Happy Leap Day!

Happy Leap Day!

Naturally, we have to use this moment to look at all the great leaps in Mets history.



1) Ron Swoboda in the 1969 World Series. Rocky’s diving, sliding gem prevented the Orioles from taking the lead, setting the stage for another glorious Mets comeback. Sprawling on the rightfield sod was Swoboda’s highlight as a Met.



2) N-D! Had Aaron Heilman kept Yadier Molinda as Yadier Molina and not turned him into Yadier Bleeping Molina, this spectacular leap would have surpassed Swoboda as the all-time best Mets catch.



3) David Wright’s barehanded leap will live in highlight reels for pretty much the rest of time.



4) Jesse Orosco’s leap for joy after closing out Game Seven of the 1986 World Series was a thing of beauty – and his glove has yet to fall back to Earth.



5) This is a different leap. A leap of faith. Sure, we all believed that Mo had both healed and slimmed down when we brought him from the Angels for Kevin Appier. Alas he was neither healed nor slim. But we’ll never forget that blast halfway up the Shea scoreboard to teach the vile Yankees a lesson.

Clemens is not fighting like a caged wombat

Crazy week here, and I'm going to see if I can avoid getting hurt while hitting the slopes with the youth group this weekend. So let's jump right into the Deezo Friday Five.

1) Costco. Costco rocks! I’m renaming the store Costco BSE! for Best Store Ever! My son bought his iPod in 2005. It died this week. I brought it back to Costco, and they gave me store credit to go buy a new one. He replaced a 20-gig black-and-white version with an 80-gig model with the full-color screen and video – for about $70 less than the first one. And I ate some awesome samples, too.

2) I finally got my hands on the Topps limited edition Mets team set from the end of last year. The Mr. Met card and coaches cards alone make this a worthy addition. But there is some disappointment.

At 55 cards, I was hoping to see everybody in there. But there are 31 cards of players and coaches – and the mascot – then the rest are pretty much the same players on personal highlights and “classic combos.”

Glavine’s 300^th win and Maine’s near-no-no aren’t included, but Jorge Sosa’s brilliant performance against the Tigers is there – put with a photo that obviously wasn’t from that game.

But I’m bummed because the set is missing most of the bullpen. No Pedro Feliciano, no Scott Schoenweis, no Guillermo Mota. Mr. Met has a card, Guillermo Mota doesn't. Granted, there were games where I would rather have seen Mr. Met on the mound than Mota. But in a card set, I want to see all the players, even the bad ones.

3) This week I described both Hillary Clinton and a local union as fighting like caged wombats. Then my wife pointed out that wombats are actually cuddly furballs that might lick your hand if provoked. I really need to start watching Animal Planet some more.

Greg

Me

4) People keep telling me I look like Greg Grunberg, who plays Matt Parkman on “Heroes.” I don’t see the resemblance. Decide for yourself.

5) It is wrong to take pleasure in another person's problems -- unless that person is Roger Clemens.

"Greg the Bunny," a most dangerous show

People are asking about the embarrassing “Greg the Bunny” incident referenced in the Deezo Friday Five, so here goes.

But you have to understand the setting and some of the players.
The paper got us discounted memberships at a health club not far from the office. In its day, it must have been a pretty cool place.

There was a pool, full basketball court, racquetball courts and a whole array of exercise gear.

But it appeared there were some financial issues, because the owners seemed to be cutting corners on things like cleaning and maintaining machines. This was confirmed about a year later when it closed its doors for good.

There were about a dozen treadmills and exercise bikes facing one wall, which would stink except that each had its own little television hanging in front of it. If you were lucky, you could get a spot where both the treadmill and the television were working.

A typical night for me would be to arrive after work at 9 p.m. and run on the treadmill for an hour or more. The television program selection at that time of night was pretty lousy, so I’d usually bring my Walkman and listen to music and just flip around the channels to have something to look at.

There were two other runners on most nights. Actually, one was more of a walker, an older guy who always had a headband and a towel around his neck, who seemed to have the treadmill going at its slowest rate. And he’d usually get engrossed in a show and stand straddling the spinning belt.

Then there was a younger woman who seemed to have the treadmill set on “cheetah.” I couldn’t run that fast even with Derek F. Jeter chasing me trying to put a Yankees cap on my head.
I’d typically keep the setting between 5 and 6 mph, which is just fast enough to keep jogging and make you pay attention to what you’re doing.

And in typical health club form, I never had a conversation with either of these people. It was a bunch of people in headphones never communicating with anyone except the kid downstairs who handed out the towels.

Well, one night I discovered the show “Greg the Bunny,” which had Seth Green and Eugene Levy, and was about a show like the “Muppet Show” with people and puppets. It lasted on FOX about as long as Chan Ho Park lasted with the Mets.

In a rare move, I plugged the headphones into the television instead of the tape player.
And in the show, the puppet Greg bought some novelty eyes that played “Mr. Bojangles” when put together. I think there were some Sammy Davis Jr. jokes.

Anyway, Greg was being tormented by a dog owned by Seth Green’s girlfriend, and some of the other characters decided to chill out the pooch by neutering him on the sly. Then they thought the dog’s, um, area, looked deflated and their handiwork would be discovered. So they stuck Greg’s toy eyes in there.

Naturally, the girlfriend came back, the dog woke up and stood up, and “Mr. Bojangles” started playing from you-know-where and they were busted. It’s funnier when you see it.

Which I did. As I was running. I was laughing throughout the show, but when “Bojangles” started playing, I started laughing so hard that I was coughing and couldn’t catch my breath.

At which point, I lost my footing, fell in my butt on the treadmill, which, of course was still rolling since I refused to wear that kill clip on the string.

That sent me rolling off the back of the treadmill and onto the floor, tumbling over in a move that would make Mary Lou Retton proud. I was still barely breathing from laughing so hard. I never caught the full ending of the show until we bought the DVDs last year.

At this point, cheetah girl and slow-mo guy looked over to see me sprawled on the floor, beet red at the embarrassment.

Not that they stopped running – or not running, in the case of slow-mo guy – or even asked if I was OK.

There is no graceful way to recover from this. After picking myself up off the floor and limping back on the treadmill I said something like, “So, um, you guys watching the show with the bunny? Be careful.”

Which is not to say that I don't occasionally fall off the treadmill. But now that we have one in the basement it's not as embarrassing.

No, the embarrassing moments are now saved for more crowded events, like my first Komen 5K and the disastrous first water stop.

Emo kitties, dangerous bunnies and friendly Griffins

It’s been a loooong week here in the mitten. We set a record for February snowfall, and it’s been darn cold, too.

How cold, you might ask? I did a local story about the recalled beef and stood in a school district’s massive walk-in freezer that keeps the soon-to-be-banished bovine remains at a constant 10 degrees. And it was warmer in the freezer than it was outside.

One the bright side, I was able to lock a local television news crew in the freezer for a spell. Alpha Dogs get to control the freezer door. Woof.

Hopefully the Deezo Friday Five can take the edge off the chill.

1) Mixed emotions about seeing Johan Santana on the cover of Sports Illustrated. I think SI has a football cover for 48 of its 52 issues, so we won’t see another baseball player for months. Seriously, you know there was a discussion on whether Tom Brady would wear a bikini for the swimsuit issue. On one hand it’s magnificent to see Johann in his pinstripes.

And the article is written by Lee Jenkins instead of Tom Verducci, so we are spared the inevitable “Santana would probably rather be a Yankee to benefit from Derek Jeter’s intangibles” line.

But I’m just worried about the dreaded SI cover jinx. The Mets need to cover him in bubble wrap until the next issue, which I suspect has some Manning brother on the cover enjoying the off-season.

2) Emo kitties. Clearly these people watched a lot of 1980s-era MTV. And I salute them.


3) I’m deep into "Dead Zone" season five as my treadmill viewing project. But season six doesn’t appear to be headed to DVD anytime soon, so I’m leaning toward starting a long-term relationship with "ER," though it takes a couple years before Dr. Kerry Weaver arrives.

Picking a treadmill show isn’t as easy as you think. We need a show with multiple seasons that will interesting enough that you can look down and discover that a half-mile has passed without even realizing it. After the embarrassing “Greg the Bunny” incident in the health club, comedies are not allowed. Damn, that hurt.


4) The Grand Rapids Griffins allowed me to take my five journalism students up in the press box for a game to see how professional sports writers work. I was telling the kids that one of the fun parts about being in a press box is that you never know who might be up there. And moments later, Steve Yzerman walked past. Once in a while it’s nice for them to think I know what I’m talking about.

5) I’ve decided that the 2008 Topps design is the company’s best in years. And I like some of the retro inserts and presidential subsets But it would still be nice to be able to pull a Met from a pack. Any Met, at this point. And I covet this Seaver card.

Hoping Jose Reyes gets treated better in 2008

The first day new baseball cards appeared in the corner store used to be one of the very best days of the year.

That annual debut lost a lot of the luster when companies started offering packs for the main sets before Thanksgiving, and began issuing new sets seemingly every other week.

The market has become a little saner now that the masses no longer believe they can finance their retirement with Mark McGwire rookie cards. Seems like the only people buying cards these days are people like me, who see cardboard rectangles with baseball players on them instead of dollar signs.

Major League Baseball has even decreed that new sets of the year actually have to come out around the time pitchers and catchers report – as opposed to trick-or-treaters.

So once again, I was excited to see new sets come out last week. I bought a couple packs of Upper Deck and a couple packs of Topps. UD is doing the usual minimalist design thing, and Topps is doing the retro thing, which means the world is turning in its proper orbit.

Alas, the only Met I was able to pull was Damion Easley in a rather pedestrian action shot. So rather than celebrate the new, let’s take only last look at the best and worst of 2007.

Let’s start with the worst, which would be this Jose Reyes card from the Topps Allen and Ginter set.

That is, the card says it’s Jose Reyes. Looking at the portrait, it could be Luis Castillo. Or Endy Chavez. Or David Newhan. Truth be told, I can’t tell who it’s supposed to be.

It’s a portrait by Dick Perez, who can be excellent – and not.

I’d say one of two things happened here.

One possibility is that Perez is right-handed and decided to see what it would be like if he painted with the brush in his left.

The other is that Perez became nostalgic for those days when Donruss had him churning out entire subsets of Diamond Kings in about an hour.

Either way, these cards are too expensive to be this bad.

So let’s dwell on the positive. Here are three cards that I thought were the best, and it happens that two came from the same set.

First is this Endy Chavez card from Upper Deck, showing his most-glorious leaping catch of Scott Rolen’s near-homer in Game Seven of the 2007 NLCS. Seeing this card almost made me forget how that game – and the season -- ended.

And note that I said “almost.” Aaron Heilman, you are still not off the hook.

And speaking of things that end badly, check out David Wright’s card from that set. The photo is from the 2006 All-Star Game, just after he smashed the home run that tied the game. Note the Astros coaches in the photo trying to touch D-Wright for some karma.

But heck, everyone knows you’re not supposed to touch an Astros coach during a game. Never. Wright might have been the MVP of that game, too, had Trevor Hoffman not gone Mota with two down in the ninth.

The graphic elements on both are non-existent. But when the photos are this good, that’s OK.

Then we have my favorite Mets card of 2007. Upper Deck did all kinds of neat things with its Goudey retro set, and this photo illustration of Carlos Delgado is just perfect. The pose, the smile, the sun illuminating his face – it’s classic baseball player as American hero.

And in this era of bat-chucking, wife-blaming, alleged B-12-injecting stars, I can appreciate a little hero worship.

Pedro, Drooper and the Friday Five

Deezo's back, so the Deezo Friday Five feature probably goes back to its rightful owner. But I don't think Dan minds if we still have a little fun, especially after the events of the week.

1) Pedro Martinez. Pedro's back, and wastes no time boldly pronouncing that he dominated in the steroid era without resorting the the juice, which we can now always call "Rocket fuel." No word on whether Pedro's wife has ever used HGH.

2) We know celebrity deaths come in threes. The loss of Shea Stadium's famous Sign Man, was the first, followed by Roy Scheider, forever in need of a bigger boat. In sixth grade, I was all about the shark.

3) and we recently learned about the passing of Drooper from the Banana Splits on Jan. 17. OK, tehnically it was the voice of Drooper, Allan Melvin. Drooper's the lion on the bottom with the sweet '60s shades. Snorky never spoke, just so you know.

4) The fans vs the favorites gimmick -- and our new DVR -- has me excited about "Survivor" again for the first time in years. Producer Mark Burnett must not have been thrilled to get villian Jonny Fairplay to come back, only to see him bail in the first show.

5) Buses. Congressional hearings seem to entice people to throw other people under the bus. You need a flow chart to properly figure out who has Greyhound treadmarks on their backs. And I can't figure out where the cliche came from, since I don't know of a real person actually tossed under a real bus.

Best valentine ever!

Got this sweet valentine from Mrs. Met Guy today. It's nice to know that she feels this way, because I was a little worried. (Click on it to get a bigger view)

Reps. Burton and Waxman looked to be pretty rough, and it's a great relief that, say, unlike Roger, my spouse won't roll over when the subpoena arrives .

So I got that going for me.

Clemens, Congress and the conversation with Debbie

I can imagine the awkward conversation in the Clemens household today.


Rocket: Hello, honey. I was talking to some folks today. They asked about you.

Debbie: Roger, you were talking to congressmen about steroids. You didn’t tell them about me, did you?

Rocket: Me? Sweetheart! Never. I’ll tell you what, though. That Andy Pettitte sure does have a big mouth.

Debbie: Oh great. You are in so much trouble.

Rocket: Well, there’s more. Remember the 2000 World Series?

Debbie: Sure. That’s the one you won, unlike that disaster against the White Sox.

Rocket: Yeah, that’s the one. They had all kinds of questions. But I was pretty smart. I told them that you said, “Wow, how about that Mike Piazza!” and I got all confused and thought you said, “Now, throw a bat at Mike Piazza!”

The Debbie made him do it!

Debbie: You didn’t! Now that’s my fault, too? Am I on the hook for the 2004 All-Star Game meltdown, too?

Rocket: I thought....I thought....

Debbie: See that’s the problem, Roger. You know you’re not supposed to go thinking for yourself. Why didn’t you listen to Rusty? What has he doing when all this was happening?

Rocket: He kept muttering, “I have a blockhead for a client.” And that’s just not true because Chuck Knoblauch has a different lawyer.

Debbie: Roger. Just stop talking.

Rocket: By the way, the Astros, Blue Jays and Red Sox all called. They said it’s OK with them if I want to wear a Yankee cap on the Hall of Fame plaque. That's just swell of them because I have so much on my mind right now and can't make big decisions like that.

Debbie: I don't think that's gonna be a problem.

Thank you, Sign Man

There's never a bad reason to enjoy highlights from the 1969 World Series, but pay particular attention to Shea's famous "Sign Man," Karl Ehrhardt, who died last week at 83.

With his Mets derby and massive collection of signs, Ehrhardt was a staple at Shea from the 1960s through the 1980s when there was some kind of falling out.

Watching the video is also a little sad when you think that so many people associated with that magical team are slipping away. We also lost Don Cardwell this year, and Donn Clendennon not long ago.

If there is a Mets Hall of Fame at Citi Field, I hope there is some reference to Ehrhardt, a throwback to the days when stadiums could rely on fans to provide some of the color, and not creepy things like scoreboard dot races.

Good week, bad week

Nice week of contrast for the two teams that call New York home. Pretty much shows where each team is headed.

Let’s review.

Player acquisitions:

Mets: With great fanfare the Mets showed off Johan Santana, winner of two Cy Young awards and the well-earned reputation as the best left-hander on the planet.

It was all smiles after the Mets showed dramatic video highlights of Santana’s past glories. He then donned the classic pinstriped jersey and solid blue cap.

Santana then posed around the stadium, with beautiful Citi Field rising in the background – a spot where Johan expects to win more Cy Young Awards, along with an MVP and possibly a Nobel Prize and a Grammy.

There is no proof that John McCain then called and asked him to be his running mate.

Yankees: With no fanfare, the Yankees announced their two main acquisitions: Morgan Ensberg and Chris Woodward.

Ensberg split last season between the Houston Astros and San Diego Padres. The Yankees would be looking at him as a first baseman, where he played just one game with San Diego last August. Note to existing first baseman Jason Giambi. If they’re handing the job to a guy who played one game at that spot, that would be a vote of no confidence in your ability to field a ground ball.

Then you have Woodward, who had two somewhat productive seasons with the Mets before starting down a path of playing for the team’s arch enemies. He hit a robust .216 with the vile Braves last year. He must not have read the post about what happens when Mets go bad and join the Yankees.

There was no press conference, no jersey donning and no posing.

Former employees linked to steroids:

Mets: Former clubhouse attendant Kirk Radomski was sentenced to five years probation after cooperating with baseball's investigation. Radomski admitted selling steroids, human growth hormone and speed to dozens of current and former major leaguers.

Not good. But it is rarely noted that he did all this after – not while – he was on the Mets payroll. I’m sure he had other jobs, too, but all we hear about is the one with the Mets. It’s not like he has been accused of giving roids to Mets players while he was there.

Yankees: Former Yankee Bat-Chucker trainer Brian McNamee was making the rounds on Capitol Hill on Thursday in preparation for next week's House hearing.

McNamee allegedly handed over vials with traces of steroids and human growth hormone, as well as blood-stained syringes and gauze pads that might contain Bat-Chucker's DNA.

Then things got crazy. There were reports that McNamee not only injected Bat-Chucker, but Lady Bat-Chucker, too! Allegedly she wanted to look buff before posing with her husband in the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue.

His wife?

Stadium issues:

Mets: Announced that Long Islander Billy Joel would perform the final concert at Shea Stadium.

I have to say that I love Billy, despite some nasty Yankee taint. One of his buds is wearing a Yankee shirt of shame, err, jersey on the back of “The Stranger.” He filmed a video performing in the Bronx. And he mentions the Yankees, by name, in at least three songs.

But Billy’s been saying all the right things.”Shea Stadium is one of the most hallowed venues in rock 'n' roll history and it's an honor to help throw Shea the ultimate concert farewell party," he said in a prepared statement. "As a sports fan and a music lover, I will always have a place for Shea Stadium in my heart. I thank the Mets for giving me and my fans a chance to rock Shea Stadium one last time for the ages."

Joel expressed his thanks at the press conference, where he was given a Mets jersey with "JOEL O8" on the back.

Joel apparently said used to be a Dodgers fan – which makes him a legacy Mets fan – and was distressed that the Dodgers left Brooklyn. He even noted watching Mets pitcher Wilmer "Vinegar Bend" Mizell in the 1960s.

"I've been to more Mets games than Yankees games," he said Joel.

Joel also indicated he would have written more songs about the Mets had he known more words that rhyme with "Mets." I know plenty, but it’s not like we require our rock singers to be great scholars.

Friends, I think what we have here is a convert. I can accept that Billy was sucked into the Yankee vortex in those hazy days when he was driving around the Hamptons like Toonces.

It’s also very possible that Christie Brinkley was a Yankee fan, and she led him to the dark side. But the Uptown Girl is gone and Bill has dried up. Let’s face it, we’ve all seen people who look back at their time in the bottle and realized they did some things they regret. In Billy’s case, it was rooting for the Yankees.

Mets fans are forgiving. Our tent is big. We can welcome Billy back – and ask that he let Twisted Sister open the show for him!

Yankees: The Yankees are closing out their dingy playpen this year – and apparently can’t get anyone for a farewell concert.

But this week the team discussed its new stadium. According to one report I read the new “stadium will have party suites, a members-only restaurant, a martini bar and a price tag to match all the luxury -- $1.3 billion, up from a $1 billion estimate last year.

"We tried to reflect a five-star hotel and put a ballfield in the middle," Yankees Chief Operating Officer Lonn Trost said.

Yikes. I don’t know about you guys, but if I wanted to go to a five-star hotel, I’d go to a five-star hotel – not a baseball stadium.

Kind of makes you wonder who the Yankees think their target audience is. I’m a pretty typical baseball fan. I stay at places I can afford, like the Hampton Inn and its breakfast bar with the cool waffle-makers.

And when I go to a ballgame, I like to watch a ballgame, not wander around pricy martini bars.
It’s almost like the Yankees are trying to distract you from watching the game.

Then again, if I was a Yankees exec and I’m looking at the field and seeing Morgan Ensberg at first, Jason Giambi trying to figure out how to wear his glove and whether the people seated in the family box are a little too buff, I’d try distracting the fans, too.

Luckily, we get to see Johan Santana and Billy Joel instead.

Something borrowed, something blue...and orange

Rolling out a new feature here at Mets Guy today. Actually it’s a borrowed feature.

One of the joys of blogging is that you get to meet all kinds of nice people. One who found me was Dan, from Ohio, who roots for the Indians and does cool things like play in Wiffle Ball tournaments.

Dan’s blog, Deezo Feezo, was required reading because of his slightly off-kilter take on life -- mostly sports, bad television and his hunt for a decent meal.

My favorite feature was his “Friday Five” -- five things collected for their coolness and randomness. Life goes by too quickly, and once in a while we need to pause and take stock of the little things that make it special.

Alas, Dan put his blogging on hiatus and my Fridays were just not as complete. We exchanged e-mail this week, and he said he hopes to be back someday. I think the Indians’ playoff collapse and the demise of “The O.C.” was just too much for him.

In the meantime, he has entrusted me with the Friday Five. And I shall keep it warm until he returns. And I'll take better care of it than, say, Tim Burton did with the "Planet of the Apes" franchise.

And so, I present to you the Deezo Friday Five.



1) Johan Santana wearing the traditional Mets pinstripes at his introductory press conference.


2) Dancing Bear. How much better would things be today if Dancing Bear was unleashed on an unsuspecting world?


3) Jimmy John’s “Big John.” Best. Sandwich. Ever.


4) “Mutts” homage to “The Big Lebowski.


5) “Dead Zone” Season Four. I watch DVDs on the treadmill and I’m working through DZ right now. I’m not seeing as much of Sarah in this season. I don’t know if that means the writers ran out of things for her to do, or Nicole DeBoer was too busy running around Star Trek conventions to show up on the set.


Enjoy the weekend.

The "magic sock" incident

Mets fans no doubt remember the famous "magic loogie" Seinfeld episode.

Shockingly, I’m dealing with a "magic baby sock," leading to my most embarrassing moment with an important politician.

In the sitcom, Kramer and Newman were walking out of Shea as Keith Hernandez -- who booted a ball and cost the Mets the game -- walked by.

Newman sneered, "Nice game, pretty boy!" toward Hernandez, who allegedly spit at the pair, with the loogie bouncing off Kramer and hitting Newman in several places, all captured on Zapruder-like footage.

It's hard to picture Keith doing this. After all, no loogie was fired at my grandmother when she accidentally stabbed him in the belly with a broomstick in a Florida Publix supermarket.

But I digress.

Michigan’s governor was in town Friday to speak at a conference and my journalism students were assigned to join others from the university in covering her address.

I work with the nice folks in the governor’s communications office from time to time, contacted them to learn the topic of the speech and told them about my new class.

And I was thrilled when they said that since my class was small, they’d try to work out something where the governor could meet the students before or after her talk.

And sure enough, we met the staff outside a conference room before the speech,. The governor graciously came out and shook hands with each of the students and asked them about their classes. Out of the 50 students from the university attending the event, only my five had this opportunity.

I was beaming and thinking how I would accept my "Coolest Adjunct Instructor — Ever!" award.

Then it happened.

The governor asked the students if they would like to pose for some photos. I was standing off to the side, holding my packet from the conference.

I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my camera.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something small and white flutter down and land at the feet of the governor.

I pretended I didn’t see it.

I was the only one who did that.

In fact, everyone else took a step back. Except for the state police trooper assigned to protect the governor. I think he took a step forward.

My mind raced. Did I just throw a snotty tissue at Michigan’s governor? I didn’t want to look down.

But look I did. And rolled up in a ball a foot from the governor was not a snotty tissue, but a baby’s sock. I was relieved because it could not have come from me. It must have been there all along.

But then the governor bent down and picked it up as her press staff stepped in closer.

"Looks like you dropped a sock," she said.

"It can’t be from me, my youngest is in fifth grade," I said. I’m sure I was beet red.

It was one like this, only with a red stripe.

"Well, it’s not from me, I have no kids," said the staffer closest to this unfolding disaster.

The governor kind of made a face and handed it to the staffer.

"Maybe it came from my conference packet," I offered.

I wanted to run and hide. But I’m fairly certain that had I started running, the state trooper would have given chase, body slammed me, maybe used pepper spray just because he could. Then he would have dragged me down the stairs and off to jail where I’d be sitting next to thugs who would immediately move away from me after asking, "What are you in for?" and me replying "I threw a baby sock at the governor."

Luckily, she moved to distance herself from the growing sock-tossing incident and said something like, "Well, let’s take some pictures!"

My mind now thought what the "Most Embarrassing Adjunct Instructor — Ever!" award looked like.

The governor posed with all the kids, and then insisted that I join them for a shot, which was kind considering that I was just accused of throwing infant hosiery her way.

There were only three places this sock could have come from: The conference packet, my coat pocket, or Derek F. Jeter hiding behind a plant.

There would be no reason for it to be in the packet, which was pretty flat except for the name tag inside, and it’s not like I was holding it upside down spilling the contents.

But there is equally no reason for it to be in my coat pocket. My youngest is 10 and her socks are much bigger.

I was around an infant a couple weeks ago in church, but I wear that coat often and load my pockets down with the cell phone, iPod and wallet. Certainly I would have found a sock in there before.

When in doubt, I tend to balme Derek F. Jeter for my woes. Yeah, irate over the Johan Santana trade, bleeping Jeter snuck into the hotel, hid behind a plant and tossed a sock out there to spoil my moment of glory.

Alas, we know Jeter can't move that fast.

So the only thing that makes sense is that this is a "magic sock" that materialized out of thin air near my coat pocket and for reasons unknown to us mortals, decided to heave itself at the foot of Michigan’s governor.

Doesn’t seem plausible. But then, neither do the other scenarios.

The students actually didn’t seem too horrified, and now had something to tease me about. There’s a chance "sockgate" might be mentioned in the next edition of the university newspaper.

Apparently the governor wasn’t too upset. I sent a thank you e-mail to the staffer and got this reply: "You are most welcome and do be sure to let us know the origin of that sock!! Talk to you soon."

Sadly, this isn’t my first embarrassing moment with an important politico this new year. The other would be the "Mitt Romney Cell Phone Debacle," but we’ll save that for another day.

Like Casey, I'm now "The Old Professor"

You’ll be issued a sweet laptop and textbook, but not markers for the wipe board.

I learned this the hard way on my first day teaching a journalism course at a local university.

Yup. Like Casey Stengel, you can call me the “Old Professor.” Well technically, I’m an adjunct instructor. But I’m excited about my moonlighting opportunity.

After more than 20 years of writing about teachers, I’m going to see what it's like from their perspective.

This came out of the blue.

Journalism students were attending a Board of Education meeting as an assignment, and it just happened to be the night when frustrations boiled over and were directed at your favorite education writer.

Students apparently went back to their class, told the professor about what they saw and wondered whether that type of behavior was something reporters deal with frequently.

I know the professor, and have spoken to his students over the years. So he invited me to speak to his current crop about what transpired that night. I guess it went well, because he later asked if I’d be interested in leading a class for the spring semester.

Here’s a little secret about reporters. We sometimes wonder what it would be like to be the people we cover. After sitting in the audience for school boards or city councils or even state legislatures, we think would could do those jobs – sometimes better than the people elected to do them.

So I jumped at the chance, and got the OK from my boss. It’s an advanced news writing class one night a week, so not likely to get in the way of my main job.

And after one class, I can tell you that teaching is harder than it looks. Much harder.

I thought I was prepared, in fact, over-prepared. I went over the syllabus, I pondered over potential stories for the kids to write and had my introductory speech all planned out. I also met with the university’s IT staff and picked up my laptop, then got my ID card – which lands me a free meal a week in the dining hall – and parking pass.

As luck would have it, there was actual news to cover on the day of the first class. I sent all the students – there are only five in the class – an e-mail telling them that a hazard of having a practicing journalist teaching a journalism class is that such things might happen and to not flee if I’m a little late.

I rolled in right at 6 p.m., juggling the laptop, textbook, a folder with copies of the syllabus and other information, a batch of my famous chocolate chip cookies and copies of the day’s paper for each of them.

I like that they’ll be able to read my work every day as I’m reading their work. It’s a little extra pressure. I better not do things in a story that I deduct points for in class.

It just so happened that I had a story bannered atop the front page that day. I didn’t plan that, but I sure wasn’t bummed about it. I was pretty happy to hand out papers and show that the instructor knows his stuff.

The classroom was set up with a series of narrow tables forming a square with a lot of space in the middle. The students all sat on one side. I looked around to the wipe boards – slate blackboards are a thing of the past – and saw erasers, but no markers.

OK, I panicked. A big part of my planned lesson was to write on the board words that are banned from news stories – like “implement” – and talk about why they were bad to use. I promised to buy pizza for the next week’s class any time the kids find one of the banned words in one of my stories.

The book store is in the same building as the class, and I told the students I’d be right back.

“Relax, we’ll be OK,” one said.

She must have sensed I was tense. Maybe because I was walking around in a circle with my hands in the air saying “Why? Why? Why?”

And I made it to the store just as it was closing. The manager took pity and allowed me to buy a package of markers. Phew!
This threw me completely off track, and all the things I practiced saying somehow disappeared from my mental lesson book.

Using my markers, I wrote on the board and looked at the kids. They seemed so far away. And sitting all in a row, I felt like a lawyer making a case to a jury.

“Guys, this just isn’t working,” I confessed.

We rearranged the tables, pushing them together to get rid of the gap. This made the class seem more like co-workers sitting around a conference table, talking about stories. I don’t know about the kids, but I was a whole lot more comfortable.

After that, everything seemed to go a lot better. And, again, I don’t know about the kids, but I learned many things.

First, college has changed since I graduated from the University of Missouri School of Journalism in 1986.

Kids used their laptops to take notes, rather than spiral notebooks. We conducted a paperless class, sending assignments back and forth through e-mail.

Students even took turns helping me with my new Dell, which is loaded with Microsoft XP but seems to have some Vista features, especially with the Works and Outlook programs.

And, if you want to see some big smiles, release the kids five minutes before “American Idol” comes on.

The students were patient and engaged, and I think it’s going to be a fun semester. And I already have a new appreciation for the people I cover.

Another reason I was excited about this opportunity is to give back a little.

Robert Block, a professor at Nassau Community College, made a dramatic impact on my life. You can read about that here.

Hanging with Mitt and Huck

Political rallies are both exciting and draining to cover. Here is Mitt Romney at a "get out the vote" rally in Grand Rapids on Tuesday morning.

The week before a presidential primary week is kind of like March Madness for political junkies.

Republican presidential contenders and their friends pounced on Michigan this week, all attempting to show how much they know about Michigan and care about the things that Michiganders care about.

This lasts until the day of the election, and before the final ballot is counted they’re on their way to South Carolina to show how much they know about South Carolina and care about all things South Carolinans care about.

Democrats usually care, too, but not so much this year because their primary election didn’t count — it’s a long story — sending them right to South Carolina.

As you know, when I’m not obsessing over all things Mets I’m obsessing about presidents — from all parties.

They’re all fun. And they usually have cool things like buttons and stickers to collect. And leaves. Some people think it’s strange that I have a leaf from the White House on my desk. And they don’t even know about Mike Schmidt’s grass clippings. But that’s another story.

My bosses know about this obsession, probably because I start dropping subtle hints that I can help out with campaign coverage. Actually, I’m not very good at subtle. I go right to begging.

Happily, they assigned me to cover three Mitt Romney events on Wednesday and a dinner on Friday that included Romney, Duncan Hunter and Sen. Sam Brownback subbing for John McCain.

Then on Saturday I spent some time with Mike Huckabee, was supposed to check out the now-elusive John McCain on Monday — he changed his schedule to appear in Detroit — and finished with another Romney event on Tuesday morning.

Rallies are fun to cover regardless of which side of the aisle the candidate is from. There’s an electricity that’s kind of like seeing a concert of a band that’s peaking. And the closer to the election and larger the crowd, the greater the intensity.

Here’s how these appearances typically work.

Organizers post a time they want people to be there, knowing it’s a good half hour before anything is likely to happen. This is so the local staff and volunteers can pass out signs, stickers and other things to wave for the cameras.

All this is to create a visual image of excitement. None of this is left to chance. Most of the time even the signs that look homemade are made by volunteers and handed out, usually with a predetermined message of the day.

And the better-financed the campaign, the better the stuff. Romney got points for the coolest give-away, foam rubber baseball gloves with "Mitt ‘08" on it.

Now, as a baseball purist, I could point out that if they were going for the obvious baseball mitt connection, they should have used a catcher’s mitt or a first basemen’s mitt, both which are technically mittens because they don’t have individual finger slots. The rest are gloves.

The uninformed tend to call any leather thing on the hand of a ballplayer a mitt. I would dock points for getting that wrong, but was so happy to see any baseball-president merger that I overlooked the fault.

The candidate is usually late, because it’s easy to fall behind schedule when there is one more hand to shake and snapshot for which to pose.

In fact, the only time you know for sure that the politico has arrived is that the national media traveling with the campaign appears. They’re usually kind of tired and cranky because they’ve been on the road and have listened to the same speech over and over and are fed up with living out of a suitcase and eating fast food.

The candidate always — always — gives the national guys time to get set up because the campaign benefits by having them there to take photos of waving signs and foam rubber mitts.

After being introduced by local politicos, the candidate takes the stage, or in the case of Romney outside of a restaurant, stands on a chair, and recites lines they have honed to fit with local concerns.

People attending these are already excited and emotional, and a good speaker can grab them, taking them both high and low. Huckabee is a gifted speaker; he had people both cheering and in tears.

At some point there is a "media avail" where the candidate takes a moment to answer questions shouted by reporters.

Sometimes it’s tough to get your question heard. It’s a combination of volume and timing.

You either have to be loudest, or start yelling out your question a heartbeat before anybody else does. That means you have to guess when the candidate is wrapping up the answer to the previous question so you can beat everyone else, all of whom are trying to do the same thing.

Then, when the media avail is over, the local television guys try to throw one more question as the candidate is walking out. This is usually for appearances, because if a question happens and the station’s mic ID isn’t in the shot, it didn’t happen.

Sometimes this can be pretty funny. In 2000 I was covering an appearance by Gary Bauer, a conservative candidate hoping for the Republican nomination. He was a longshot candidate, but I was still excited because, as I said, I’m obsessive and it’s all good.

Someone from one of the television station didn’t do her homework. Usually I ask my questions when the TV types aren’t around because I do my own research and don’t want to give them good material. So I said nothing when one of the locals approached Bauer and asked some pretty general questions, like, "What would you do if you are elected?"

When she had enough questions on tape, she asked Bauer, "So, what are you running for again?" With as much disdain as he could muster, yet still be polite, Bauer said. "President. Of the United States."

Candidates' families usually are at these appearances, which I imagine are grueling for them after a while. Mrs. Huckabee was friendly and funny. She walked into room where the post-rally media avail was to be held, saw an open chair near where I was standing, and asked if it were sitting there.

"No, be my guest."

"No, no, that’s OK, You’re working and I’ll find a seat in the back," she said, then smiled. "Trust me, I’ve heard this before."

It’s fun to feed off the electricity of these events, but we don’t get swept up. Reporters look at these differently than most folks, looking for themes and messages. We think about what the candidate is saying and why he’s saying it — and if he is connecting with the people he wants to connect with.

Once all the people attending a rally have left, it’s OK to pick up a sticker for the collection. Huckabee’s campaign is famously on a shoe-string, so there were no stickers to be found.

But I did find the paper taped to the floor of the stage reading, "Mrs. Huckabee," where she was supposed to stand as the former governor spoke.

I suppose it’s better than the White House leaf.

Bat-chucker's rampant butt talk

Roger Clemens' butt, the source of so much attention, before he apparently worked it off and put it on the line.

I’m worried about Roger Clemens.

Oh, not about his alleged steroid use. I don’t think too many people are surprised by those stories.

No, I’m worried about his apparent obsession with butts -- both his own, and those belonging to rodents.

I’ve worked with middle school youth groups, and I’m painfully aware that boys of a certain age develop a fascination with the hind quarters and all of its assorted functions. Backsides become a frequent source of humor a handy insult.

Now that I work with high school youth groups, I sense that the boys have outgrown ass antics and have moved on to other obsessions, mainly dodge ball.

But Clemens, for all his riches and accolades, appears to have been unable to take his attention away from butts.

Let’s look at the record.

The real fornt page of the Trentonion. You just can't make this stuff up.

Former strength and conditioning coach Brian McNamee told George Mitchell that he injected Clemens at least 16 times with steroids and human growth hormone in 1998, 2000 and 2001.

Clemens acknowledged receiving injections from McNamee, however, he said they were vitamin B-12 and the painkiller lidocaine.

Where did he get these shots? You guessed it, in the butt. I don’t know about you, but I like my vitamins in pill form. Never once did I ask to have my Flintstones chewable ground up and loaded into a syringe.

And when I get a shot, I generally try to take it in the arm. It doesn’t hurt that much.

"Dude, keep your hand off the butt. It's sore."

I would note that the list of people I would allow to inject me with anything anywhere is pretty short and limited to doctors and nurses. A strength and conditioning coach doesn’t meet that criteria. But I digress.

Then we have Clemens’ unusual press conference-meltdown show Monday evening.

Forget for a moment the surreal 17-minute phone call where Clemens called McNamee and didn’t once say something like, "Brian, why did you lie?" One could argue that would be because he knew that McNamee didn’t, but we can discuss that later.

Because the more frightening thing happened after the phone call. The topic of conversation quickly turned to, you guessed it, butts.

Silly sports writers. They wanted to talk about steroids. Clemens would have no part of it.

"Do you think I played my career because I’m worried about the damn Hall of Fame?" he said, according to a published report. "You keep your vote. I don’t need the Hall of Fame to justify that I put my butt on the line and I worked my tail off, and I defy anybody to say I did it by cheating or taking any shortcuts, OK?"

So Roger both put his butt on the line, and then worked it off? If he worked it off, where did it go? And what if he needed to put it on the line again? I realize it would be sore from all those vitamin and pain-killer injections, but to go through life buttless would be tragic.

Then the silly writers again wanted to talk about steroids, when whether the allegations would harm the legacy for which Clemens so dramatically sacrificed his butt. Having surrendered that behind, Clemens then turned his attention to varmint heinies.

"This is not about records or heroes or numbers. I could give a rat’s ass about that."

All this butt talk was apparently too much, because Clemens then ended the show and huffed out.

All this gives me a new appreciation for Shawn Estes, the former Mets pitcher. Actually. I previously had no appreciation at all for Estes, considering the 4-9 record and 4.55 ERA he gave us during his one year with the team.

But Estes was on the hill when Clemens made his return to Shea in 2002. Clemens, of course, by that time had drawn the wrath of Mets fans for his beaning of St. Mike Piazza, and hurling the broken bat Piazza’s way in Game 2 of the ill-fated 2000 World Series.

Joe Torre made sure that in subsequent interleague games, Clemens only faced the Mets at Yankee Stadium, where American League rules allow pitchers to avoid facing retribution for their head-hunting.

But Clemens finally had no choice but to pitch at Shea in 2002, and Mets fans — mostly me — wanted Estes to deliver a high hard one that would knock some sense into Clemens’ dome.

Estes apparently was under orders from Bobby Valentine to do just that. He didn’t, angering all of Mets fandom.

Today I give Estes credit. He wanted to nail Clemens where it would really hurt him, the spot apparently so important to Bat-chucker that it dominates his every thought and is the target for his fortifying vitamins.

Yup, Estes threw at Clemens’ butt.

Sadly, he missed. He is, after all, Shawn Estes. Maybe he should habe taken some B-12.

Ten resolutions to start 2008

I haven't been to a game at Shea since 1991. And that was the last time I've seen the Mets win in person.

Now that 2008 is here, there are things I need to do and things I need to keep doing.

I was going to include "Finally forgive Tom Glavine for 7 runs in 1/3 of an inning in his most important start of the year," but I decided I should have resolutions I have even some chance of keeping.

Let's get these out in the open and you, gentle reader, can hold me to them throughout the year.

Resolution 1: To get to Shea Stadium in its final year. There’s no way I can let such a large part of my baseball heritage slip into history without passing through one last time. From my first game in 1971 to the emotional afternoon when Tom Seaver stood on the mound and bowed as No. 41 was forever retired, Shea has been a special place for me.

Resolution 2: To be nicer to people I don’t necessarily like. If God loves me and all my faults, then he loves them, too. And if he loves them, so should I.

Resolution 3: To stop assuming that Mets reliever Scott Schoenweis is going to give up four runs every time he enters the game. That’s just not fair to Scott. Sometimes he’s only going to give up three runs.

Resolution 4: To speak less and listen more.

Resolution 5: To not hate the Yankees so overtly.

Well, except for Derek F. Jeter. But that goes without saying.

And the Bat-Chucker, because George Mitchell says that’s completely justified.

And the confessed cheater Andy Pettitte.

And Jason Giambi, of course.

And WussRod for all the crap he pulled this fall.

And the traitor Damon, just on principle.

Resolution 6: To drink less Diet Coke and more water.

Resolution 7: To keep losing weight. December put me in kind of a holding pattern. But we’re going to be back on the reduction trail. I’m about halfway to my Big Audacious Goal.

Resolution 8: And keeping with the exercise that has helped with the goal, I want to run in at least three 5-K races this year, and even break 30 min. That’s not a fast time for most people. It's not a fast time for a slug headed uphill. I know that. But we must start somewhere. And it would be a three minute drop from my best time in years.

Resolution 9: To see the Mets win at least one game in person. My track record isn’t good. OK, I haven’t seen them win since 1991. But that shameful streak has to come to an end this year, even if it means venturing to Milwaukee or Cincinnati! Mandy will know how to get us there!

Resolution 10: To be only semi-obnoxious about the University of Missouri’s glorious football season. Like with the Mets, I’m a fish out water here in Michigan.

I’m bombarded by co-workers and their love for Michigan State and the University of Michigan. But their seasons went right in the Dumpster while Mizzou, unfairly denied its shot at the national title, dropped a beating on Arkansas in the Cotton Bowl. MIZ-ZOU!

This also is the 100th year of the Journalism School, and like all good alumni it would be nice to get back to Columbia this year to show the kids the old stomping grounds and hold high a slice from glorious Shakespeare’s Pizza!

Happy new year, everyone!