights.

The other is more gruesome, with the paddle releasing spikes of death from above, leaving little time for his miserable life to flash before his eyes.

The thing looks like one of the elaborate machines used by the celebrity villains on the Batman television show.


You know, the ones where they’d knock out the Dynamic Duo, place them in the device then leave before seeing if the thing actually worked. Except that they’d never remove the utility belts with the convenient Bat-tools that allowed the Caped Crusaders to wiggle free – every week.

Note to celebrity villains: Use a gun.

I tried the strangler for the couple years and the only things that got caught were my fingers and one hapless vole, sort of a skinnier, less destructive cousin of a mole.

Note to voles: Don’t crawl into traps set for other animals.

As for the other trap, I figured if I had that much trouble setting up the strangler, anything with spikes of death would only be more difficult and too embarrassing to explain at the inevitable visit to the convenience clinic for stitches.

And don’t think every mole in the yard would not be laughing his furry ass off as I get that tetanus shot.

So this year I’ve opted for some less mechanical methods, poking holes in their trails and inserting poison pellets that are supposed to be as irresistible as Ring Dings. We’ll see.

2) Roger Clemens

OK, Bat-Chucker rolled over to the “bad” list around the time he forced the Blue Jays to trade him to the Yankees so he could pocket an elusive championship ring.

His subsequent beaning and near bat-pelting of Mike Piazza pretty much bought him legendary status on the all-time punk list.

But I must admit that I softened my stance on Clemens over the past several seasons.

I was surprised that he turned his back on the vile Yanks to come out of retirement to play for the hometown Astros.

I bought into the whole story that he wanted to play close to home to spend time with his family, and loved the whole yarn about joyfully playing in the same organization as his son.

And it was nice when he led the team to its only World Series appearance.

I dismissed all the talk this spring about whether he would return to the Astros or play for the Red Sox or Yankees. The whole point about coming out of retirement was to be near home, and the Bronx is pretty far from Houston according to most maps.

There is no forgiving Clemens for trying to impale Piazza, even if his post-game excuse – “I thought it was the ball” – was good for a chuckle.

But maybe, just maybe, there is good in him after all. Maybe the world is a little more complicated than my black-and-white vision allows.

Perhaps the college adviser was correct, and that there is a gray area where a person can exist with both flaws and strengths, and that we can tolerate the bad while hoping the good can rise to the top.

But I was watching SportsCenter Sunday night when they showed the Yankees stopping their game in the seventh inning so Clemens could announce his return from Steinbrenner’s private box.

So the bat-chucking bastard wants to remain home near his family unless the Evil Empire wants to lay out a check or $20 million to bail out their rotation of the living dead for two-thirds of a season.

There is no gray area! He is bad!

He’s probably sharpening broken bats as we speak so he can hurl them at Jose Reyes during the inter-league games next month.

All the same, Clemens being exposed for the punk we knew he was is somewhat comforting. I was right all along.

And there will be no apology sent to former college advisers 20 years later.

The glorious disaster that was the Mercury Mets

You can get a uniform purist all riled up with a discussion about black alternate jerseys.

And if you want to get them really agitated, just talk about MLB’s 1999 “Turn Ahead the Clock” promotion.

Then, if you want to push them over the edge into a foaming-at-the-mouth rage, all you have to do is say “Mercury Mets.”

It was either a horrible promotion or a brilliant one. Personally, I liked baseball’s “Turn Ahead the Clock” nights — in theory.

The fact that the promotion is still hotly debated eight years later speaks volumes. I get several hits every day from people Googling Mercury Mets.

The idea was a fun reversal of the frequent “Turn Back the Clock” games where teams take the field wearing uniforms of the past.

Teams were supposed to wear futuristic uniforms in these games. Apparently, teams in the future will have the same logos as they do now, just blown up really, really big — with really short sleeves. At least that seemed to be the template.

Some were horrible, like the Phillies. And some were really cool, like the Diamondbacks, which had a snake wrapping around a player’s entire body.

Then you had the Mets.

If only they’d stuck to the template. A proud New York skyline stretching across the entire jersey could have been a beautiful thing. Or an apple, or the Statue of Liberty...there was endless potential.

No, for some reason, designers opted to go in an entirely different direction for our Mets. Only they weren’t our Mets anymore. Suddenly the team hailed from Mercury.

I suspect a Yankee saboteur, implying that the punks in the Bronx not only chased us out of town, but entirely off the planet.

If that alone doesn't scare you, consider the design.

A gray, cratered planet takes up a big chunk of the front, with the astronomical symbol floating above with words Mercury Mets in the top corner. It looks nothing like a baseball jersey.

And worse, we were one of the few teams with a matching cap.

Does the Bulldog look happy? No, he does not.

I remember seeing the first photos on the wire and being crushed with disappointment. It was truly one of those “What in the heck were they thinking?” moments. As a lover of all things uniform-related, I was ticked. I wanted better.

Then it slowly dawned on me. These uniforms are so horrible, so mind-numbingly disastrous that they’re glorious.

I figure you can lie there and suck like a Devil Ray, or you go down in a spectacular ball of flames.

We are the Mets. When we lose, we don’t just lose, we set the modern record for losses, baby!

When we have a bad free-agent signee, we don’t just have a guy who doesn’t play well. We get a washed-up, over-priced and delusional outfielder who throws fireworks at toddlers.

So I was pretty excited when I saw that Starstruck was selling Mercury Mets caps online, at a discount, of course. Soon after, I found the jersey on eBay. I might have been the only bidder.

I’m not saying I wear these things in public. But they are an important part of the Mets collection in the baseball room. We must embrace all aspects of our history.

We are the Mets. We are fun. The Yankees wanted no part of the “Turn Ahead the Clock” night. Screw ‘em, the joyless punks.

The game itself was no treat for Mets fans of this planet or Mercury, a 5-1 loss to the Pirates with Kris Benson tossing a complete game.

And speaking of what-were-they-thinking moments, it was Jason Isringhausen’s next-to-last game as a Met before he was dished off to the Athletics with Greg McMichael for Billy Taylor. Because when we make a bad trade.....

In other words..

The game also was famous for turning players into aliens for their scoreboard photos. Rickey Henderson didn't like how he was portrayed, with three eyes and long ears.

Riding With Rickey is a kick-butt blog on its own. But Rickey directs us to other blogs that Rickey likes, and Rickey knows some really funny people.

I must point out this link to Timothy McSweeney’s site, in which author Joe Moe sizes up the presidential hopefuls, posted here then taking a fresh look at issues raised by “The Devil Went Down to Georgia,” required reading for people who went to high school in New York in the 1980s and were subjected to the whole Daniels fad.

Bad Mets fan v. Bad Yankees fan

Misbehaving fans of both New York teams have been in the news lately. I think the level of activity reflects on the teams themselves.

All information included here comes from Associated Press articles posted on news Web sites. Let’s review.

Bad Mets fan: Frank Martinez of the Bronx

Misbehavior: Shining a powerful flashlight into the faces of two Braves players during a game at Shea.

Bad Yankees fan: Mohammed Junaid Babar, formerly of Queens, now a London resident.

Misbehavior: Ran training camps in Pakistan for Islamic militants and nurtured a generation of homegrown British terrorists.

Oh my. Where to begin.

OK, first of all, I’m not branding Babar a Yankee fan. Apparently he confessed. AP describes him as "The slightly built Yankees fan." AP tends not to identify team affiliation, so this guy must have been one of those over-the-top Yankee freaks ticked off that his court appearance conflicted with his daily dose of "Mike and the Mad Dog."

Apparently when he wasn’t running about espousing Derek F. Jeter’s "intangibles" and booing Arod, Babar testified in a British court that he filled his days by getting involved with plots to assassinate Pakistan’s president.

While AP doesn’t mention the obligatory shrine to Paul O’Neill found in the house of every Yankee family, it does indicate that a "kitchen spice rack was packed with jars of chemicals, and aluminum powder and fertilizer for making bombs were stuffed in a bedroom cupboard. The backyard was a makeshift firing range, Babar testified. Buried close by was a cache of AK-47 rifles, grenades and ammunition. Plus, a Jason Giambi bobble head."

OK, I made up the part about the bobble head, but you just know he has one.

Look, I get it. You hang with the Yankees long enough and it’s going to mess with your mind. You start out thinking you are entitled to all the best free agents, then you think the World Series could be canceled if the Yanks aren’t involved "Because who is going to give a damn unless da Bombers are there?"

Next thing you know you’re joining Mike Francessa in a tirade because some Shea sound tech plays "Enter Sandman" when Billy Wagner walks out of the bullpen, a song that despite being written and performed by Metallica is apparently owned by Yankees closer/cyborg Mariano "Slayed by Scutaro" Rivera.

Clearly, the logical next step is to allegedly turn your house into a camp for militant extremists. Like I said, I get it.

Then we have our mischievous Mr. Martinez. who this week was sentenced to 15 days in the pokey and banned from Mets home games for the next three years.

Martinez was apparently distraught that the Mets were down 7-0 to the Braves on April 20, and thought he might stop the bleeding and allow our boys to catch up.

I see him working.

The difference is that most of us would have let loose with a "Chippppppeeerrrrrr! You suuuuucccckkkk" to lower the self-esteem of the Met-killing third-baseman, then head back to the concession stand for a lukewarm knish and a Diet Pepsi in a cool souvenir cup, confident that D-Wright and Jose will take care of business while Chipper is wallowing in the realization that he does indeed suck.

Our man Frank, however, lost faith in our assorted Carloses and opted to waste perfectly good seats behind home plate to shine his beam into the eyes of Braves pitcher Tim Hudson and shortstop Edgar Renter. He no doubt shined the light in Chipper’s eyes, too, but he couldn’t see it through his tears of shame.

Frank. Dude. I believe the rally cry is "You Gotta Believe" and not "You gotta blind the Braves." Let Willie and the guys take care of business. They don't need your help.

Still, a guess I prefer a guy who is a wee bit overzealous to a guy who apparently takes the name "Bronx Bombers" literally.

Telling a story without intruding

Sometimes reporters are invited guests, and sometimes it’s just assumed that we’ll be places. But there are other times where I feel like an intruder.

That’s kind of how I felt this week, when I was assigned to cover a memorial service observing the one-year anniversary of a crash that killed four Taylor University students and an employee.

You might have read about some of the developments after the crash.

The identities of two victims were confused. A family from a small northern Michigan community buried their daughter after a funeral that brought more than 1,000 mourners.

The other family stood at the bedside for five weeks while their daughter lay in a coma.
Except that when she awoke, she was able to communicate that she was in fact the girl presumed to have been dead.

I cannot imagine the joy felt by the one family or the despair by the other.

I also realized this was one of those once-in-a-career stories. I don’t think I’ll ever come across anything like it again.

What made it tough was that the families involved refused to talk to the media. That's entirely within their rights. They certainly didn't ask to be thrust into the national spotlight.

The TV types for sure can be intrusive. But I’m safe, at least I try to be. And what people don't realize is that we’re going to write a story anyway. We have to, especially something as amazing as this. It would be better if they could talk to us and make sure we get the right information instead of watching us track down neighbors and friends so we can get some kinds of details.

One of my assignments when this first broke was to head three hours north to the hometown of girl who ended up being alive to, well, talk to neighbors and friends. It was incredible to see the impact she had on this small community and the collective joy people there experienced. I sensed also some collective guilt at being so joyful since their good news plunged another family into mourning, and the people there realized that.

The family kept a blog about the girl’s recovery, and I recommend you start at the first post and read forward for a fascinating and inspiring story. That provided some of the details for us.

I’ve kept up with the story through the months with stories about how this could possibly happen – needless to say, multiple systems broke down in multiple ways – and chronicling the girl’s recovery best as we could.

The anniversary of the crash arrived last Thursday and the paper sent me down to Taylor to cover a memorial service.

Naturally, a nearly four-hour drive provides some opportunities along the way. Well, in places except eastern Indiana, I was thinking as I was more than three hours into the trip without even an interesting rest stop.

Then, as I approached Huntington, Ind., I saw the sign: Dan Quayle Center, United States Vice Presidential Museum.

I was running behind schedule a little after a late start and a driving rain for most of the trip. I thought that I should probably avoid this little side trip. That thought lasted perhaps a nanosecond.

After all, what could possibly be in the Dan Quayle Vice Presidential Museum?

Huntington turned out to be a pretty small and humble place. I pulled up to the museum and guessed it was a former bank. I walked in, surveyed the main room noticed that most of the exhibits appeared to be photos, which made it easy to not stay long.

Two women were sitting right inside the door, and pounced. “Welcome, would you like a tour?” They seemed very disappointed when I said I would only tour the gift shop. I picked up some post cards, a magnet and two campaign buttons from Quayle’s 2000 presidential bid. One is especially cool, noting his “hometown kickoff” on April 14, 1999.

I don’t think they get many visitors because using my debit card was an ordeal that required getting the director to come down and work the register.

This gave us time to talk. Quayle lives in Arizona but comes to the museum at least once a year. His brother was publisher of the Huntington newspaper until it was sold recently.

Apparently the second floor of the museum was dedicated to Quayle and the lower level was for exhibits to the other vice presidents that hail from the Hooiser State. The employees were very nice and I was glad I made the stop.

In fairness, I always thought Quayle didn’t deserve the abuse he received. And he did allow Lloyd Bentsen to get loose with the only line anybody remembers from any vice presidential debate.

But I needed to get back on the road and over to Taylor University, which is a small Christian University in Upland. I pulled up and noticed that some of the television crews had already arrived.

Say this about my electronic competition; it is neither stealth nor subtle. And it seems to be the same no matter what city they come from.

Two massive “storm chaser” rolling billboards/satellite trucks were already parked wherever they damn well pleased alongside the chapel.

Stealth is not an attribute of my competition

I first tracked down the student government president because such people usually like to talk and typically are in the thick of things and can give me some pointers on who to talk to and who to avoid. He was very helpful.

And this is a tricky situation, because anybody who knew the girls knows that the parents didn’t talk to the media, and many of them respected that and didn’t want to talk either – especially with the television types already roaming around campus.

And a lot of these people were still grieving, and the last thing I wanted to do was make them upset.

But I found some nice people eating in the student union, including one who was a close friend of the girl who lived and didn’t mind talking as long as the questions didn’t get too personal.

My job was to write a “color’ story about the mood of the campus, then attend the memorial service to write a short story for our Web page then write a full story and e-mail it back to The Press for the next day’s paper.

After camping in the college union – the students recommended the chicken sandwich – and filing the first story and sending a photo, I went across the street to the chapel and found a seat on the side near the front.

And then in walked the girl who survived and her family. It dawned on me that I had written dozens of stories about her and I had interviewed her friends, teammates, coaches and classmates. Yet this was the first time that I had actually seen the girl in person.

The campus is planning a memorial prayer chapel to be dedicated on the second anniversary of the crash.

I suddenly felt conspicuous and moved to the balcony that hugged the room on three sides, sitting off to the side again where I could observe the speakers and still see the reactions of the girl and her family.

And here’s where I felt like an intruder. In these situations we are torn between being an observer and a participant.

The speaker asked everyone to stand and sing two songs, then later to bow their heads in prayer. If I stood it would seem like I was participating. But if I remained seated I would draw attention to myself. I opted to stand and bow my head; writing only when there was something newsworthy being said.

The idea is to be able to be the eyes an ears of our readers and let them know what happened at an event they care about without hurting the people involved.

My pastor is way-cool -- for a Cubs fan

“Dave, body of Christ, given for you. And don’t forget about the draft at 3:30 today.”

“Amen, Pastor. And I’ll be there.”

It’s safe to say that the liturgy from last week’s Holy Communion was amended slightly. But how cool is my pastor?

I knew Pastor Paul was an inspirational speaker and mentor before we formally joined our church three years ago. What I didn’t know was that he’s a huge baseball fan – which only makes him more inspirational in my household.

He’s a Cubs fan, but that’s OK because it’s not like Cubbies are ever a threat in our Mets-centric world. And clearly, the team isn’t favored from above because we pray for it each week and, well, it’s still the Cubs.

And Pastor Paul always has my back – sometimes a little too aggressively. Last year I was pitching in a coed softball game and I heard a voice riding the umpire something fierce.

The Man in Blue shot me a look that said, “You’d better quiet that guy down or I’m going to squeeze this strike zone so much that it’s narrower than the ball.”

I looked over and it was Pastor Paul, standing behind the backstop, arguing balls and strikes.

So I confess it was more out of loyalty than anything else that I joined a fantasy baseball league he founded last year.

Before you start mocking, there are some things you need to know. I’m a reformed rotisserie guy.

I was big into rotisserie baseball back in 1987 when it was actually cool. And I got a sense that it was important to maintain the activity when I was hired at the Flint Journal three years later.

I made this observation after a fair part of the job interview consisted of rotisserie questions. I like to think that my clips were so strong that the editors had already decided to hire me and were just filling time. But that’s probably not the case.

And, as Will and I learned, the old-timers liked when newcomers joined the league – but weren’t as keen when we win it three years in a row. This led to some unpleasantness and there were some other assorted issues, and I swore off fantasy baseball forever.

But Pastor approached me last year, and he was so excited that I couldn’t turn him down.

It’s not your typical fantasy league. We draft players and assemble lineups and rotations, and a computer program simulates games using stats from the previous year.

This eliminates those “Is it wrong to cheer for my guy when he hits a homer against my real-life favorite team” debates.

The program also allows us to add two Hall-of-Famers, and uses an average of the player’s seven best seasons.

I went into this with a pretty simple strategy: Draft as many Mets as possible and absolutely no Yankees. Goodness knows that Yankee taint can ruin even a pretend team.

Naturally, my two Hall-of-Famers were Tom Seaver and Willie Mays. And I was able to snag Carlos Delgado, David Wright, Tom Glavine, Paul LoDuca, John Maine, Jose Valentin, Darren Oliver, Lastings Milledge and even Scott Kazmir (who I pretend is still a Met).

I did get stuck with one Skankee, Bobby Abreu, who was still a Phillie when I drafted him last year. I also have Jimmy Rollins just for the sheer irony of it all. Consider it reaching out the unchurched.

Now, I don’t want you to think that I belong to some strange church that puts baseball before everything else. Pastor Paul is as passionate about reaching out to the underprivileged as he is to the Cubs, and I’ve never seen a minister so skilled at reaching out to young people.

His lessons bring the Bible to life like no one I've ever seen, and he's been so encouraging as I try to work with our church's youth groups and share with the teens the wonderful things God as done in my life.

And I don’t know how he does it, but he somehow senses when I’m feeling down and knows just how to lift me up again.

Unless, of course, I’m on the mound and behind in the count and an oversensitive umpire is behind the plate.

Bleeping April snow

We’ve had a series of nasty violent incidents in our state and even our fair city in the last week. I blame the snow.

No kidding. We had accumulating snow. Usually in April we get a dusting, but this time it piled up quickly and stuck around.

You know the shock-denial-anger-acceptance stages of grief? Well we in Michigan have stages of snow acceptance. It goes month to month.

November: Sadly, this is when it usually starts. Thanksgiving can either be a wonderful autumn afternoon or the first week that the snowblower gets hauled out of the garage. This is usually followed by much profanity because the gas in the blower has been sitting in the tank since the previous April and the darn thing won’t start. And with relatives from out of state on their way you’re really feeling the pressure. Alas, it’s usually heavy, wet snow and we must stop for a moment and ponder its beauty as it clings to the trees.

December: Snow is acceptable in December. Once it starts, it never lets up and we forget that grass looks like. In fact people get a little cranky in those ultra rare years when the ground isn’t covered. We’ve been conditioned to expect a white Christmas and even feel sorry for those sad folks in warmer climates who don’t experience the joy that Bing is dreaming about.

January: Snow is acceptable, again, in January. Go skiing. I get to wear my fashionable knit Mets cap. By now the blower has nice fresh gas and roars to life at the first pull of the cord. My neighbors on both sides and I have a little system where the first one out clears the sidewalks of the others — but not the driveways. Otherwise we’d never leave the house.

February: It’s starting to get a little old. People comment on this. And when this happens, without fail some smart ass says, "It’s Michigan and it’s February." To which I reply, "Yeah, but I don’t have to like it."

March: When it snows in March — and it always does — people are ticked. We’re tired of smelling like gas after snowblowing. We’re tired of boots. We’re tired of coming out of work in the dark and scraping the frozen crap off the windshield. And there are few sadder sights than the white ground as the plane dips through the clouds for arrival after a trip to spring training. I swear the newly obtained tan melts from your body as the wheels touch the runway.

April: We are openly hostile to snow in April. Actually, we are openly hostile to everything and everyone because of the snow. Woe to the Starbucks barista who puts too much whipped cream on your latte. We refuse to shovel, as if this act of defiance will do anything other than get your feet wet on the way to get the newspaper out of the mail box each morning. We refuse to wear the winter coat once the spring jackets have been out for more than a week. We curse at the television screen when the weather man is on. (In fairness, I curse at the anchors and some of the reporters, too, every day. But that’s just a professional thing.) We shake our fists in rage at the plow driver when he passes the house. We shake our fists at bosses. And kids. And the neighbors’ kids. We kneel damply over or now-limp daffodils that were tricked into shooting out of the ground by a teasing day of 60 degrees. We snap at the little kids who chew on my laptop cord while I'm trying to write a story while my daughter is in dance class. We fondle the new kayak we got for our birthday and wonder if would also work as a sled — then curse that we even think about such things. Usually the Tigers are already six games out of first place at this point, adding to the overall surliness of the month. We sometimes even refrain from blogging for a week because we have nothing nice to say about anyone — especially Jimmy Rollins.

So I wasn’t surprised when Major League Baseball felt the need to move three Indians games from snow-covered Cleveland to Milwaukee with its retractable roof. I’m confident it was for the safety of the players — from fans who had just one snow day too many.

In other words... Lets Go Emps!

Faith and Fear in Flushing is required reading every day, but Greg's post about the origins of the team name -- and some of the others considered -- is so awesome that it must be pointed out for all to read. A classic!

I'm glad Willie is wearing No. 42. I wish David Wright would wear it, too.

I write about an inner-city school district where about 75 percent of the students are minorities.

Every January, the district makes a big deal about Martin Luther King Jr. Day. And it should.

Yet the day seems to pass like any other in our suburban districts. And without getting all PC on everybody, it kind of burns me that the districts seem to think that only people of color can appreciate why King was important.

But mandating the districts do something to recognize the day would be a waste. It has to be sincere to have meaning.

I thought about that today when I read that Mets Manager Willie Randolph will be allowed to wear Jackie Robinson’s No. 42 on Sunday, when Major League Baseball commemorates the 60th anniversary of Robinson breaking the color barrier.

My buddy Will pointed out that it was Reds slugger Ken Griffey Jr. who came up with the idea and called Bud Selig to make the request. Bud liked the idea enough to open it to every team.

Among those jumping on board are former Met Mike Cameron, now of the Padres, and Barry Bonds. Of course, Yankee cyborg Mariano Rivera will be wearing the number, too. He’s the last player still on the field who wore No. 42 before it was retired at a Shea Stadium ceremony in 1997.

I noted that the Red Sox players should be forced to wait until August to wear the number to remind us all of how unenlightened the team was in taking forever to add a black player.

I loved Willie’s widely reported quote: "I said I’d have to fight whoever to get to wear No. 42. Anything associated with Jackie Robinson is an honor for me, and it will be a very special day to wear his No. 42."

Then it dawned on me I’d love the quote even more if it came from David Wright. Or Greg Maddux. Or Chipper Jones. Or Randy Johnson. Or Jim Thome. Or Pronk. Or Curt Schilling. Or any other star who happens to be white.

All of them benefited greatly the day Jackie Robinson bravely stepped on that field, not just the black players. Just like all of us are better off today because of the Rev. King’s life work.

And just once, I’d like to see someone recognize that.

It should be noted that the entire Dodger team is wearing No. 42 for that Sunday game against the Padres when Robinson’s legacy will be saluted. I think that’s a good idea. But I also wonder if it’s like telling the suburban school districts to conduct an assembly on King Day.

Jim McAndrew and unforeseen opportunities

As a reporter, I write a lot of stories about unfortunate folks who just happen to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Jim McAndrew, I submit to you, is someone who can say they were in the right place at the right time, at least as far as our Mets-centric world is concerned.

The pitcher had a tidy little career, coming up to the Mets in 1968 and leaving at the end of the 1973 season, playing just 15 games for the Padres the next year before hanging them up.

His best year was 1972, when he posted 11 wins and 8 losses with a spiffy 2.80 ERA, and he finished 37-53 with a 3.60 ERA.

More importantly, he came up in time to earn a championship ring in 1969 and held on long enough to be a part of the National League champs in 1973. Had he been on the team a few years prior or a couple seasons later, well, the scene would not have been as pretty.

Why, you might ask, are we putting a nice happy face on Jim McAndrew?

Two years ago on this day we celebrated the Tom Seaver birthday. Last year was the Jackie Robinson Birthday. And today, according to the friends at Mets By The Numbers, we just don’t have a lot to choose from.

McAndrew, as I’m sure you have guessed, wore uniform No. 43.

Other Mets to wear it were Ted Schreiber (1963); Bill Wakefield (1964); Darrell Sutherland (1964-66); Dick Rusteck (1966); Joe Grzenda (1967); Paul Siebert (1977-78); Juan Berenguer (1978-80); Terry Leach (1981-82); Billy Beane (1984); John Mitchell (1986-89); Kevin Brown (1990); Dan Schatzeder (1990); Doug Simons (1991); Mark Dewey (1992); Mickey Weston (1993); Mike Remlinger (1994-95); Paul Byrd (1995-96); Toby Borland (1997); Todd Pratt (1997); John Hudek (1998), Rigo Beltran (1998-99); Pete Walker (2001-02); and Jaime Cerda (2002-03) and Shane Spencer (2004). Jason Vargas apparently has this number should be called up from New Orleans this season.

I’ve had the pleasure of writing about Weston multiple times over the years, and he is a first-rate person. And Terry Leach sure had moments of glory.

But McAndrew seems to be the best of that lot. And he will be our example for the year to look for good around us, take advantage of the opportunities the Lord has blessed us with even if they don’t seem all that exciting at the time. Remember, the Mets were still somewhat stinky when McAndrew came up in 1968.

Sometimes He sends us into places we don't expect to be, or don't want to be. We don't know what might be around the corner. And sometimes it might be wonderful -- though not always a World Series ring, as in McAndrew's case.

My goal for this year is to trust Him more, confident that He has a plan for me and that I don't get to see it in advance.

Glories of Opening Day

We celebrated the traditional Opening Day on Monday in style in the newsroom .

Folks here are still geeked about the Tigers, and the business writers prepared a feast of hot dogs, Cracker Jack, root beer, Big League Chew and other ballpark-themed snacks.

I contributed my famous chocolate chip cookies — making their second blog appearance of the day — baked while celebrating the real Opening Day the night before as our boys taught the Cards a lesson they won’t soon forget.

It was pretty exciting Monday when the Tigers were tied and Scott Kazmir drilled Derek F. Jeter, proving that deep down he’s still a Met.

Alas, after both the Tigers pen and Devil Rays backdraft bullpen gave away their games, I was the only one still bouncing around happily.