Not Cool, Blue

Hey Mets fans. No what’s up today – you should expect that when I’m in an especially bad mood. Let me enumerate why I’m so grouchy:

First, and foremost, my fantasy team just slipped into second place today. I’m trying to figure out a trade to stop this slide, but I’m not sure I want to pull the trigger just yet.

Second, speaking of slides, I have no idea what’s going here in Boston. I know as manager I’m supposed to have control over the clubhouse atmosphere, but something has gone wrong and I don’t know what. Also, this mini slump, in which we’ve two close very close games, is in no way my fault. Sure I started Chris Woodward yesterday and he struck out in a key situation, but it was his birthday. I’m a firm believer in instilling confidence in my players, and when somebody turns the big 3-0, they need to be in the starting lineup.

Third, Tim Mcclelland – the effrontery he has. Who does he think he is, Angel Hernandez? Anyway, the incident involving Tim after the seventh inning set me off. You may not have been able to see this on TV, but this is what went down. Chad Bradford is walking off the field after inducing a nice double play, and then Tim comes over. At this point I’m thinking, “Oh boy, I hope my knowledge of rules involving pitchers isn’t tested again. The last thing I want is a repeat of Saturday.” Then, this conversation took place:

Ump: Bradford, you’re in violation of rule of 8.0.1.17.k
CB: Like hell I am.
Me: Tim, please explain.
Ump: You know the rule, Willie, no pitcher shall throw the stinkball. I smell Bradford’s breath from behind the plate. He’s clearly breathing tuna fish all over that ball.
CB: Am not! I haven’t had tuna in ages.
Ump: Then what’s this?! (Tugs at Bradford’s jersey)
Me: Hold on now, hands off. How do you know what that is?
Ump: I know bad tuna casserole leftovers when I see it.
Rick Peterson: HEY! That was my recipe!
Me: See! Bradford wasn’t lying!
Rick Peterson: You couldn’t make a casserole if you’re life depended on it, Mcclelland!
Ump: Oh yeah, cook-off, tomorrow at 7pm, Kenmore Square.
Rick Peterson: You’re on!
Ump: Better bring your A game (points finger in Rick’s face).

At this point I break things up, for Tim Mcclelland’s sake. But you see, I don’t need these distractions. Now I have to use Jose Valentin as my pitching coach and Mr. Met at second base while Wally, the Red Sox mascot, will apparently be umping in Tim's place.

Now, about the El Duque mistake. As I said, I took quite a few naps that series, and I happened to be napping during Rick’s visit. But really, that shouldn’t have mattered because it should only count as a mound visit if Carlos Delgado goes out there with me, and he clearly didn’t. I mean, I can’t say anything to El Duque, so the man is entitled to a translator during official mound visits. Haven’t they ever heard of Miranda Rights? Whatevs, man, that’s what I say.

Finally, I’ve tried really hard to convince Lastings Milledge that the Green Monster has no relation to the Blue Monster, the creature that lived under his bed growing up and tormented him until he was seventeen. But as you all know, I’ve failed because Lastings is still getting spooked on the warning track and can’t make a catch.

Okay Met’s fans, I have to get work and stay up all night thinking of some genius moves to avoid the sweep tomorrow.