Tough times for Yanks? Take this quiz and find out!

A decade ago, Queen Elizabeth closed the year by recalling the assorted misdeeds of her children and their spouses and declared it an annis horribilis, which I believe is Latin for “crappy year.”

As the baseball season rolls into its mid-year celebration, we can only assume Yankees owner George Steinbrenner is preparing to make a similar declaration.

Not that that’s a bad thing.

I won’t say that we here at Mets Guy openly rejoice when the tormentors in the Bronx stumble on hard times. But we do take of note of them – to reflect upon on those days when Kaz Bleeping Matsui goes 5-for-5 against his former team.

Now it is your turn to show how much you’ve been paying attention. Here is your Mid-Year Yankee Turmoil Quiz, and we can only hope it becomes an annual event.

1) The Yankees have spent the last decade or so declaring centerfielder Bernie Williams to be the second coming of Joe DiMaggio. Williams, known as “The Classy Yankee, if there can be such a thing,” appeared to have lost a step or two or five in the last couple seasons. The Yankees:

A) Told Williams they always have a place for their legends and welcomed him back with open arms and allow him to leave the game on his own terms.
B) Announced plans for “Bernie Williams Day” where they would unveil his plaque for Memorial Park and retire No. 51.
C) Announced his return in a dramatic seventh-inning appearance, where homer/announcer Suzyn Waldman shrieked “BERNIE WILLIAMS IS IN GEORGE STEINBRENNER’S BOX!!!”
D) Informed their legend that he was welcome to report to spring training -- but only with a minor league contract as a non-roster invitee and no guaranteed spot on the team.

2) Yankee captain/hype machine Derek F. Jeter was mum last year when fans were riding star/rival Alex Rodriguez, and when Jeter’s leadership was questioned he said, "The only thing I'm not going to do is tell the fans what to do. ... I don't think it's my job to tell fans to boo or not to boo." ARod in spring training gathered reporters together to say:

A) He respects Jeter's quiet leadership.
B) He’s sure Jeter supports him, but has trouble showing it.
C) Thinks Jeter is absolutely as wonderful as Tom Verducci says he is. Every day.
D) Announced that he and Jeter are no longer friends but will get along on the field.

3) Losing to the rival Red Sox in the sweepstakes for Japanese sensation Daisuke Matsuzaka, the Yankees signed a Japanese pitcher of their own, Kei Igawa, to a 5-year, $20 million contract. Six weeks into the season, the Yankees:

A) Praised their scouts for plucking an unknown star from the Japan League.
B) Declared Igawa the team’s best signing since Carl Pavano
C) Shipped his greasy butt down to play for the Tampa Yankees for putrid performance, where Igawa became the highest-paid player in the history of Single-A baseball.

4) Back to ARod. Family man Mr. Rodriguez was captured by New York Post photographers in Totonto:

A) Stopping his limo by the side of the road to help an old lady change a flat tire, prompting the Post to declare him “Good SamRod.”
B) Stopping into Toronto Memorial Hospital to see if there was anyone in need of a kidney transplant because, gosh, he’s got two and Derek won’t be needing it, prompting the Post to declare him “SaintRod.”
C) Rushing to the Phanages Theater when he heard that both the lead and the understudy had called in sick, yelling “The show must go on!” and landing on stage just in time to sing “Music of the Night,” prompting the Post to declare him “Phantom of the OpRod.”
D) Appearing with a blonde who did not seem to be Mrs. Rodriguez entering an establishment where ladies seem to have a hard time staying dressed, prompting the Post to declare him “StrayRod.”

5) Slugger Jason Giambi, whose power numbers seem to decline after he lost a lot of weight and was the subject of leaked grand jury testimony in the infamous BALCO performance-enhancing drug case, decided to cleanse his soul to USA Today, where he said:

A) “I take full responsibility for my actions. I’m deeply sorry that I didn’t have more respect for the game and the fans."
B) "I don’t deserve the 7-year, $120 million contract the Yankees gave me because of my inflated statistics. I intend to use some of that money to help former players who have fallen on hard times and perhaps were squeezed from the game because they refused to use performance-enhancing drugs. And I will fully cooperate with Major League Baseball’s investigation into steroid use.”
C) "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."

6) The Yankees lured Roger Clemens away from Houston with a $28 million contact and a strange announcement that as sullied the aforementioned Ms. Waldman’s reputation. “The Rocket” since returning:

A) Has generated nothing but warmth and compassion from fans in both Houston and Boston, the two teams with sentimental connections to Clemens.
B) Performed so well that the team doesn’t want to wait for his eventual retirement to add his plaque to Memorial Park in the spot once reserved for Bernie Williams.
C) Produced an unspectacular 2-3 record with a 4.26 ERA -- and a loss to the Mets -- becoming the most expensive middle-reliever ever and was ridiculed by people at the typically Yankee-loving Sports Illustrated by being branded one of the year’s “high-priced busts.”

7) Speaking of middle relievers, Scott Proctor decides to cleanse the team of its struggles by burning his equipment on the gravel near the field. Such equipment is often in demand from baseball card companies that slice it into pieces and attach them onto cards that are inserted into packs. In this case, card companies likely said:

A) What a shame. Yankee fans are denied a chance to own a slice of game-used memorabilia.
B) Too bad. Many teams auction game-used memorabilia and give the proceeds to charity.
C) Who is Scott Proctor?

8) Back to ARod again! Cynthia Rodriguez shows up in the section of the stands reserved for players’ wives, wear a shirt that says:
A) “I love Alex,” prompting the New York Post to declare him “Snuggle BunnyRod.”
B) “37 14 41 42” on the front and www.faithandfear.blogharbor.com on the back, prompting the Post to declare him “Well-ReadRod” and praising his wife for her fine taste in blogs and T-shirts.
C) “F--- You,” only without the dashes, apparently violating a Yankee Stadium policy about profanity, prompting the Post to declare him “F-Rod.”

Naturally, you realize that the final answer in each question is the correct one.

Wow. So it’s been a pretty eventual year in the Bronx. And the most beautiful thing? The season is only half-over!

In other words:

If you like funny baseball quizes, the friends at Yes, Joe. It's Toasted are the masters! Give them a read!

Congrats to Frank Thomas, a glorious non-Met

Frank Thomas is my favorite player never to wear a Mets uniform. So naturally I've been closely watching his march to 500 career home runs.

That milestone was obtained this afternoon against the Twins -- and without any of the suspicion that surrounds certain other sluggers.

Here's an early post about an encounter with Frank at Tiger Stadium. It's one of my favorite stories. Enjoy!

Of course, we mean no slight to the original Frank Thomas, a fine Met who held the team's home run record for years.

They built it, we came

I’m not a movie guy by any stretch. I go to the theater two or three times a year, and that’s typically to bring the kids to something they want to see.

So you wouldn’t think I’d be excited about checking out a movie set, much less one from a film shot nearly 20 years ago.

But I got weepy stepping on to the baseball field carved from the cornfields outside of Dyersville, Iowa last weekend.

“Field of Dreams” is more than brilliant. In my mind, it’s perfect.

I love the story, I love the cast, I love the music and I love the message. I don’t just get choked up watching the DVD, I get teary watching the special features.

It’s the rare movie that improves on the book, and W.P. Kinsella’s “Shoeless Joe” is excellent.

It’s not that I can relate totally to farmer Ray Kinsella, other than the love of baseball. My dad lives far away but we’re still close and he’s the first person I call for advice on anything and everything. And we always played catch.

I love how W.P. Kinsella weaves fact and fiction. A lot of people know that Archibald "Moonlight" Graham was a real player who played in one game and never got to bat.

But I only recently learned that all the things said about him in the movie, that he was a doctor who quietly made sure children had shoes and glasses, also was true. The obituary they read in the movie was the actual story that ran when he died. The only thing they fudged was the year he died.

And I love that when the younger Archie arrived at the field and saw the ghost players, he didn’t just find Hall of Famers, but Gil Hodges and Smoky Joe Wood, a pitcher who was fantastic until blowing out his arm.

My mother-in-law, who spoils me wildly, knows I feel this way about the movie and included a stop at the movie site as part of our adventures in Northeast Iowa with our extended family.

My football-loving brother-in-law watched the film for the first time just before the trip, and my 5-year-old nephew set the mood by whispering “If you build it, he will come” behind me throughout early legs of our trip.

Dyersville is about 25 miles outside of Dubuque, and the field is about three miles northeast of the small town. As we got close I could anticipate the turns in the road based on the trail of headlights in the final scene.


“Ray, people will come, Ray. They'll come to Iowa for reasons they can't even fathom. They'll turn up your driveway, not knowing for sure why they're doing it. They'll arrive at your door as innocent as children, longing for the past. "Of course, we won't mind if you have a look around," you'll say. "It's only twenty dollars per person." They'll pass over the money without even thinking about it; for it is money they have and peace they lack.”


I had a lump in my throat when the white farmhouse came into view and we turned into the driveway.

Actually, we turned into the second driveway. There are two. The ballfield straddles two properties, and I’ve read that the neighbors don’t get along.

So the family that has the house and most of the field has a souvenir stand off to the side. And the family that owns left and centerfield operates a small store on the other side.

You’d think sensible people would be able to work this out. Not wanting to take sides, I bought things from both stands, including a vial of dirt from the field, proving I am a total sucker.

After posing for photos in the classic Faith and Fear in Flushing t-shirt, we ran out to the field. I stood in shallow centerfield turning slowly to absorb as much as I could.

It’s all there, like in the movie. The small set of bleachers, the backstop, the white house with the wraparound porch and hanging swing.

The only thing that struck me as being very different was that a utility wire hung low over the field. I don’t know if that was removed for the film or whether they just shot around it.

Another group of pilgrims was there, and a guy was lying on his back in centerfield moving like he was making snow angels. We all experience things in different ways.

My relatives said corn should be knee high by the Fourth of July This being Father’s Day, I knew it would be nowhere near as tall as in the movie. But we still marched the entire group out there for some photos.

Another visitor offered to snap a shot of our entire family on the bleachers, then took another one from a different angle as if we were looking out to the field. It was nice that other people were enjoying the adventure, too.

"Not everyone can see them."

“And they'll walk out to the bleachers, and sit in shirt-sleeves on a perfect afternoon. They'll find they have reserved seats somewhere along one of the baselines, where they sat when they were children and cheered their heroes. And they'll watch the game, and it'll be as if they'd dipped themselves in magic waters. The memories will be so thick, they'll have to brush them away from their faces.”


We then recreated some of the scene’s from the movie. My daughter pretended to be Karen, the daughter who fell from the bleachers and was choking on her hot dog until Doc Graham crossed over.

"She'll be turning handsprings before you know it."

My 15-year-old reluctantly had to break out the “Hey Dad, Do you want to have a catch?” line.

We then had all sorts of fun throwing the ball around, hitting and running the bases. For some reason, first and second base were concrete and third was a traditional bag.

Being Father’s Day, I stepped on the mound and left a message for Dad with my cell phone.

We stocked up on t-shirts, bobble heads, mugs, post cards and other necessary items before heading back to Dubuque.

I’ve stood in centerfield at Tiger Stadium, Wrigley Field and Comerica Park, and wandered around foul territory at several other yards, including Shea.

And I realize that unlike those other cathedrals, no real baseball was ever played in Dyersville. But it was still special. In fact, it was…perfect.

"Hey rookie...you were good!"

“The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It's been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt, and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game, is a part of our past, Ray. It reminds us of all that once was good, and it could be again. Ohhhhhhhh, people will come, Ray. People will most definitely come.”


In other words...

If you'd like to read our other adventures in Iowa, you can check out my work blog at Head of the Class. We also toured Galena, Ill. which stood in for Chisolm, Minn. in the movie.

30 years after the infamous day

Betrayal.

That the best way to describe how I felt 30 years ago Friday, June 15, 1977 — known in Mets circles as the Midnight Massacre.

Complete and total betrayal.

I was 13 at the time, seventh-grade turning into eighth. My little world revolved around the Mets, and specifically, Tom Seaver.

It seems silly today. We know so much more about the athletes as people that we know better than to consider them role models. Well, except for David Wright.

But back then I was all Mets, all the time. I had the Seaver posters, the puzzles, the Mets T-shirts with the heat-transfer 41 on the back. The autographed photos from when I met a bunch of players at an appearance at the Sunrise Mall hung on my wall like trophies

The autographed photo Seaver himself sent me was — who are we kidding — is a treasured heirloom, along with the baseball card I sent him, figuring he’d like to have one. He signed that and sent it back, too.

When the kids in my class grew their hair long, I wanted mine to be only as long as Seaver’s.

You know that I am loyal to an absolute fault. Once I’m on your side, I see only the good and will defend to the death.

You also know that people say I’m unabashedly optimistic. My glass isn’t just half full, it’s half full and I’m sure there’s a lot more where that came from.

I like to think that those traits serve me well, most of the time. But when I crash, I crash hard. And I crashed hard June 15, 1977.

Most of the kids in my school had turned Yankee by that point. The team had been to the World Series in 1976 and had jumped heavily into the free-agent pool with Catfish Hunter and Reggie Jackson. Even their stadium was like new, thanks to the Mets’ hospitality for two seasons.


I would have no part of it. You don’t change teams, and, most of all, you don’t go Yankee.

Junior high-schoolers, of course, are a sensitive lot. I took all kinds of abuse for my blind loyalty.

I can’t say I closely followed the business side of baseball at 13. I remember being aware of the grumbling between Seaver and the front office. I assumed they’d work things out because, well, they all worked for the Mets and only good people would run the Mets.

I remember the commotion over Seaver’s June 12 complete game victory over the Astros and the speculation that it might be his last game as a Met. I remember dismissing that notion entirely. Surely, they’re not going to trade Tom Seaver. He’s Tom Seaver! Who could they possibly get who is better than Tom Seaver?

And I remember lying on the floor watching the 11 p.m. Channel 7 news on June 15 with my grandmother, listening in complete and utter horror, then slamming my hands on the carpet.

When you are 13, the world is a small place. I did not see the big picture. I saw the part that pertained only to me, and I took this very personally.

How could they do this to me? I’ve defended these people, taking all kinds of abuse. And this is how I get treated? You trade my hero for one guy I’m aware of — Pat Zachry — and three others who I don’t even know exist? This hurt, and it hurt bad.

The next day I read about the other trades the Mets pulled off that night, sending Dave Kingman to the Padres for Bobby Valentine and Paul Siebert and Mike Phillips to the Cardinals for Joel Youngblood.

But I was already numb. It’s like backing over the squirrel you just ran over, as if it could inflict more damage.

As an aside, the fact that I could be this distraught over a baseball trade is proof at how good I actually had it and how little I actually had to worry about in life. Thank you, Mom and Dad.

It took a long time to recover. I tried to anoint Pat Zachry as my new favorite player, adopting No. 40 as my new number on anything I had that had a number. But as the Mets also learned, Pat Zachry was no replacement for Tom Seaver.

I even started wearing caps without any team affiliation, tired of the abuse from Yankee fans as their team went on to win back-to-back championships. I was actually ashamed of my Mets.

I later learned about the role Daily News columnist Dick Young played in getting Seaver traded. He became the designated villain, since my blind loyalty prevented me from fully blaming the team. Proving that I can’t let go of a good grudge, when Young died in 1987 I laminated his obit and hung it on the fridge — and didn’t even have the excuse of being 13.

The years have brought wisdom. I see that Seaver was better off with the Reds, who were coming off a World Series win.

And I now know that the people running the Mets after the death of Mrs. Payson — mostly Chairman M. Donald Grant — were too old-school to handle the sport’s new realities.

I started getting a clue. Even in my blind loyalty, I could see that having a real donkey as the team’s mascot and trotting him out before games was a bad, bad idea and showed me that these people had no idea what they were doing.

But it’s a tough lesson for a 13-year-old.

I kind of got over it. I healed a lot when Seaver was brought back by the new regime in 1983, and even more in 1985 when the whole family got to witness his 300th win.

My son has never embraced a team or a player like I did when I was his age. Sometimes I’m disappointed, but when I think of a day like the one 30 years ago on Friday, I realize it’s probably for the best.

I know the game has changed and players tend to move around more than they used to. But whenever a Barry Zito or Pedro Martinez signs a big-money deal with a new team, I wonder if there are 13-year-olds out there who just lost their hero.

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.