Giants 6, Astros 4

by Sphinx Drummond

It should be an honor to recap a game by the great San Francisco Giants. Willie Mays. Man, was there ever a better all around player? With all due respect to Stan the Man and Hammering Hank, the Say Hey Kid is the greatest living player, and one could easily make the argument of greatest of all time. I remember as a boy how impressed I was when reading in an old Astros game program from the mid 60s and finding that my favorite player, Jimmy Wynn, chose to wear number 24 because his favorite player was Willie Mays. But then, Barry Bonds makes that recap honor go away.

I’m tired of recapping games in which the Astros lose. Also it has become clear to me that MLB, starting at the top with Bud Selig and going all the way down to the bottom of the totem pole with Astros owner Jim Crane, that MLB doesn’t give a shit about tradition or propriety. Tradition is not found in the fabric of a throwback jersey. Tradition was compromised when they started fucking with the fabric of the game. They started chipping away long ago beginning with the DH. Inter-league play? Why not? Fuck the Astros and make them take the Brewers’ old place in the AL? No one will care, no one goes to their games anymore anyway.

The announced attendance was just 13,207, the smallest crowd in the history of Houston’s 12-year-old ballpark. The previous record low came a night before as fewer fans come out to see the worst team in the majors. A new record low is expected tomorrow. Memo to Mr. Crane: setting records in futility is winning at failing.

I wonder if they burn incense and hang beads from the doorways in the Giants’ clubhouse? I mean since the drug culture sort of permeates the whole franchise. No sooner than they lose one drug addled poser they gain another. Guillermo Mota, after serving a 100-game suspension for his second positive drug test, made his first appearance since May 5, in the sixth inning. Mota tested positive for Clenbuterol, which he says was in children’s cough syrup.

Since Bud Selig and company feel they can make up new rules as they go along, what the fuck, as a fan, I can make a few rules of my own. Even if they don’t mean anything to anyone but me. From now on I get to take away one inning of each game. Strike it out as if it never existed. The first inning, last night, gone. Beaker‘s homerun didn‘t count and the loud cheers weren’t heard. The Astros won 4 to 2. Otherwise it was your typical Astros ballgame.

Craig Biggio addressed the team before Wednesday’s game at the request of DeFrancesco. DeFrancesco said he wants to teach the young team how the Astros were during their years of success when Biggio played.

DeFrancesco commented after the game. “They’re playing hard and giving us a chance. There’s a lot of good things happening, and we’re playing some good teams that are trying to get to the playoffs.”

Hey, what more could you ask?

Mets 2, Astros 1

WP: Parnell
LP: Lopez

Come over to the window, my little darling,
I’d like to try to read your palm.
I used to think I was some kind of Gypsy boy
Before I let you take me home.

Now so long, Marianne, it’s time that we began
To laugh and cry and cry and laugh about it all again.

On April 17, 1962, Houston met the Mets in the Polo Grounds for the first game between the two expansion teams. Norm Larkin and Don Buddin led the way with home runs for Bobby Shantz, eventual winning pitcher Jim Golden and reliever Bobby Tiefenauer as the Colt 45s beat the Mets 5-1 in front of 3,191 paying fans. Houston took 13 of 16 games in the series that year.

***

When I was a kid we lived in a middle-class neighborhood, populated by the families of those born late in the Depression or early in World War II. Working class folks with enough of the New Economy of the 1960s to have maybe three bedrooms, or two and a Living Room, plus a nice yard with a chain link fence. Some people even had those wooden privacy fences, but not everybody had that kind of money, especially if you expected to be able to go to Six Flags every summer, maybe even stay in a motel.

Friday nights were our big nights out. We’d pile into the white ’56 Bel Air or later, the super-futuristic ’66 Buick Riviera dad got for my mom and we’d drive around downtown, seeing the sights. We’d cruise down Burnet, Lamar, then down Congress, gaping at the storefront windows, the lights, the Capitol. Sometimes we’d pass by the Vulcan Gas Company and my father would tell us that was where the hippies hung out.

Eventually we’d end up at the McDonald’s in Capitol Plaza, where dinner for four was less than five bucks. Sometimes we’d eat inside, but if it was Christmastime we’d get back in the car and creep slowly by the giant Montgomery Ward picture window, with its Santa Claus display of full-size sleigh and seemingly hundreds of toys spread across the vast panorama of dreams.

Well you know that I love to live with you,
But you make me forget so very much.
I forget to pray for the angels
And then the angels forget to pray for us.

Harrell was locked into a pitcher’s duel with Jeremy Hefner today, or at least a duel of impotent offenses. Harrell gave up a solo shot to the second deck in right to Ike Davis in the fourth on Jewish Heritage Appreciation Day. It seemed to be HaShem’s will that the run be the only one scored until the top of the ninth, when intervention in the form of Jose Altuve appeared.

***

It was a nice time, when dreams and trust were fierce and strong and full, and there were many bright days of discovery. I was taught to read by the girl who lived across the street, learning on comic books that stoked the flame into a blaze. My oldest friends were made in that neighborhood, some of whom I still have in my life.

That house and that neighborhood hold my earliest memories. I remember watching Yogi Berra play on the TV in the living room, watching the game with my dad. I remember watching JFK’s funeral, wondering about the word ‘caisson’ and thinking of how beautiful the parade of horses was.

Towards the end of our time there, a new family moved in next door, representative of a turn in the neighborhood’s fortunes. Too many kids, too little money, ragged clothes and not much in the way of parents was the next wave. The oldest boy was about a year younger than I was but we all still played together, more a concession to proximity than any other common ground because we were completely different. Their mother’s shrill cawing, accusing them of some petty misdeameanor as she flew out of the house, belt in hand until she reached the object of her anger so she could start flailing rings in my ears even now, 40+ years later.

We met when we were almost young
Deep in the green lilac park.
You held on to me like I was a crucifix,
As we went kneeling through the dark.

Snapping an infield single to a diving Tejada, Altuve stole second on a busted hit-and-run when Shoppach’s throw went about 85 feet and to the shortstop side of the bag. Gonzalez made up for the miss by smacking a dying flare to left that caromed off of Duda’s glove to score Altuve and tie the game.

Wallace hit a rocket to Davis for the second out. Francisco singled to left and Marwin raced home, but a great throw by Duda and a superb block of the plate by Shoppach ended the Astro threat.

Your letters they all say that you’re beside me now.
Then why do I feel alone?
I’m standing on a ledge and your fine spider web
Is fastening my ankle to a stone.

Inevitably, we kids scuffled too. I was older and bigger, so altercations were brief but I didn’t press my advantages other than to end whatever the conflict was. There were several though, since we were so different, and I’m sure the other pressures in his life were pretty strong since I know he got the belt just about every day from one parent or the other.

One day, we were in his front yard playing football and he got upset at something, I don’t remember what. Yelling turned to shoving, and then he came at me and I put him down on the ground, pinned his arms with my knees and committed the gravest rite of embarrassment known to an eight-year-old: I let the thin line of spittle drain down from my lips, slowly, until it drizzled all over his squirming, screaming face. I had won, but this time it was scorched earth.

I got off of his sobbing, humbled body and headed back to my house. An electric sting wracked my side as I walked, then another and another, across my sides, my legs, my head. That feral little bastard had picked up the water hose, and he was using it on me like a bullwhip.

For now I need your hidden love.
I’m cold as a new razor blade.
You left when I told you I was curious,
I never said that I was brave.

In the bottom of the ninth, Wright lined out to lead off Lopez’ second inning of duty. Davis took two pitches outside the zone, then deposited a sinker just past Francisco’s glove in right and over the wall for the game-winning sucker punch. The last laugh belongs to the Mets.

For a righteous man may fall seven times and rise again, but the wicked shall fall by.

The Mets were born in 1962, just like the Astros, born into the National League of steals and bunts and taking the extra base. Doormats for years, the Astros tasted success sooner. The Mets took the role of water until they came out of nowhere in 1969 to wear away the stone of a World Series championship. As relatives and rivals for fifty years, the Astros’ regular season league record against New York ends at 308-258-1. This closes out a strange rivalry, like one between neighbors who share similarities in the face of numerous differences.

Oh, you are really such a pretty one.
I see you’ve gone and changed your name again.
And just when I climbed this whole mountainside,
To wash my eyelids in the rain.

steM 3 Astros 1

by Mr. Happy

R. A. Dickey was on the mound for the Mets today. I love watching knuckleballers pitch. It takes me back to my high school senior prom when I was pressured into taking this ugly girl who had a crush on me and who claimed that I asked her when I was very drunk.

At the prom, and before it, my friends and some of my team mates were giving me so much shit about the date that I feigned an ankle sprain so that I could leave the dance and go back to the motel room. Back at the room, unfortunately accompanied by my date, I turned on the television and, lo and behold, the motel had WTBS, which was showing the Braves game.

I was giddy and fixed myself a drink, the first of many, and proceeded to pay zero attention to my date and to watch Phil Niekro and a sorry Braves team play the almost as bad Philadelphia Phillies. Niekro threw a complete game, and the Braves won 4-2. Here’s the box score that literally saved my life and reputation.

During the game, I paid absolutely no attention to my date and focused on Niekro’s magical mastery of the knuckleball, despite her bothersome amorous advances. By game’s end, my date realized that the fix was in. I had ruined her senior prom. She never spoke to me again, which didn’t bother me. I was a hero with the guys for quick thinking. But I digress.

Meanwhile, back at the Astros game, one Fernando Abad was on the mound for the Good Guys against R.A. Dickey. For three innings, Abad bent but didn’t break, walking a bunch. Unfortunately, the Mets scratched out a run for a lead that they would never relinquish. The Astros would only garner five hits off of Dickey and the Mets en route to a 3-1 loss in Flushing, Queens.

Missoula, here I come!!!

Astros 3
Mets 1

by NeilT

Astros beat the Mets tonight. I felt bad about that, I’m a big Mets fan. I especially loved Leonard Dykstra, particularly his great songs:

Suzanne takes you down
to a place by the river
where she feeds you tea and oranges
that came all the way from China

I’ve always wondered if that song wasn’t the foundation of our current trade imbalance. I won’t hardly eat an orange, if it don’t come from China.

So much has happened since I last wrote a recap, I hardly know where to begin. The manager was fired because it was discovered the Astros were infected with the zombie virus, and Mills didn’t know how to manage the walking dead. There was a new interim manager hired, but I can’t write about him because I don’t know his name. I’ve been reading the new Dave Robicheaux novel, which made me think of Mr. Happy, and since he’s the only person that reads recaps I wanted to ask if he’d read it. I’m not in last place in the fantasy league anymore because I’ve actually been paying attention.

I could write about my deep and abiding love of the Mets, and how they are the mirrors of our souls.

But none of those. Last night I came home and turned on the tv and sat on the back porch with the door open and read Creole Bell and cooked veal chops and asparagus on the grill. I paid some attention to the game, but after the game we watched Red Dawn because I wanted to prepare for the coming UN Invasion.

SCENE ONE — THE INVASION

We was sitting in our dugout, listening to the new manager talk about some Mongoloid shit, when these guys with these funny blue baseball caps parachuted onto the field. We figured it was some training mission that landed in the wrong place so Altuve–he speaks that Spanish shit–Altuve goes out to tell them they’re in the wrong place. This really ugly guy just blows him away. Then he does the same thing to Marwin–maybe it was because they both went out there speaking Spanish? Brett gets to first, but then Francisco go down and I take off. I’m pissing myself, I tell you, but I get past three of them, and we head out to my dad’s place on County Road 5 in my pick-up. Then this Colonel guy shows up, Colonel DeFrancesco, and I ask him, Colonel, how’d you get shot down? “It was five to one,” he says, “I got four.” ASTROWOLVERINES!

SCENE TWO — TAKING TO THE HILLS

Getting out of town we lost two more guys, Pearce and Green. Green just stood there looking and took the bullet, but Snyder, he just walked on over to the truck and climbed in. Man it made me happy. Then Barnes screamed ASTROWOLVERINES! and blasted one of those blue-capped bastards out to deep center field and Snyder came home! Man, it was great! Then I told ’em, we gotta stand and fight because we’re Americans, and this is Lubbock, and those bastard Cuban UN troops can’t take us. So I drank some blood and blasted a double out to left and Barnes scored. Then Altuve died again? How does that shit happen? I thought he died in scene one? I walked one of ’em–Davis, is that a Cuban name, or Russian?–in the second, and gave up a single, but then Davis got thrown out at home, Altuve and Marwin screamed some shit at those MetroCubUNs and took out two with a double play. It was bad, man. I said to Altuve, man, they were people, how did it feel? “It was good,” he said.

SCENES THREE THROUGH SEVEN — STUFF HAPPENS

There’s a bunch of stuff happens for awhile, but us ASTROWOLVERINES are gritty and young and brave and we take the best stuff them MetroCubUNs can dish for the next 5 innings. I went straight through the third, but that Niese guy showed up again and he did the same. Then in the fourth this really badass Russian guy, Wrightagorsky, just blows a bomb to right and takes some of us out. It was ugly. But I got one of the Cubans, Valdespin, out swinging and Torres went down and we got through the inning still one run up. The fifth and sixth were three up three down, but the top of the seventh, Tyler Greene, who’d been kinda a chicken shit most of the game, gets really brave for this one scene and blows out 422 feet to left. It was great, man, we was cheering and shit, Snyder took some out with a double, and then Barnes took a bullet to get Snyder to third. It was all looking good, a man on third with one out, and I tell Martinez, look man, I can’t do this, you gotta do this, and Martinez went in for me and took a bullet. At least he went out swinging. Wesley Wright, who’s like the youngest and littlest guy in the ASTROWOLVERINES!, did all sorts of brave stuff in the seventh. I heard Colonel DeFrancesco talking to Wright at the end of the inning. “Son,” he said to Wright, “all that hate’s going to burn you up.” Wesley just glared: “it keeps me warm.”

SCENE EIGHT — WE TAKE OUT THE RUSSIAN GENERAL

We finally blow the Russian general Niese away in the eighth, and Pearce stole some stuff from them after a walk, but not much else happened. W Wright did some more stuff, but W Lopez finally killed off Wrightagorsky for the last out in the 8th. It was then we knew–we could beat these MetroCubUNs. I looked at the Colonel and asked, so this is the battlefield? He gave me his best steely stare, “it’s a real war, kid. It’s here everyday.”

SCENE NINE — THE PLAQUE

This chick shows up and reads from a plaque:

“In the early days of World War 3, guerillas – mostly children – placed the names of their lost upon this rock. They fought here alone and gave up their lives, so that the Astros should not perish from the earth.”

Cardinals 13 Astros 5

by Mr. Happy

Today’s matinee was just another in a seemingly endless series of games of suck where the Good Guys start off good but finish shitty as usual. The Astros touched up Terdinals starter Jake Westbrook, who wasn’t sharp, for five runs in five innings of work. However, just to provide more proof that he’s up to the suckitude task, Dallas Keuchel, who falls to 1-6, yielded six runs (five of them earned) in but four plus innings.

The game could have ended after five frames with the Terdinals up 6-5 and I’d have been happier than I usually am. However, the Cards weren’t finished dealing, piling on seven more runs to win going away. The Terdinals bully, unlike our leaky bully, was very stingy, shutting the Astros out in the last four frames. Countering their bullpen proved to be too difficult for the cadre of wannabe big league pitchers who paraded into the game after Dallas Keuchel, who, himself, is a wannabe in my opinion.

We welcomed the newest Astro, one Hector Ambriz, who immediately proved that he belonged in Houston (he was cut this year by pitching-starved Cleveland, which I learned in the Game Zone–amazing what you can learn in there–so that should tell you all you need to know about Ambriz) by surrendering two earnies in one inning of shit. We bade farewell to the recently DFA’d Armando “I got nothing” Galarraga. What took so long to see that?

The losing streak has now reached seven as we make our way to the Big Apple to play the fucking steM. Read Craig’s series piece. It’s full of the customary venom and f-bombs that we’ve come to know and love Craig for. I could go on and on about how crappy this team is, but it wouldn’t do any of us any good. We suck. Thank you, that is all.