Ok, it is not as if they are easily going to find anyone to pitch those 200 innings any better than Toothless Tom did, but that has more to do with the thinness of the pitching market than Glavine himself.
A silver lining is that now we won’t have to deal with knowing that the ace of the staff (probably the ace for practical purposes, certainly for publicity ones) will certainly go into the Hall of Fame wearing the cap of the Atlanta fucking Braves.
I would feel a lot more sympathetic towards Glavine if he had not been obviously willing to go back to the Braves after last season. The only reason that he didn’t was because the Braves did not extend him an offer—if they had, he would have won his 300th for Atlanta.
It is idiotic to blame the Mets collapse on Glavine; his performance in the last game was the least of many, many problems, and should never even have been an issue. However, they had a realistic enough chance to force that one game playoff until half way through the first inning. They were still in the race until Glavine delivered the worst game of his entire career.
It is not as if he was sort of bad in that last game, giving up seven runs over three innings. He gave up seven runs, and recorded ONE out. He made Jose Lima look like Nolan Ryan. And it’s not as if, after that horrendous performance, he signed with the Pittsburgh Pirates.
Tom Glavine, you personally hammered the last nail into the coffin of the 2007 Mets and then promptly went and signed in with the Atlanta Braves…screw you, man.
I just hope he’s saved the actual worst game of his career for the first time that he faces the Mets.
....thanks for the memories, though.
Showing posts with label Tom Glavine. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tom Glavine. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
Unreasonable Speculation:
So, if the Mets make the post-season, and if everyone is healthy, the Mets will face a minor dilemma: they will have five starting pitchers when they will only use a four man rotation. So, of the five, Martinez, Glavine, El Duque Maine and Perez, one of them needs to be moved to the bullpen—any Met-ologist will point out that this was done to Sid Fernandez on the 1986 Championship Team. It is unthinkable, for reasons of ego and star power, that Glavine or Martinez would pitch in relief. In the most recent Mets Mailbag, someone asks if El Duque’s nearly legendary relief outing for the White Sox in the 2005 ALDS would make him a leading candidate for the bullpen assignment; the mailbag’s emphatic answer was no, which was kind of too bad since the first draft of this post was mainly about how the Mets should not let the 2005 ALDS tempt them into using El Duque in relief.(the White Sox put him in the ‘pen because he had an awful end of the season and they thought they had better options for starters, which is not the case of 2007 Mets) This narrows the field down to Maine and Perez.
For a lay person the question of weather Maine or Perez should work in relief is fascinating, since there is no real information of any sort to go on. In terms of success rate, they are very evenly matched: Maine’s performances tend to stick closer to some sort of mean, whereas Perez’ vary more sharply and he is more prone to both excellence and miserable failure. They have similar, brief, histories in the post season: both were very adequate in the games that they pitched for the Mets last year.
Eeven less concrete than their numbers, is the fan’s perception of a difference between the two in temperament, particularly in what is perceived as their mental/emotional state when they end up in trouble. Maine, apparently, is prone to lapses of concentration; he occasionally misplaces his pitches and gets ‘hurt by the longball.’ Perez, on the other hand, is liable to ‘get rattled’ when things don’t go his way: when balls get misplayed in the outfield or when he disagrees with the umpire about balls and strikes. Once one of these minor setbacks occurs, Perez is prone to losing his composure, and his command, and issuing walks until his composure returns or he gets taken out of the game. The generalization is that Maine hurts himself by not reacting enough to the game, the opposite of Perez, who makes trouble for himself by being too emotionally involved.
Of course, the Mets Mailbag precedes its response with the customary hedge, saying that it is far too early too discuss these things and that no one knows who will be healthy and what the situation will be if and when the time comes to make these decisions, but then says this: “I wouldn't use Perez in relief. He's too erratic for the role,” and goes on to speculate that Maine might be a serviceable short reliever, based largely on his dominance early in games—this is in fact a very good point, and Maine’s first trips through the lineup have been extremely dominant all season, and there is some kind of logic to thinking that he could repeat this dominance in relief outings.
In my expert opinion, though, the South Paw from South of the Border might have a little bit of a better psychological make-up for a relief pitcher. It is frequently said of Perez that he “wants the ball” in big games, that he wants to be out on the mound when the season is on the line. He is an adrenaline pitcher, and a component of his wildness is a taste for danger; there is something about him that reminds one of Billy Wagner, who is capable of protecting a lead of exactly 1.5 runs. The theory about Perez, that his emotional involvement in the game leads him to fall apart, works both ways: it has been known to lead him to excellence as well. The Met’s best bet might very well be to run him out in relief and hope for the best.
UPDATE: Mets fans are dopes.
For a lay person the question of weather Maine or Perez should work in relief is fascinating, since there is no real information of any sort to go on. In terms of success rate, they are very evenly matched: Maine’s performances tend to stick closer to some sort of mean, whereas Perez’ vary more sharply and he is more prone to both excellence and miserable failure. They have similar, brief, histories in the post season: both were very adequate in the games that they pitched for the Mets last year.
Eeven less concrete than their numbers, is the fan’s perception of a difference between the two in temperament, particularly in what is perceived as their mental/emotional state when they end up in trouble. Maine, apparently, is prone to lapses of concentration; he occasionally misplaces his pitches and gets ‘hurt by the longball.’ Perez, on the other hand, is liable to ‘get rattled’ when things don’t go his way: when balls get misplayed in the outfield or when he disagrees with the umpire about balls and strikes. Once one of these minor setbacks occurs, Perez is prone to losing his composure, and his command, and issuing walks until his composure returns or he gets taken out of the game. The generalization is that Maine hurts himself by not reacting enough to the game, the opposite of Perez, who makes trouble for himself by being too emotionally involved.
Of course, the Mets Mailbag precedes its response with the customary hedge, saying that it is far too early too discuss these things and that no one knows who will be healthy and what the situation will be if and when the time comes to make these decisions, but then says this: “I wouldn't use Perez in relief. He's too erratic for the role,” and goes on to speculate that Maine might be a serviceable short reliever, based largely on his dominance early in games—this is in fact a very good point, and Maine’s first trips through the lineup have been extremely dominant all season, and there is some kind of logic to thinking that he could repeat this dominance in relief outings.
In my expert opinion, though, the South Paw from South of the Border might have a little bit of a better psychological make-up for a relief pitcher. It is frequently said of Perez that he “wants the ball” in big games, that he wants to be out on the mound when the season is on the line. He is an adrenaline pitcher, and a component of his wildness is a taste for danger; there is something about him that reminds one of Billy Wagner, who is capable of protecting a lead of exactly 1.5 runs. The theory about Perez, that his emotional involvement in the game leads him to fall apart, works both ways: it has been known to lead him to excellence as well. The Met’s best bet might very well be to run him out in relief and hope for the best.
UPDATE: Mets fans are dopes.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Tom Glavine Wins 300
I know this happened a while ago, but it was fun, wasn’t it? Much more fun than losing two in a row to the Phillies. So take your mind off the current struggles and indulge in a little bit of recent nostalgia:
Suk 11, an iconic back-packer hostel. The only space available was in a dorm room. The place is as eclectic as you’d expect, winding rooms, plaster walls covered with graffiti, sporadic and ornate patches of wood, of which the management was viciously proud. Frequent, adamant and angry signs warned against writing on the wood, as well as smoking in the rooms, and sex tourism. “Honnymon, ‘97”, “Love u ladyboy, you changed my life, see you soon.”
The night before, Javid and I had gone looking for a jazz bar, and ended up in an odd pocket of Suckumvit rd, that was filled with Japanese bars and restaurants. In one of these, where we had stopped for beer, one of the Thai bargirls and I had ended up pawing each other across the language barrier; the management seemed to have resolved that I was going to take her to a short time hotel, but a connection got missed and Javid and I ended up staggering back to the hostel in a hostile and directionless argument.
Back in Suk 11, I bitterly repented not having gone with my new friend: not so much for carnal reasons as because every minute in the short-time hotel would have been a minute not spent in the oppressive stuffy, dormitory, surrounded international snores and a lack of air.
At some point mine host, who had gone out for food after we had both apologized for various behaviors, returned to the hostel. “Dude, I think I just fell in love with a girl,” he told me. I congratulated him and returned to my thankless parody of sleep.
Thus it was with no great difficulty that I roused myself at seven thirty in the morning. Suk 11 has accepted modernity readily, in an almost curt, simplistic way. Putting a 10bhat coin in a box (approximately 33 cents), will get you fifteen minutes of internet. The office where I had checked my computer was closed, so I went to a station of computers on the second floor and watched a couple innings on game day: I didn’t much care for the political overtones of waking up an international hostile with a baseball game.
The office opened at eight. I went out for bottles of green tea and a further supply of ten bhat coins. When I returned to the hostel, I gave myself a neat scare by telling the management that the stripe on my computer bag was red, instead of orange.
The lobby in Suk 11 opens directly onto the street; there is no outside wall, but only a railing and a barrier of plants. There are two tables, one by the opening to the outside, and one further in. In back of the second table there was a low table on which was laid out a spread of bread, jams and fruit. Coffee and tea were also available. I set myself up on the table closest to the outside, where an older, white bearded American was smoking Thai Marlboro Lights, and working on a Chinese imitation lap top. We discussed our computers for few moments: he was impressed by my “real IBM.”
For the next two hours, I resembled a member of some obscure religious sect, in one of those ecstatic states that suggest both piety and mental illness. The two obstacles to my devotions were that the signal through Gameday Audio would frequently stop for periods for ‘buffering’ and sometimes go out altogether, and secondly that the speakers on my computer were nearly inaudible in the lobby that began to fill with international tourists and jazz music on a sound system. To remedy the latter, a Thai girl offered me headphones, but these just made the increasingly common periods of no sound at all far more frustrating, and I quickly returned them to her, and resumed sitting with my head cocked over my computer, rocking with frustration and excitement as I caught snatches of what seemed, increasingly, to be an excellent and historical game. I wish that I could say that I never offered my own commentary in an unhinged mutter or quietly applauded at certain intervals.
Ever since the sail-boat, people have been fond of thinking that various innovations have the effect of shrinking the world, that the increased connectivity somehow makes the world smaller. For me, this idea died that morning in Suk 11. Not many years ago at all, it would have been impossible for me to in anyway at all follow this game in real time; now I was listening to the same words, the same voice of Howie Rose who was being listened to in cars all over the tri-state area, in homes through out New York and New Jersey, on the boom-box in my parent’s house that had been taken out of my sister’s room after she went to college. But Howie Rose heard in Thailand is very little like Howie Rose heard in the states, a baseball game in the lobby of Suk 11, is not the same as a baseball game in America. Gameday Audio has not had the effect of shrinking the world at all: rather it calls into being an infinity of Howie Rose doppelgangers—which expands the world, rather than shrinks it—and indeed serves to remind us that different shades of Howie Rose are heard by different listeners at different exits on the turnpike.
And, indeed, without the increased connectivity of the web, the French tourists sitting on my left, and the Thai’s working in the lobby would have never seen the specter of the baseball acolyte—a vision that must have somehow expanded their world view, if not for any particular purpose.
The signal went out for the last time as Billy Wagner was pitching to the third batter in the ninth, and before long the final zero appeared in the line score: perhaps this was for the best, since while I had wanted to hear the final moments of the historic win announced, I was also afraid that if I had done so I would have wept.
Suk 11, an iconic back-packer hostel. The only space available was in a dorm room. The place is as eclectic as you’d expect, winding rooms, plaster walls covered with graffiti, sporadic and ornate patches of wood, of which the management was viciously proud. Frequent, adamant and angry signs warned against writing on the wood, as well as smoking in the rooms, and sex tourism. “Honnymon, ‘97”, “Love u ladyboy, you changed my life, see you soon.”
The night before, Javid and I had gone looking for a jazz bar, and ended up in an odd pocket of Suckumvit rd, that was filled with Japanese bars and restaurants. In one of these, where we had stopped for beer, one of the Thai bargirls and I had ended up pawing each other across the language barrier; the management seemed to have resolved that I was going to take her to a short time hotel, but a connection got missed and Javid and I ended up staggering back to the hostel in a hostile and directionless argument.
Back in Suk 11, I bitterly repented not having gone with my new friend: not so much for carnal reasons as because every minute in the short-time hotel would have been a minute not spent in the oppressive stuffy, dormitory, surrounded international snores and a lack of air.
At some point mine host, who had gone out for food after we had both apologized for various behaviors, returned to the hostel. “Dude, I think I just fell in love with a girl,” he told me. I congratulated him and returned to my thankless parody of sleep.
Thus it was with no great difficulty that I roused myself at seven thirty in the morning. Suk 11 has accepted modernity readily, in an almost curt, simplistic way. Putting a 10bhat coin in a box (approximately 33 cents), will get you fifteen minutes of internet. The office where I had checked my computer was closed, so I went to a station of computers on the second floor and watched a couple innings on game day: I didn’t much care for the political overtones of waking up an international hostile with a baseball game.
The office opened at eight. I went out for bottles of green tea and a further supply of ten bhat coins. When I returned to the hostel, I gave myself a neat scare by telling the management that the stripe on my computer bag was red, instead of orange.
The lobby in Suk 11 opens directly onto the street; there is no outside wall, but only a railing and a barrier of plants. There are two tables, one by the opening to the outside, and one further in. In back of the second table there was a low table on which was laid out a spread of bread, jams and fruit. Coffee and tea were also available. I set myself up on the table closest to the outside, where an older, white bearded American was smoking Thai Marlboro Lights, and working on a Chinese imitation lap top. We discussed our computers for few moments: he was impressed by my “real IBM.”
For the next two hours, I resembled a member of some obscure religious sect, in one of those ecstatic states that suggest both piety and mental illness. The two obstacles to my devotions were that the signal through Gameday Audio would frequently stop for periods for ‘buffering’ and sometimes go out altogether, and secondly that the speakers on my computer were nearly inaudible in the lobby that began to fill with international tourists and jazz music on a sound system. To remedy the latter, a Thai girl offered me headphones, but these just made the increasingly common periods of no sound at all far more frustrating, and I quickly returned them to her, and resumed sitting with my head cocked over my computer, rocking with frustration and excitement as I caught snatches of what seemed, increasingly, to be an excellent and historical game. I wish that I could say that I never offered my own commentary in an unhinged mutter or quietly applauded at certain intervals.
Ever since the sail-boat, people have been fond of thinking that various innovations have the effect of shrinking the world, that the increased connectivity somehow makes the world smaller. For me, this idea died that morning in Suk 11. Not many years ago at all, it would have been impossible for me to in anyway at all follow this game in real time; now I was listening to the same words, the same voice of Howie Rose who was being listened to in cars all over the tri-state area, in homes through out New York and New Jersey, on the boom-box in my parent’s house that had been taken out of my sister’s room after she went to college. But Howie Rose heard in Thailand is very little like Howie Rose heard in the states, a baseball game in the lobby of Suk 11, is not the same as a baseball game in America. Gameday Audio has not had the effect of shrinking the world at all: rather it calls into being an infinity of Howie Rose doppelgangers—which expands the world, rather than shrinks it—and indeed serves to remind us that different shades of Howie Rose are heard by different listeners at different exits on the turnpike.
And, indeed, without the increased connectivity of the web, the French tourists sitting on my left, and the Thai’s working in the lobby would have never seen the specter of the baseball acolyte—a vision that must have somehow expanded their world view, if not for any particular purpose.
The signal went out for the last time as Billy Wagner was pitching to the third batter in the ninth, and before long the final zero appeared in the line score: perhaps this was for the best, since while I had wanted to hear the final moments of the historic win announced, I was also afraid that if I had done so I would have wept.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Official Blog Nemesis: Jay Greenberg of the Post
“Mathews died in 1899, 12 years after the end of his career, unable to blame relief pitching for his premature demise. Life was simpler for pitchers then, without Scott Schoenweis, without African-American players, without puffed-up substance abusers uncounted numbers of which Glavine has gotten to tap weakly to second over 20 seasons.”
--New York Post Colum, “Another vintage Glavine outing,” by Jay Greenberg
Ok, I was originally just going to let that speak for itself but, damnit, why does that asshole have a job? I understand that he is trying to make a point-- a lot has changed in baseball, some good, some bad—but the syntax is blatantly racist. He put the integration of baseball as the middle item on a list along with a god-awful relief pitcher and steroid cheats.
Probably, if I had the patience to deal with the Post’s crappy search engine, I could find some glowing piece by Greenberg about the Jackie Robinson anniversary. Probably, you could talk to him every day, or know him for half of your life without hearing him come out and say that he thinks that the integration of baseball was the start of a decline of which steroids is only a continuation. Probably, he doesn’t admit that he thinks that to himself. At the same time, that is what he thinks, and no denial and no apology can really answer this reflexive admission.
It was Greenburg, by the way, who wrote a column demanding Milledge’s head after “Bend Ya Knees-gate.” Milledge was/is partners in some music venture and put up a “raunchy” rap single on his web-site. The song was far from tasteful (and quickly taken down), but not much more offensive than a whole lot of other popular music. And if respect for women in hip-hop is a concern of yours, a relatively inoffensive, unreleased single by a minor league-baseball player seems like an odd place to start.
Greenburg’s column on Milledge was called “The Last Straw,” which some paranoid Mets fans might interoperate as a disparaging reference to another brilliant, troubled, African-American ballplayer. While he never mentions Strawberry by name, he does bring up Allen Iverson’s rap music and Kobe’s rape trial as arguments for trading Milledge. I wonder why he left out Brett Myers, a Phillies player who got in legal trouble last year for punching his wife in the face outside of a stadium? Probably didn’t have space…
--New York Post Colum, “Another vintage Glavine outing,” by Jay Greenberg
Ok, I was originally just going to let that speak for itself but, damnit, why does that asshole have a job? I understand that he is trying to make a point-- a lot has changed in baseball, some good, some bad—but the syntax is blatantly racist. He put the integration of baseball as the middle item on a list along with a god-awful relief pitcher and steroid cheats.
Probably, if I had the patience to deal with the Post’s crappy search engine, I could find some glowing piece by Greenberg about the Jackie Robinson anniversary. Probably, you could talk to him every day, or know him for half of your life without hearing him come out and say that he thinks that the integration of baseball was the start of a decline of which steroids is only a continuation. Probably, he doesn’t admit that he thinks that to himself. At the same time, that is what he thinks, and no denial and no apology can really answer this reflexive admission.
It was Greenburg, by the way, who wrote a column demanding Milledge’s head after “Bend Ya Knees-gate.” Milledge was/is partners in some music venture and put up a “raunchy” rap single on his web-site. The song was far from tasteful (and quickly taken down), but not much more offensive than a whole lot of other popular music. And if respect for women in hip-hop is a concern of yours, a relatively inoffensive, unreleased single by a minor league-baseball player seems like an odd place to start.
Greenburg’s column on Milledge was called “The Last Straw,” which some paranoid Mets fans might interoperate as a disparaging reference to another brilliant, troubled, African-American ballplayer. While he never mentions Strawberry by name, he does bring up Allen Iverson’s rap music and Kobe’s rape trial as arguments for trading Milledge. I wonder why he left out Brett Myers, a Phillies player who got in legal trouble last year for punching his wife in the face outside of a stadium? Probably didn’t have space…
Monday, June 11, 2007
Says it all:
“I made some mistakes. They made me pay for it. I made some good pitches. They hit those, too.”
-Tom Glavine
-Tom Glavine
Monday, April 9, 2007
Games 2-6
Since I last said anything about them, the Mets have been playing .500 ball, gaining dominant wins over St. Louis and then Atlanta, before losing to Atlanta twice. The two losses seemed mainly to do with breakdowns of their defense and bullpen, whereas the victories seemed defined by commanding offensive performance coupled with solid starting pitching. This is, more or less, what we are lead to expect from the team: we are told that their line-up is the most powerful in the National League, and team officials see this as mitigating any shortcomings from pitching and defense. When they all hit, the Mets are fairly close to unbeatable- but all offences are prone to periods of stagnation, and over the course of 162 games, the laws of probability indicate that there will be a bunch of them where they don’t hit, or don’t hit very much- and these are games that the Mets have a perfectly decent chance of losing, at least until Mota, Sanchez, and Pedro get back.
Looking back at yesterday’s game, it seemed obvious that Willie Randolph has been reading this blog, and took to heart my thoughts on the desirability of having David Wright hit in the two-hole. With Lo Duca taking the day off, Randolph had Jose Valentin (who did miserably) batting second, and Wright, same as ever, hitting fifth. Shawn Green had better be extremely careful.
Reflecting on today’s home opener, and the six games that preceded it, it seems that the thing that Mets fans should hope for most fervently is the emergence of either John Maine or Oliver Perez as the real ace on the rotation. This is in no way a criticism of Glavine or El Duque: both of them are, and have been, great pitchers and will be both useful and essential to the team this season. The best thing that can be said for either of the youngsters is that they have shown that they might, at some point, be capable of doing what El Duque and Glavine have already done: survive in the big leagues for many years as an unquestionably dominant pitcher. At least the potential to do this has been shown by both Maine and Perez, and the chance to see how they perform over a full season is one of the most exciting things about the 2007 Mets.
Looking back at yesterday’s game, it seemed obvious that Willie Randolph has been reading this blog, and took to heart my thoughts on the desirability of having David Wright hit in the two-hole. With Lo Duca taking the day off, Randolph had Jose Valentin (who did miserably) batting second, and Wright, same as ever, hitting fifth. Shawn Green had better be extremely careful.
Reflecting on today’s home opener, and the six games that preceded it, it seems that the thing that Mets fans should hope for most fervently is the emergence of either John Maine or Oliver Perez as the real ace on the rotation. This is in no way a criticism of Glavine or El Duque: both of them are, and have been, great pitchers and will be both useful and essential to the team this season. The best thing that can be said for either of the youngsters is that they have shown that they might, at some point, be capable of doing what El Duque and Glavine have already done: survive in the big leagues for many years as an unquestionably dominant pitcher. At least the potential to do this has been shown by both Maine and Perez, and the chance to see how they perform over a full season is one of the most exciting things about the 2007 Mets.
Monday, April 2, 2007
Opening Day
In the 48 hours proceeding last night’s game I had worked myself on into a frenzied state of anxiety about the rotation and the bullpen. The low point came when I was on my way home on Saturday night, and got into a conversation with a fan on the N train, who shared my apprehensions about Wagner (he disagreed, however, with my assertion that we had to wait seventeen hours for the start of baseball, dating the start of the season to when he began ‘drinking and watching movies’ with his friends, which event was apparently scheduled for somewhat earlier). By Sunday I was capable of nothing except for watching the re-play of the 2006 division clincher on SNY, which, for some reason, I found fascinating.
Anyway, it is pretty difficult to want the opener to go much better than it did. Scoring five runs off of Chris Carpenter is always a good thing; six innings of one-run ball from Glavine is always appreciated. The defense, which has been maligned by sports writing sources lately, was fantastic- Reyes and Valentine showing themselves to still be double-play artists, Beltran with an excellent outfield assist, Lo Duca more than solid behind the plate, and, perhaps most pleasantly, a very nice diving catch from Alou. The bullpen, despite their best efforts, pitched three innings of scoreless relief.
Actually, for all the base runners they allowed, I am most impressed with the relievers. Particularly, since I skimmed a piece in the Daily News calling it into question, I think the choice to use Joe Smith for most of the eighth was excellent. What is best about it is that Willie Randolph is telling everyone who cares to listen that the individual win is less important to this club than the information about how one of their young relievers will perform under pressure. Randolph doesn’t need to play mind games with the Cardinals, and the opportunity to see what Smith would do against Albert Pujols (walked him) was more irreplaceable than the opportunity to notch up a W- Randolph seems to think that they will have opportunities to do the latter all season long.
As for Smith’s actual performance, there are a couple of ways of looking at it. He faced three batters and gave out a walk and a hit, and recorded one strike-out. On the other hand, barely out of college, in his first-ever big league appearance, he faced three batters from the reigning world champions, including the best hitter in baseball, and didn’t give up any runs, and that’s pretty good.
It seems sort of unfair that they have an off day today. But after waiting all winter for game 1, I guess I can wait until Tuesday for game 2- barely.
Anyway, it is pretty difficult to want the opener to go much better than it did. Scoring five runs off of Chris Carpenter is always a good thing; six innings of one-run ball from Glavine is always appreciated. The defense, which has been maligned by sports writing sources lately, was fantastic- Reyes and Valentine showing themselves to still be double-play artists, Beltran with an excellent outfield assist, Lo Duca more than solid behind the plate, and, perhaps most pleasantly, a very nice diving catch from Alou. The bullpen, despite their best efforts, pitched three innings of scoreless relief.
Actually, for all the base runners they allowed, I am most impressed with the relievers. Particularly, since I skimmed a piece in the Daily News calling it into question, I think the choice to use Joe Smith for most of the eighth was excellent. What is best about it is that Willie Randolph is telling everyone who cares to listen that the individual win is less important to this club than the information about how one of their young relievers will perform under pressure. Randolph doesn’t need to play mind games with the Cardinals, and the opportunity to see what Smith would do against Albert Pujols (walked him) was more irreplaceable than the opportunity to notch up a W- Randolph seems to think that they will have opportunities to do the latter all season long.
As for Smith’s actual performance, there are a couple of ways of looking at it. He faced three batters and gave out a walk and a hit, and recorded one strike-out. On the other hand, barely out of college, in his first-ever big league appearance, he faced three batters from the reigning world champions, including the best hitter in baseball, and didn’t give up any runs, and that’s pretty good.
It seems sort of unfair that they have an off day today. But after waiting all winter for game 1, I guess I can wait until Tuesday for game 2- barely.
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