I’m glad we have Smoltzy going to the mound today, though our big problem yesterday wasn’t our starter, really — Redman wasn’t great, but I was counting on him to give up around three runs with that Mets offense, no big deal. But our offense didn’t show up at all, so it became a big deal. We should have killed Perez. Frenchy, who did all the quotes for the team after the game (except for a few terse words from Bobby), blamed the weather. I have to say, after that depressing evening, I’m kind of enjoying picturing everyone moping in the clubhouse and ignoring the press, except of course for Frenchy, all cheerful after his first home run of the season, volunteering quotes for hours. That’s our Frenchy.
That game was so not worth sitting through in the cold, but we had a pretty good time until around the sixth inning, when Woodward just watched Perez’s hit streak by without even moving toward it, a lovely addition to his sparkling performance. This is my problem with Bobby: his “give everybody their turn!” mentality, coupled with his need to have useless veterans platoon with younger players who consistently outperform them. There was no reason for Woodward to be in there. If you want to platoon the position, bring Prado back up. Hell, I would have rather seen Orr!
What was going on with Wilson missing that pop up in the first? And when I got to the bar, they were showing a replay of Chipper standing and watching a foul ball fall at his feet? Like he was chasing it and then just stopped and stared at it? Did I really see that, or had I already chugged my vodka tonic at that point? Was it some type of protest? I’ll have to go back and watch the game on Tivo, unless someone knows what I’m talking about and can explain.
Basically, we looked like clowns. Here’s hoping they can get over their anxious crap involving the Mets, pull themselves together and act like professionals today. Maybe Woodward is just some kind of voodoo curse and we’ll go back to playing like we did in Philly once he’s out of the lineup.
There was a middle school-aged baseball team sitting next to us in section 125 (which is a section I REALLY don’t recommend; I’ve never had so many vendors block my view of home plate from anywhere else in the park), and without those kids making fart jokes and antagonizing all the players equally, I probably would have really lost it. So that was enjoyable. The weather was less enjoyable — it was bearable until around the seventh inning, when my teeth started to chatter.
Their in-game promotions were identical to the ones they did last year: tool races, etc. They’re still featuring a long video memorial to that grand slam against the Nationals that Frenchy hit early last year. I was laughing when they showed it, saying “I bet even he’s sick of hearing about this by now,” but nope: I glanced into right field, and Frenchy was staring up at the screen with rapt attention.
I’m sorry to report that I didn’t recognize any of their entrance songs, except for Chipper’s “Crazy Train.” I don’t think the Braves and I listen to the same music. Rent’s was rap, Andruw’s was rap, featuring the line “this is why I’m hot,” Frenchy’s was VERY twangy, geeky country, Heap’s was rap, Wilson and Diaz’s were generic rock songs. If Woodward had a song, I didn’t notice it; I guess I was too busy ranting about how much he sucks to catch it.
Finally: I forgot how weirdly mesmerized I get by batting practice. Heap always seems to hang out with the coaches during BP, and when Chico abandoned him in the infield yesterday, he played catch with the bat boys. It was great.
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