Ask Jobu to Come, Take Fear from Bats; Offer Him Cigar, Rum

Gut-punch of a loss for the Mets tonight. To have the game end on an interference call just as the team dramatically tied it up... good lord. I'm not entirely sure, but I think the ump was technically right to call out Marlon Anderson; going in hard and late is one thing, but actually shoving the fielder to the ground while you do it is another. Still, you hate to see any game end that way -- and it was especially painful since the Phillies probably wouldn't have turned the DP regardless. The Mets may have actually discovered a worse way to lose than having your pitcher balk in the winning run, which I wouldn't have believed was possible.

Between this and the game-tying dribbler that never rolled foul from Tuesday night, to say nothing of countless other incidents of terrible luck this series and the entire team's sudden inability to buy a run-scoring hit, it's beginning to look as if the Mets have done something to seriously piss off the baseball gods. Hopefully someone can find a white steer to burn as an offering of atonement before tomorrow's game. Or maybe they won't need much luck, because El Duque's starting... what I wouldn't give to see him toss an eephus to Pat Burrell.

Anyway, maybe it's an illusion, but it sure seems like all year the Mets have largely been good when the Yankees have been bad, and vice versa; I'm going to have to crunch the numbers at the end of the season. Regardless, last night the Yanks played a solid game behind Roger Clemens (with the notable and totally unsurprisingly exception of Kyle Farnsworth), and moved into a virtual tie with Seattle, who just got clobbered by the Angels. I listened to a bit of that game online today and kept forgetting that I was supposed to be rooting for LA, accidentally cheering for the Mariners instead... it's just horribly unnatural. Glad that's over.

And by the way, I can't tell you how thrilled I am that somebody recently found this blog by searching for "badass jesus blogspot." Fuckin' a.

Christ on a Pogo Stick

Well, the Baseball Gods decided to stop fucking around with ominous threats and skirmishes last night, and declared open war on the New York Yankees. Some hapless clubhouse attendant must have messed up the requisite burnt sacrifice of a white ox back in early March. Their revenge is swift and terrible.

In perhaps the most depressing 10-1 win in living memory, the Yankees' offense woke up against several hapless Texas Rangers while Phil Hughes, rookie sensation, had his gorgeous, dominating, self-assured, no-hit performance ended abruptly in the seventh inning by an major hamstring pull. He'll be out six weeks, and that's if you're optimistic -- which at this point would probably require heavy-duty pharmaceuticals.

Did this happen because Hughes was rushed to the majors? I don't know, honestly. It seems possible, but I know too little about anatomy and the medical effects of pitching mechanics to judge. Meanwhile, given the bonanza of pulls and strains and tears (Damon, Matsui, Mussina, Wang, and counting), there's a lot of scrutiny on the Yankees' new strength and conditioning coach, the alliterative Marty Miller. But I say they just need to appease the deities before Don Zimmer, with the help of a vengeful Poseidon, sends the team plane on a perilous, cursed, decades-long journey through strange and dangerous lands.

Sing in me, Muse, and through me tell the story
of Brian Cashman, skilled in all ways of contending,
the wanderer, harried for years on end
after he plundered the stronghold
on the proud height of Shea...



[UPDATE: Willi Carroll of Baseball Prospectus doesn't think rushing Hughes had anything to do with the injury. That's good enough for me.]