Jeff Francouery Sullivan!
We got there a bit late Saturday night, delayed by the goodness that is O'Brien's, the place with the oddest pleather green chairs and the yummiest of beer lists. They were celebrating Alpine Beer Company, so had 7 varieties on tap, and I got to drink a homer short of a cycle: an Alpine Duet IPA, an Alpine Bad Boy, and an Alpine Exponential Hoppiness (it is). That's a single, double, and triple IPA, in order. The Expo is fiercely hoppy and I wish I had one right now. Of course, getting there late means we missed the Alex Cora homer, the only run the Mets would tally for the evening. Instead we got to enjoy the rookie stylings of the very talented Mat Latos (gotta love that missing "t" that led me to heckle, "is that like welcome mat?"). He does this funny bit in his motion where it looks like he sticks the ball in his back pocket. Clearly, he kept the Mets off balance all night. And then Heath Bell came in, got the save, and I turned Padre fan, as Bell is on my fantasy time. Yes, I'm that kind of fan.
Sunday was mighty warm for San Diego, especially in the terrific behind the plate about 10 rows seats Larry got us. (I didn't even offer to pay for these, figuring they cost so much he'd probably have to kick me in the nuts 10 times to stop me from doing that.) It looked like this, only closer, and in 3-D, but my blog doesn't have the java script for that yet, sorry.
The best part, though, was I finally got to see Johan Santana pitch live. And live he is. (We're all allowed a man crush or two, right?) He also pitched the classic Johan game of late, not too many strike outs, but practically nothing but strikes. He didn't throw his 10th ball until his 40th pitch. He just had excellent location and kept the Padre line-up, which, truth be told, is about as pitiful as the Mets', guessing. Here he is delivering a pitch as shortstop Anderson Hernandez practices his look for that bad hop he's sure will happen soon.
My Mets stats for the year: Overall 2-2. Home 1-0. Road 1-2. Keeping score 2-0. So I guess I gotta keep doing that. I didn't know the team cared.
P.S. It's fun, if theologically confusing, to shout "Angel Pagan" at the top of one's lungs.
Labels: mets schmets