Thursday, August 28, 2008
During college, I was BIG into fantasy football. I ranked. I prepped. I cared. Or maybe I thought I cared because I was drunk all the time, and you tend to think you care more about stuff after two dozen frosty beers.
But I digress. I really enjoyed fantasy football. The draft itself used to give me goosebumps, similar to the ones a little brat gets when he's unable to put his chubby head down to sleep because he knows some fat asshole is downstairs giving him undeserved presents. For the most part, through a thick cataract of alcohol, I thought I was the General Managing Partner of my own pretend fantasy franchise, and my draft and performance was bound to be scrutinized by some reporter who I would then have to shake down behind the scenes in order to return order to my tumultuous career and personal life.
Again, I drank a lot.
So, when the regular season started (usually after a riveting preseason!), and my team ultimately began to fail, it took a while for me to get over it. The preparation, the beautiful notes, the missed classes to attend drafts, was all all for nothing. But then I'd get over it and remember that it was just a drawn-out albeit convenient form of betting anyway.
Now? Meh. I don't know if I care as much. Is it that I'm older and more mature? No. Not even close. I think it deals more with the fact that the NFL is changing. Not a "letting colored players into the league" type of change, but the dynamic of the game is certainly different than it was 8 years ago.
What I'm getting at here for all of you who have not navigated away from the page is, I had my first draft a few nights ago, and it was absolutely putrid. I felt fucking violated. Every player I picked, I envisioned with a shattered kneecap as soon as my cookie-crumb-covered finger clicked the mouse button on "select".
The personal choice I settled on are abysmal. My #1 pick (nine overall in the draft- how much does that suck cock?) ran and acted as interested in football less than Drew Berrymore cares about looking like a (unattractive) man. So, why did I take him? I have no clue. Panic? Pump-fake? Not giving a fuck? Choose one. And my backups are unproven schleps to boot. Want some more info? No, because you would rather read about your Great Uncle's lethargic bowel movements than read about my draft results?
Well it's (partly) my fucking website, so read on, or wait another four days for some stats from The AK.
Round 1 - RB Larry Johnson, KC
Do I hate him? Yes. Do I respect him? No. But does Herman Edwards know how to run a RB into the ground? Fuck. Yes.
*Note: See Curtis Martin's knees for reference
Round 2 - WR Larry Fitzgerald, ARI
A receiver this early is hard to swallow. But considering one of the teams in my league boasts the following historic WR trio: Marques Colston, Reggie Brown and Tedd Ginn Jr - I feel like the luckiest man on the fucking face of this earth.
Round 3 - WR Brandon Marshall, DEN
Again, I can't stress enough how quickly WR's were going. At this point, I was craving nicotine so bad I would have jabbed a tar-laden needle into my heart just for some stress relief.
Round 4 - QB Carson Palmer, CIN
Do you see the trend? Bad year, good year, good year, bad year...I don't know what the fuck was going through my head. Please also remember that as I was drafting on a scorching hot laptop, Michael Kay was reassuring me that the Yankees were being thoroughly butt-fucked by the sufficiently unimpressed Red Sox.
Round 5 - RB Earnest Graham, CIN
Hey, ever leave the computer during a draft to piss/drink/eat/cry and come back only to realize your pick has passed and the fucking computer has selected for you? I have. Case in point, Earnest Graham, my #2 RB. Shoot me.
Round 6 - WR Jerricho Cotchery, NYJ
Doc a Homer? Abso-fucking-lutely. Do I care? Nope. And do take your criticism elsewhere, you're fucking up the gang green mojo.
Round 7 - TE Heath Miller, PIT
I caught him right before I was stuck with perennial questionable/doubtful list occupant L.J. Smith as my starting Tight End, so this, like most others, was a need pick. And now back to you for more asinine commentary, Jaws!
I'll save you all from the abomination that is the rest of my draft and list them without spacing or recognition because they are all equally worthless:
Typing that made me a little ill. I think I'll go delete my Yahoo account, steal all the money (Moving on up as Commish) and go blow it all on some tasty Light Beer and reflections from a time when eating Macaroni and Cheese 4 nights a week was acceptable and fantasy football - the two stud RB = success kind - was still relevant.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Let me start off with a few personal thoughts. One, The Yankees are a fucking joke. And I say this with all the tenderness and warmth of a mother tigress trying to eat her litter. They are a disgrace. And Purple Lips Rodriguez should walk into a drunk driver zipping down the Westside Highway on his way to Pasha. He fucking sucks. He sucks so much that nobody can suck more than he does. And then he fucking sucks more. Then he slaps his little gum bubble into the crowd, pretends to care, and goes into the clubhouse so he can jack-off to the men's section of a J-Crew catalog. A-Rod - die. Why did the Yankees resign him? Why couldn't they have got someone hitting cleanup that fares well under pressure? Damn this fucking team.
And while I'm at it:
- Fuck Pettite for arguing calls in the top of the 1st.
- Fuck Giambi for being a savant.
In Other News That Doesn't Make Me Want to Stick a Ruler Down My Throat
- Instant reply is coming to a stadium near you. Purists hate it. They also hate the fact that they have to eat dinner near a black person at a public restaurant, so, they're pretty much with modern times.
- Cliff Lee won number 19 last night. He would like you to know that he still thinks you're a bunch of fuckfaces.
- Jose Gullien had to be restrained from attacking a fan at Kaufman Stadium during last night's game. What was also noted in the article that I did not know is Guillen's the highest paid Royal, EVER. Now, if I was a fan of the Royals, I would commence the warm bath, Coldplay music, and an unsteady toaster right about now.
- Mets fell out of 1st place last night after another mediocre-to-poor performance by Pedro Martinez. Let me just say, if there's a team out there that gives Pedro a 1+ year contract this off-season, I will be absolutely convinced that the only way to get a GM job is to be retarded.
- Roy Halladay beats down the Rays and continues to prove he is the best pitcher in baseball and will continue to be overlooked by writers sucking the dicks of statistics. Hopefully, one day, writers will get their thumbs out of their asses and vote for the guy who deserves the Cy Young, considering the fact that he plays with an offense as potent as a Little League team on Mescaline.
- Red Sox are in talks with Mark Kotsay. Red Sox are also in talks with any other mediocre player with a decent glove that's able and willing to help form baseball's first modern day all white team, with the exception of David Ortiz, who they will spray paint white and dye his hair blonde in order to fool all the brainiacs wearing broken-in blue Sox hats.
- Kenny Rogers is also on waivers. If he is in pinstripes before the season is over, I will officially resume my smoking career.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Definition:"Def Eff, or Defensive Efficiency, is the rate at which balls put into play are converted into outs by a team's defense. Def Eff can be approximated with (1 - BABIP), if all you have is BABIP, but a team's actual Def Eff is computed with1 - ((H + ROE - HR) / (PA - BB - SO - HBP - HR)) ." I made the latter half of the definition in small text because it's very confusing. I don't know what it really means, but that first sentence is pretty clear. This stat measures how good a team is at turning balls put in play into outs. What's the one thing that all (but 1) of these teams have in common. They SUCK. 9 of the 10 teams on that list are flat out bad this year. The Yankees, however, are not bad. They are 10 games over .500 and play in a very tough division, the toughest in baseball to be honest. We all know they can hit (even though it goes away at times) and we all know they can't pitch (save for the Moose and Pettitte and the rare gem tossed by Sir Sidey and his Good Time Buddies). The season is far from over, but I know a lot of Yankee fans have given up hope this year. I'm sure they've given up for all the wrong reasons (they're stupid) but you can't ignore the trouble a team is in, even if they manage to make the playoffs, if they can't catch the ball.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Remember this movie? I sure do. I LOVED it. Why? I couldn't tell you. Maybe because it's Mel Gibson at his tough and gritty best. Maybe it's the cold and harsh way it's filmed. Maybe it's because I'm an idiot and have no taste. None of this, however, is relevant right now. The reason: BECAUSE NOW I KNOW EXACTLY HOW MEL FELT AT THE END RIGHT AFTER HIS GRAND 'PAYBACK' SCHEME WAS COMPLETE!!!
Take a journey with me, loyal WMHG? readers, back to 2003. It was a promising young season for the New York Jets. We were coming off 3 straight winning seasons and were poised to take the "next step". Then, we played the Giants in the pre-season and this happened:
That's right, my life ended that fateful night. Brandon Short took Chad's laser accurate left hand (I know he's a righty) and twisted it into a broken and dislocated mess. I was left with a gaping hole in my soul. A hole that I tried to fill with drugs and alcohol (didn't), with fast cars and faster ladies (didn't), and finally a hole that I filled with REVENGE, sweet lasting revenge. Behold:
Sorry Osi, but looks like you weren't ready for the BIG PAYBACK!!
*I know many of our readers are die-hard NY Giants fans and I apologize for this post.
Is this man pointing out a crack in the shell of the Metrodome? Maybe he's thanking God for granting him the power to find such beautiful and dignified Rec-Specs. Or could he be celebrating the final out of the World Series?
Surely, his reaction must have been caused by one of the three options above, because otherwise, he would be violating the old-fucker, white-man code of conduct: do not celebrate like an asshole over trivial things unless you're a non-threatening pale skin douchebag who supports segregation and is displeased with a woman's right to vote.
He is not helping the free mason's union of Minneapolis. And he credits himself for finding his custom pair of rec-specs, not God(or trendy Jesus). And during his career, he's never got the last out of a World Series.
No, K-Rod does this shit every game. Every fucking game.
And you know what? I don't really care what anyone does after they help their team win. It does not affect my life one bit. Pull down your pants and take a shit on the pitchers mound...cry...cry then shit...cry, shit and punch the batboy in the mouth...do whatever you feel is necessary. But what does bothers me is writers/broadcasters/cowards seem to leave Rodriguez out of the equation when they bitch and moan about pitchers and hitters over-celebrating a small feat. Why? You got me, because Rodriguez's an easy target. He's a fucking nerd. And he's skinny. He's a skinny nerd. What else do you need?
So I'm just going to go out and say it - he's Hispanic. And he's pointing to God. There's not one fat white old fuck who will go out on a limb and say, "You know what? That K-Rod sure is a ham," then chuckle, then finish his scotch, and then punch his wife in the face. It won't happen. They're too afraid to mess with that God/Hispanic connection.
Well guess what? I'm not.
God does not give a shit that you closed out a game against the A's. If God has a hand in baseball, he helped make the A's what they are today, and is not impressed that you struck out Bobby Crosby. He does not care that you got out of a two on/two out jam against Boston. It doesn't matter to him. You could burn a cross in the bullpen, announce you're affiliation to the church of Satan, and spit on the bible during warm-ups and still get the save(I wouldn't try it. Me=god fearing Catholic). What really matters is that you get ahead of the hitter and throw strikes and good breaking pitches. THAT'S ALL.
Look, I agree with leaving a man and his faith alone, but when I finish a (mediocre) project, I don't thank God afterward. I thank Photoshop. God has more important shit to worry about. And I'm not saying we need to say something to these guys and call them out for such abrasive behavior, but who's to say we can't take a few shots at them about it?
(Lighting bolt hits computer. I die)
Friday, August 22, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Hey Everyone, it's me, your favorite American League left-handed starting pitcher, Cliff Lee. I just stopped by to see how everyone is doing, see how things have been. Me? I've been busy this year, totally dominating better competition. Yeah, that's right, I said BETTER competionn. Why? Because the Indians are a bunch of maligned dicks, and you guys, the fans, can all go slip on ice and tumble into oncoming traffic for all I care.
Yeah, that's right, fuck you Cleveland, you waste of Midwestern real estate. Proud of your blue collar roots and blue collar heritage? Well, how about me? How about my blue collar approach to the game? You can take your lease on Lebron, your soon-to-be-dashed pipe dreams about a Browns playoff run, and shove them right up your swollen asshole.
Remember booing me last year? Remember when I came back from an injury to try and help the team? I do. You fucking tubs of shit. And what did you do when I couldn't get my rhythm down? You fucking booed me. And that creepy looking motherfucker Eric Wedge sent me to AAA to have "a meeting with myself". What the fuck does that mean? Who the fuck does he think he is, Yoda? You Sci-Fi nerd - you're lucky I do bounce a 12-6 off your obese jaw.
Check Cliff's stats this year, you walking heap of artery plaque, just check the stats. Old Cliff is
Well, then I guess it's just cheers to me this year, because this team has the same chance of making the playoffs as I do at 69ing Scarlett Johannsen.
Oh yeah, before I forget, I want to give a big "suck it long and good" to the remaining fans who supported me, just so no one feels left out. You want to see some humility? Then go watch Fausto Carmona try and order dinner at a fine dining establishment. You want sportsmanship? Go see Brady Quinn wash down a groggy Braylon Edwards in the shower.
No more. Not from Cliffy. The shit is on now, bitches.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Yes, I know what everyone is thinking, and no, I do not think every black person looks alike(just the men). But seriously, how has nobody ever put these two guys together? They're like long lost twins. Except one of these guys is 7 feet tall and eats his dinner out of a garbage pail, and the other guy is a slightly overrated running back (and fantasy annoyance) for a slightly irrelevant team. And one guy better be playing in the Bronx next year, or else I'm going to personally deliver a shit sandwich to that fat fuck in the front office. Ohhhhh, snap!
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Yes Ladies and Gentlemen, the wait is over. Carl Pavano is back. We can all collectively stop holding our breath.
Having Pavano possibly trot out onto the mound Saturday to start the game is sort of like getting back together with a girl that cheated on you with your best friend, your ex-girlfriend, your dad, and the bum down the street who eats lettuce from the dumpster. He's been nothing short of a disgrace, a loser, a liar, and a fucking scrub. But here we go again, the one thing the Yankee brass has continually failed to solidify year in and year out for the better half of this decade (the rotation for all you dummies) is once again an issue, and once again the team will rely on a guy who last made a start in April 2007 to come through in the clutch.
I hope he goes out with another ball off his fucking head.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Chris Carpenter's back on the DL. Well, that was fast, wasn't it?
No worries, the Cardinals will go out and sign Charlie Hough and somehow he'll win 10 games down the stretch, and he's dead! (no)
Thursday, August 14, 2008
For the record, typing in the title of this post felt gay. Not even "singing in the car" gay, but "sitting through the whole movie Crazy Beautiful" gay.
Anyway, now that that's out of the way, let me get to the point.
It's almost The Point of No Return for the 2008 Yankees. Darrell Rasner is still a starter? C'mon, maybe in the pen during Spring Training. Maybe a spot-start if the Yankees are leading the division by 12 games. But now? It's just plain embarrassing.
So, what do I think it's time for?
Fuck it - you can't make the playoffs every year, and this year's Yankees have become that guy in college who's been out like 34 nights in a row, only he has no clean clothes left and he fucking reeks like a wet ashtray and stale Popov vodka, but he keeps making out, night after night, even though at this point, most of his friends would like to see him take one off just so his blood can thicken and he stops calling you "Fuckface" in front of 9 year-old kids leaving the movie theater with their parents.
If that metaphor makes any sense to you, well, then you remember that guy - or you were that guy - and you understand where the Yankees are right now.
So, my advice is: Don't give up, but don't do anything stupid. Don't rush Joba back. If his arm isn't ready, let it marinate. Let it get 100% healthy. Don't push Wang back. Don't force Matsui back. Follow my blueprint, and I guarantee a better team next year.
Step 1: Refuse Sentimental Signings
Giambi - $21MM
Mussina - $11MM
Abreu - $16MM
Pavano - $11MM
Bye. All of you. We had some good times - except you Carl, you fucking pile of shit - but it's time to go our separate ways.
Step 2: Throw the Bank at Teixeira and Sabathia
Don't hesitate to pull the trigger. Tex is a switch hitter and he's only going to be 29 at the start of next season. Give him a fucking pony, a firetruck a studio apartment above a coke den, whatever he wants. He's a career .305 hitter in The Bronx. Sabathia will only be 28 at the end of Spring Training. He's 9 feet tall and he weighs 700 lbs. He will stay healthy. SIGN BOTH OF THEM.
Step 3: Resign Xavier Nady
Like I said before - Bobby Abreu can fuck off. Let him go jog out grounders and get scared of padded walls somewhere else - hopefully in Boston.
Step 4: Coddle Phil Hughes
If he looks hurt - HE IS. Don't take his word for it. He's a liar. Make sure if he has a broken rib, he's not pitching every 5 days and getting shellacked while stupid announcers ponder why he suddenly lost 10 MPH on his fastball. He needs to be a decent 5 starter. He's only 22 years old. Don't fuck him up. He's got a curveball that make elderly men weep.
It's simple. It's right there. Sometimes you just need to cash out and wait until next year. It's almost that time. And I'll tell you this - There's no way the Yankees are taking it all home with that fat-fuck Sidney Ponson on staff. I promise.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Right now, when discussing New York sports teams, there aren't many things to be thrilled about. Yes, currently, there is a media circle-jerk happening around Brett Favre, and it will continue to happen until he throws 7 INT's over the course of his first two starts, but when you take a step back and asses the situation, NY is hitting some hard times. And it's especially prevalent in baseball.
For this installment of Head to Head, we're pitting the Mets bullpen against the Yankees rotation - who sucks larger dick?
- Heilman and cohort Victor Zambrano are to be indicted in the gruesome murder of Rick Peterson's career and hairdo vibrancy
- Most members will not receive Christmas gifts from the usually generous-around-the -holidays-without-the help-of-scotch, Johan Santana
- Current righty specialist (we have those now?) Joe Smith is proud to not have the most boring name in the country
- When clicking on a team depth chart, you do not want to see this many pitchers under the title "DL"
- Have three guys with last names ending in "z" - Gay
- Anchored by Mike Mussina, who was removed from the rotation last August for being a fucking miserable prick(and pitching God-awful)
- Missing this guy...sniff
- Back three of the rotation are: #3, #4, and #5
- Andy Pettite thinks his biggest problem is runners have figured out his pick-off move - wrong
- Hearing "Carl Pavano makes impressive rehab start in AAA" is like hearing Krystal Steal say she wants you to "walk her home"
- Former rotation hopeful Ian Kennedy currently has the same value as a garbage bag full of rotting shit and a pack of Garbage Pail Kids, minus the stale gum
Monday, August 11, 2008
So, here's a look at some of the mustaches that either transcended a generation, went unnoticed, or are just works of meticulously groomed facial hair art that I'm particularly fond of.
The Bar Brawler - Thurman Munson
The Ethnic Delight - Dave Winfield
Nothing says smooth like Winfield's perfectly trimmed Shaft-esque mustache. And if there's a mustache grading system out there for symmetry, fullness, and shape, Winfield's taking home straight A's. Plus, one can also see that Winfield's mustache is looking to beat some honkey ass, which make is smooth and dangerous.
White Trash Aficionado - Rod Beck
Who gets into drunken spats with their spouse every time NASCAR is on? Who gets cut off on a Sunday afternoon at the bar in Applebee's? Who doesn't wear a shirt for 90% of their respective lives? Who wears jean shorts to a family graduation party? People with Rod Beck's mustache style, that's who!
Stuck in the 80's - Dennis Eckersley
The 80's were a weird time. For some reason, people were obsessed with shitty music, neon colors, and big, stupid hairdos. I'm guessing it was because the trend was set by young people in the 80's, and these were the children of the 60's hippies, and hippies took a shitload of drugs. 1+2=3, simple as that. And Eckersley obviously followed suit.
The Playboy - Keith Hernandez
Back when the Mets were the Kings of New York (for a whole year!), Hernandez was Sex Symbol #1. Was it because he played 1B for the World Series Champs? I think not. It was the mustache, his glorious tribute to one of histories most famous Casanova's - Josef Stalin.
*note: Stalin was not a Casanova. He was an asshole.
Take Me Home, Country Roads Style- Goose Gossage
Only a guy with a handlebar mustache like Goose can get a hot piece-of-ass like the one pictured here. Look at her, I bet she plays softball and loves to take "friendly" showers with all of her platonic gal pals. Well, so does Goose. And his grizzly mustache.
In this day and age, anyone can be a pornstar. Your mailman, see that mustache, ever wonder why it's so full and vibrant and erotic? It's because he spends his weekend as the lead stud in a 5x2 BJ/HJ-o'rama, that's why. Your kid's teacher? She doesn't need glasses, she just likes to stay in character. The principal? That's one of her favorite people to team up with in hopes of an AVN award. And this is where Scott Erickson falls into play. He looks like he belongs shoulders deep in silicon. He looks like he needs to be dressed in some fake cop outfit that has retro ties to the 1960's. His mullet only enhances the stature. Same goes with the guy on the right. Is his name important? Absolutely not. He was in Liar Liar, and some other creepy movies. But both of these guys have the makeup of a male pornstar - strong jawline, hairsprayed hair, fake orange year-round tan, blazer over t-shirt - it's all there for the world to see. Erickson even looks like he could swing both ways, but I'm not here to stir up any trouble!
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Welcome to New York, Mr. Favre, are you excited to be here? You are? Really? Well then, let me ask you a few questions...
Are you excited that you finally bailed on the fanbase that idolized you, and acted as if you were the second coming of Jesus Christ? Are you excited to play in the seasonally warm confines of (Giants) Stadium? Are you ready for the fucking Jersey Turnpike? Are you ready to face scrutiny after you throw an interception, even though you were just having a catch with Bubba Franks before stretching? Are you ready for Belicheck's sleazy cheating ways and extra-marital affairs with ugly Long Island housewives? Are you ready for the Hampton's and sex scandals with disease infested sluts like Lindsay Lohan and Paris Hilton? Are you ready to take a back seat to Derek Jeter and David Wright? Are you ready to swooned by women with fake orange tans and huge fake boobies instead of fatso's in tapered jeans and mullets? Are you ready to trade in that gay cheesehead for a Fireman Ed hardhat? Are you ready to hold a dinner fundraiser in Manhattan and get stuck in tunnel traffic for an hour and 45 minutes? Are you ready to do bullshit photo shoots for fag magazines like Vanity Fair in Chelsea in 110 degree heat, surrounded by the hunger-inducing stench of rotting garbage? Are you ready to have every detail of your kid's lives splashed across the fucking tabloids?
But you just want to go out there and play football right? You just want a fair shot, I know, we all know. Well, you should have went to Tampa Bay, my friend, because there's no way you're filling the shoes of the guys who preceded you in the Green and White uniform. Guys like Lucas and Todd and Mirer and Eason. Titans of football. Perennial pro-bowlers and All-Pros, Hall of Famers.
So, let me ask you one more time - are you ready, Brett? Before you answer, feast your eyes on this lineup, and you may never feel the same about the New York Jets again!
And of course, who could forget, the man, the myth, the legend, the QB you will have to fight with until the end of time for the right to claim best NY Jets player to ever don the #4 jersey...
Who am I kidding, we suck...Have fun with the traffic, Brett. You better not blow too bad.
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
Anyone who loyally reads WMHG knows here at WMHG?, we are all about 1 thing:
I can see that it's about raising money for various charities, but COME ON. This post is almost more about how insane someone would have to be to buy this crap than it is about how freaking ridiculous this whole situation is.*
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
So, going with the flow of this site(none), I think it's fairly obvious that we should take a look back at my co-author's favorite team ever, the World Series Champs from 1986, the New York Mets.
If you've never read the book, The Bad Guys Won, by Jeff Pearlman, do yourself a favor and go get a copy. I read it in a day - I just couldn't put the fucking thing down. It was a like Pearlman put the remnants of a train wreck on paper. There was actual blood on the pages. Maybe I shouldn't have taken it off the guy sleeping on the floor of Grand Central Terminal, but no matter. All I know is that when I finished the book, I was genuinely elated to know that this team was filled with drug addicted, God fearing, drunken frat-boy assholes. Read the book, you will not be disappointed. And if you are, than go watch a Lifetime movie, you fucking wet blanket.
THEN: Known to be a "player's coach", all Davey Johnson did was win. He also allowed fighting, drugging, groupie fucking, gang-banging on the plane, and announcer threatening. Cool dude.
NOW: The current coach of Team USA, and is suspiciously shunned by most team owners. I don't see what's so suspicious, he didn't like policing players then, and I'm sure he doesn't now. I rest my case...What's that? Oh I thought that was just a figure of speech, case closed...
THEN: To fans he was "The Kid", a pleasant, religious man who loved to play baseball. To everyone else he was a self-centered show-off with an ego the size of Davey Johnson's head. To be fair, he probably fell somewhere in between.
NOW: Bouncing around the minor league coaching circuit, telling people he could do a better job than
THEN: A coke snorting, lady loving, gold-glover who was one of the spiritual leaders of the ball club. His mustache transcended a generation of creepiness in New York City.
NOW: The lovable announcer for the Mets on SNY, who loves to make the ladies feel at home with his off-color humor, always accessible pack of Marlboro Mediums, and raging 24/7 boner.
THEN: One half of "The Wild Boys", Backman was a nitty-gritty journeyman who was known for his speed on the base paths. He really set the world on fire in '86, stealing over 12 bases!
NOW: A disgraced drunk who was fired after four days as the manager of the Arizona Diamondbacks in 2004 for being in debt with the IRS and lying about filing taxes. He died alone in a shack on the edge of the Missouri River on Halloween night, 2006 (note: Backman is still alive and coaching AA baseball).
THEN: This offensive juggernaut batted .218 with 1HR and 28 RBI in 139 Games. Needless to say, two years later he was the starting shortstop on the epically dangerous 1988 New York Yankees.
NOW: Coaching in the White Sox Minor League system, hoping to one day follow in the classy shoes of Ozzie Guillen.
THEN: A rugged veteran and ex-Golden Gloves boxer, Knight was part of the legion of players that helped the Mets gain a rep as a team you didn't want to trade punches with. Just ask Eric Davis and his shattered ego.
NOW: Announcer for MASN. Still sore over the way the Mets kicked his ass onto the curb following his World Series heroics so they could play Howard "Jesus is my Wingman" Johnson at 3B every day.
THEN: Destined for stardom, The Straw hit 280 HR's by the time he was 29. Ask old-timers about Strawberry's sweet swing and they still get hard. He played 8 more seasons, hitting only 55 HR's over that span. But he did do more coke than your mom, and garner more cases of gonorrhea than anyone in history, so that's a plus.
NOW: In prison, out of prison, who knows? It's always a guessing game with crazy, old Darryl. But I'm sure he's having a blast, scrapping and yelling and mixing it up. Loving every minute with this damn crew...
THEN: The second youngest regular on the team, Dykstra was another big-time prospect. He shared a minor league outfield with Strawberry and future Sabermetrics Martyr, Billy Beane. Dykstra also envisioned himself as a power hitter. So what did he do? Steroids, of course. Lots and lots of steroids. And then told everyone about his steroid abuse. He was a really, really smart guy.
NOW: A fat, broke, disgraced former car wash entrepreneur. NAILSSSSSS!!!
THEN: Fans adored this centerfielder who made the switch to left in order to accommodate up-and-coming prospect, Len Dykstra. He also ruined Bill Buckner's life with a single dribbler down the first-base line to end Game 6 of the World Series. Buckner returns the favor by signing pictures of the horrid event, smiling cordially, then going home to repeatedly stab a life size stuffed Mookie doll.
NOW: After stints as the Mets first base coach and a minor league coach, Mookie decided to retire so he could concentrate on his crime fighting career.
THEN: At 21, the youngest and most talented player on the whole team. Doc was destined for the Hall of Fame, and even baseball immortality. In his first three seasons (1984-1986), Gooden went 58-19 with a 2.32 ERA and 744 SO. It was ALLLLLLL down hill after that. If this doesn't make a Mets fan weep, well, I don't know what will (see ).
NOW: On the road to recovery. He missed the 2006 Mets 20 year reunion because he was in jail. Just a little bit embarrassing, but it could be worse. He could have been sent an invitation to the event with freshly squeezed dog shit smeared across it, like Ray Knight's.
THEN: Ivy Leaguer, as handsome as the devil, and as talented as anyone on the team, minus Doc, Darling was an integral piece of the '86 mess.
NOW: Hernandez's right-hand-man on SNY and still loves thinking he's better than everyone. And don't you forget it.
THEN: An offseason acquisition from the Boston Red Sox the year before, Ojeda came in and gave the Mets an instant threat as the team's #4 starter. He went on to post career numbers, leading the team in wins, 18, and ERA, 2.57.
NOW: After nearly cutting off his hand and almost dying in a boat accident that killed two teammates, Ojeda went on to play several seasons after parting ways with the Mets. He now is a minor league coach in a place that doesn't post coaching profiles because I googled his fucking name 786 times and came up with shit.
THEN: Another youngster, and seemingly future cornerstone of the organization, "Sid the Kid" was known for his childish thinking and penchant for being mildly retarded. But he had all makings of a dominate pitcher, until injuries and hamburgers cut his career short.
NOW: Spends his time dicking around the Hawaii celebrity golf circuit, and was recently cited in the Mitchell Report, but I'm not really sure what the Mitchell Report is. Oh well.
THEN: Part Dartmouth grad, part prankster, McDowell got everyone with his sidesplitting hot feet and practical jokes. Oh man, those hot feet sure are fucking funny. He was also the right half of the righty/lefty closing tandem.
NOW: Pitching coach for the Atlanta Braves. Not funny anymore. Old and bitter, and sometimes cranky on weekends.
THEN: Closed out game 6 of the playoffs and game 7 of the series, Orosco was the other closer on the team. I also thought he was cool, and tried to emulate his glove throwing. So I would throw it up high in the air, drop to my knees and raise my arms in an empty field like an asshole. Then the glove would hit me in the head and I would do it again, because, like I said, I was an asshole. Oh, and Orosco pitched for 56 teams for 57 more years.
NOW: Retired, and salting his left arm daily so he can have it enshrined in Cooperstown when he dies...or needs money, whichever one comes first.
Lee Mazzilli: A hometown hero and mid-season addition, Mazzilli went on to throb the hearts of every female Guido within a 20 mile radius, sculpting his helmet hair and squeezing into those extra-tight Jordache stonewashed jeans.
Kevin Mitchell: Cut the head off his girlfriends kitten, held Doc hostage, but overall a sweet guy.
Rick Aguilera: The unheralded 5th starter in the rotation and part-time relief pitcher, Aguilera's career didn't take off until he was dealt for Frank Viola to the Twins. This was due to the fact that he was probably the most un-clutch player on the team, but I could be wrong.
Tim Teufel: Pinch hit extraordinaire, Teufel was threatened by Darryl Strawberry on a flight to the West Coast and forced to piss sitting down. He was never the same mediocre player again.
Howard Johnson: Hojo became a Jesus freak this year. He then went on to stardom and two All-Star games. Coincidence? I think not.