Beat the Mets, beat the Mets, head to the park and beat the Mets...

While all you Mets fans are out there wailing and gnashing your teeth over the demise of Pedro (and, let’s face it, your playoff hopes), I bring you this little blast from the past just to remind you that things could be (and have been) much, much worse.

On September 30th, 1962, in their very first year of existence, the Mets lost their 120th and final game of the season to set a mark for futility that stands to this day. What’s more, they ended the year with the same level of bizarre uselessness that they’d exhibited from day one, as backup catcher Joe Pignatano hit into a triple play to make the season’s last outs and seal up a 5-1 loss to the Cubs.

You’ll recall that the ’62 Mets modern-day record of 120 losses was recently challenged by the 2003 Tigers, who ended up a game shy of the mark at 119. Which brings to mind original Mets owner Joan Payson’s rallying cry before the team’s 1963 campaign – “"I simply cannot stand 120 losses this year. We are going to cut those losses down. At least to 119."

Here is the Mets lineup from opening day, 1962:

1. Richie Ashburn, CF
2. Felix Mantilla, SS
3. Charlie Neal, 2B
4. Frank Thomas, LF
5. Gus Bell, RF
6. Gil Hodges, 1B
7. Don Zimmer, 3B
8. Hobie Landrith, C
9. Roger Craig, SP

You believe that? Zim at third (he only played a total of 14 games in New York before getting dealt to the Reds), a 38-year-old Gil Hodges at first, major league grandfather Gus Bell in right, and a broken-down Whitey Ashburn in center, God rest his soul. With Roger Craig, future manager of the Padres and Giants (not to mention unstoppable 49ers tailback) on the mound. Craig would go on to lose 24 games that year, one of two pitchers on the team to lose 20 (the other was Al Jackson), with another, Jay Hook, losing 19. (Take a look at Hook’s career numbers. He had to have been one of the worst pitchers who ever lived.)

In short, this team was abominable. The only thing it had going for it was Casey Stengel, who was very close to senility and thus funnier than hell. Other than that, well, I think this summation from The Baseball Page says it best – “It could not be said that, at a major league level, the 1962 Mets were competent at any single aspect of the game. They could not run, they could not hit or field, and they certainly could not pitch.”

So there you go, Mets fans. Count your Carlos Beltrans. You have seen much darker days.

Thank God

The WBC has ordered a Sam Peter/James Toney rematch at the behest of Toney's promoter, Dan Goossen. The winner will earn the right to take on WBC champ Oleg Maskaev.

"The WBC believes that at this moment there cannot be a more interesting heavyweight fight than this rematch," WBC president Jose Sulaiman said with a straight face. "There is a huge public demand for this rematch."

Dah... what? From who? Who the hell needs to see those two fatsos slow dance for another 12? JESUS I hope Calvin Brock knocks Klitschko the fuck out so there's at least one heavyweight in the world I can feel good about.

WBC board votes in favor of Peter-Toney rematch ESPN.com

Execution

No doubt all you true No Masians remember where you were on this night five years ago. Hopkins/Trinidad is just one of those fights that was so big you remember where you watched it.

It was such an event, a middleweight unification bout at the Garden, and then so soon after 9/11. The fight itself turned out to be not so great, memorable only for what a virtuoso performance Hopkins laid on Tito. But even though it was such a lopsided affair, the drama never really dissipated. Round after round of Bernard utterly dominating, and still you kept waiting for that one patented Trinidadian right that was going to find its way home and turn the tide.

In the end it was a right from Ex, a brain-damaging right hook, that closed the deal, knocking out a completely spent Tito in the 12th and making Bernard the first undisputed middleweight champ since Ray Leonard in 1987.

It was a cathartic evening for BHop, a night he had waited his entire career for, the night where he finally earned the respect he’d sought, and deserved, for years. The world was thinking Tito, but Bernard knew the score, cocky as always, defiant, trampling on the Puerto Rican flag and then betting 100 large on himself to win.

It’s funny to write about this fight so soon after writing the Hagler/Minter piece a few days ago. Bernard and Marvelous certainly have a line across the generations. I remember when we had Bernard on my old show, Classic Now, and we asked him how he would stack up against some old fighters. He thought he would destroy Ray Leonard and that he would outpoint Monzon in a split decision. When it came to Hagler, he just shook his head and laughed. “That would be an ugly, ugly fight,” he said. “I don’t know who would win, but afterwards we’d both be sipping our steaks through straws and wondering why in the hell we did this.”

If you want to read more on Hopkins/Trinidad in the 9/11 atmosphere, check out this article by Michael Woods from ESPN.com.

Howdy Pilgrim

Despite the fact that he was a Red Sock his whole career, Ted Williams was very No Mas. Actually, to say that is perhaps to overestimate the No Masian virtues, because Ted Williams was some kind of a son of a bitch, and I mean that with the utmost respect. Basically, we here at No Mas admire his churlishness in the pursuit of excellence and his overall “damn the torpedoes” demeanor. Holms said what was on his mind and walked with a swagger and never backed down from a challenge one day in his life. He was the anti-ARod, John Wayne with a bat.

On September 28th, 1941, Teddy Ballgame played both ends of a doubleheader against the A’s to finish out the season. The day before, Red Sox manager Joe Cronin (evidently having never met Williams before) suggested that Ted sit out the rest of the season to preserve his .401 batting average. One can only imagine how many profanities Williams used to qualify his answer of “no.” He went 1-4 and his average dropped to .399. The next day, however, he picked up the slack, going 6 for 8 on the afternoon to finish the year at .406, making him the first man to hit .400 in eleven years, and the last man ever to do it. Also making him a dude with a pair of cojones the size of basketballs.

September 28th, 1960. Williams is 42 and has announced his retirement, and the Red Sox, a miserable edition, are hosting the Orioles for their last home game of the season. In the eighth inning, the old Thumper thumps one, a 450-foot home run into the right-center field seats behind the bullpen at Fenway. It was his 521st home run in what would turn out to be his last major league at-bat. Still, he refused to come out for a curtain call. Ted Williams was not a curtain call kind of guy.

Among those in attendance that day was John Updike, who soon afterwards wrote an article about the game and Williams’ career for the New Yorker called Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu. It’s not quite as long as Ulysses and about as pretentious, but worth a look if you have a long flight ahead of you.

Marvelous

Marvin Hagler has perhaps never been so all out fucking terrifyingly marvelous as he was on this date 26 years ago. That was the night that he pulverized Alan Minter in London and finally won the middleweight title he so coveted. It was a crown he would not relinquish until Ray Leonard showboated him to death seven years later.

The Minter fight is one of two key fights central to the Hagler mystique as disrespected and disgruntled outsider. The first took place in November of 1979, against then middleweight champ Vito Antuofermo. Under the guidance of the stubborn Petronelli brothers, Hagler had labored for years without a title shot, and when he finally got it, he was robbed by the judges. After pummeling Antuofermo for 15 rounds, the fight was ruled a draw, a result that so disgusted one of the judges that he threw an all-out temper tantrum afterwards. (That’s a post-Hagler-bout Vito on the right, bad moustache and all – I always liked him – a real goombah’s goombah).

Not surprisingly after the beating that Marvelous had given him, Vito lost his very next bout, to British journeyman Alan Minter. Minter then won a rematch with Antuofermo in the summer of 1980, which would turn out to be his only title defense.

On September 27th, he fought Hagler, the mandatory WBC challenger. The atmosphere in Wembley was ugly. Before the fight, Minter, not a bad chap really, had thoughtlessly said that he would never let a black man take his title, a remark he quickly recanted. But the Thatcher-era hooligans loved the racial tinge it brought to the event – skinheads and National Front gobs showed up at Wembley in droves.

They were treated to the sight of their lad getting the piss knocked out of him. Minter simply didn’t belong in the same ring as Marvelous. He was cut in the first round, wobbled in the second, and nearly murdered in the third, at which point the fight was mercifully stopped. Hagler fell to his knees in triumph, weeping with joy. And then the riot began, as the ring was pelted with bottles and debris. Shit got completely out of control – Marvelous was led out of the ring with his handlers covering his bald head with their hands. (Minter, quite the hilariously oblivious Cockney, was so brain-dead he didn’t even know there was a riot until they told him about it in the locker room – “are they after me?” he asked. No, Alan, no mate - you've had enough for one night)

For years afterwards, Hagler would speak of that fight with acid in his voice, the fight where he’d finally won his title and the racist bastards didn’t even let him celebrate what he’d done. Marvin always thought the whole world was out to get him. And that was one night when he was pretty much right about that.

The Power of the P

As the Phillies march toward the Wild Card and make us all finger-chewing scoreboard-watching wrecks in the process (I already have it all planned out - Mets in the NLCS, Yanks in the Series - then I can die), it seems fitting to take you back to a little Fightin’ Phils on-this-day minutiae.

On September 26, 1950, as the Whiz Kids were walking off with the N.L. pennant, Phils’ reliever Jim Konstanty set a modern era record by appearing in his 71st game on the season. He would finish the year with 74 total appearances, a record that would stand until 14 years later, when the K.C. Athletics’ John Wyatt made it into 81 games. The current record is 106 games, set by Mike Marshall with the Dodgers in 1974, and anyone who’s read “Ball Four” knows that Mike Marshall was a real march-to-his-own-drummer kind of guy.

September 26, 1964 – The Phillies host the Braves at Shibe Park. The Phils are in the process of the worst collapse in major league history, losing 10 of their last 12 games (and 10 in a row mind you) to blow a 6 1/2 game lead in the N.L. and end up losing the pennant by a game to the Cardinals, forever earning themselves the moniker “the foldin’ Phils” and beginning Gene Mauch’s reputation as a snakebitten loser. There are people in Philly to this day who get a murderous gleam in their eyes when you bring up the ’64 Phils – my Grampa Noyes was one of them (picture to the right is a sheet of pristine World Series tickets the Phillies had already printed up before the collapse). This game with the Braves was number six of the 10 straight losses, but it’s also notable for the fact that the two teams set a major league record by using 43 total players in the game. The Braves win it 6-4 when Rico Carty triples in three in the ninth off Bobby Shantz. Motherfuckin Rico Carty.

And finally, September 26, 1975 - the Phils and Mets play a miserable doubleheader. Phils win the first game 4-3 in 12 innings in a game twice delayed by rain. A third rain delay finally ends the evening in the third inning of game two, although the game isn’t called for good until 3:15 a.m. About 200 fans were left in the Vet. This is interesting because… I don’t know why. It happened. The '75 Phils were cooler than the other side of the pillow. Dave Cash, Jay Johnstone, Tommy Hutton, Willie Montanez. Dick Allen in his second Philly go-round. Check out my man Downtown Ollie Brown over there. I loved him. His batting stance was ill.

Cobb and Staub

Twenty-two years ago today a 40-year-old Rusty Staub hit a walkoff 2-run bomb at Shea to cap off a four-run rally in the ninth and beat the Phils 6-4. The dinger made Le Grande Orange one of only two men to hit home runs in the bigs as teenagers and also after the age of 40.

The other was the Georgia Peach, also known as the Nastiest Racist Ever to Sharpen a Pair of Spikes, also known as Tommy Lee Jones.

Let's Get Metsmerized!

Sadly, there is no youtube of Rafael Santana beatboxing, but you can thank our man Bongi for this shot (or alternatively berate him for failing to purchase). After checking online, I discovered that someone had already named their entire fucking online community after this record, so I am guessing that a report of its existence may not be stop the press news for everyone. In that case, I am hoping some aficionado out there actually has the vinyl and can learn us on how this stacks up against Superbowl Shuffle. (If so, please get in touch.) But from what I can tell from reading the lyrics online, it seems like it wasn't the best idea to let utility infielders get jiggy:

I'm Tim Teufel, lemme begin by sayin
I was once a Twin
I made the move and it feels just right
I've been Metsmerized and I see the light.


I am happy to say my aural ignorance does not extend to Darryl's seminal '87 solo joint "Chocolate Strawberry" wherein he drops one of my all-time favorite pieces of sporting science:

Any pitch you throw, I control it
Lookin for third bass, yo I stole it, that's right
I took it while you wasn't lookin
So give me your beef, homeboy I'm cookin

Portraying base stealing as actual thievery (he doesn't just take an extra base, he seems to actually remove it from the field and stash it in his locker) allows Darryl to reconcile Crenshaw and Flushing and portray himself simultaneously as athlete and gangster in a way that seems to elude Rick Aguilera on Metsmerized--although to be fair I am only going by the lyrics:

When they want a batter filled with terror
they call on me, Rick Aguilera
slider's hot, I'm on the mound
with cool control I mow 'em down.




By the way, if you couldn't help coveting those super def anti all-over prints they are rocking on the album cover, you might want to check Union, Classic Kicks, Boundless, or Turntablelab.

Large returns

Thanks for all of your kind emails. I'm sorry I abandoned you. I will be back starting Monday, September 25th. My return will coincide with the debut of the No Mas online store.

A brief update on the landscape of Large:

-I am predictably Phillies crazy, and yet, like a true Philadelphian, I am fully prepared to have my heart broken.
-I am out in Davis, California at the moment with my ladyfriend, and thus did not see the Eagles/Giants debacle, thank Christ.
-As I write we're getting skunked again in the Ryder Cup. What the fucking fuck? I just can't understand why we suck so much at this. And why is Paul Casey an utterly useless bag of fish and chips except for a weekend every two years when he becomes one of the true golf gods. Ditto Monty and Sergio. Pathetic chokers except for Ryder Cup. Meanwhile Tiger is the exact opposite. Guy's won like every tournament on tour this year and now he can't make a putt to save his soul. I hate this shit.
-I did not see Barrera/Juarez - I was on an airplane. Sounds like it sucked predictably. Barrera learned his lesson. Now he wants Pacquaio, presuming Manny beats Morales. Pacquaio/Barrera rematch is the biggest little guy fight since Oscar/Chavez one.
-How about Winky Wright signing to fight Bazooka Quartey? Yo son, all's I have to say is that Winky is motherfuckin all man. I really wish he'd won that Jermain fight.
-But on that score, I have to tip my hat to Jermain for making a fight with Kassim the Dream Ouma. There are a lot of other bags of potatoes out there besides that Ugandan nightmare. This is a dangerous fight for Jermain, one that he could easily lose. Kassim will be undersized, but he's a tough son of a bitch, and he throws a lot of punches. Jermain better get to him early and knock his ass out before he gets caught in that combine.
-I have to throw in a line here from my motherfuckin man Gentry Kirby. The NFL has jumped the shark. Sums it up nicely.
-In conclusion, if you're looking for some on this day love, today is a very No Masian anniversary - Tunney beats Dempsey on September 22nd, 1927 in their infamous rematch, infamous, of course, for The Long Count. If you don't know what that is, look it up - then again, if you don't know what that is, you probably don't read No Mas. Large out.

Gentleman Jim and the Brockton Blockbuster

Two of boxing's immortals were born on this day in history:


Gentleman Jim Corbett, on the left up there, was born on September 1, 1866 in San Francisco. Corbett would go on to become the heavyweight champ in 1892 by defeating John L. Sullivan, a man that many at the time considered to be unbeatable. Gentelman Jim held the crown for five years, although during that time he made only one title defense. In 1897, he lost the belt to Ruby Robert Fitzsimmons of New Zealand. In 1900, Corbett would attempt to regain the heavyweight title from his former sparring partner, James J. Jeffries, and made quite a go of it before getting destroyed by a one-punch knockout in the 23rd round. Another shot at Jeffries in 1903 ended badly, and ended his career. Later on, his autobiography, "The Roar of the Crowd," would be turned into a Hollywood move starring Errol Flynn titled "Gentleman Jim."




Rocky Marciano was also born on September 1 - 1923 for the Rock. If you're reading No Mas, I probably don't have to tell you much about Marciano. Personally, I've never been a big fan, but I was watching the first Jersey Joe Walcott fight the other night, really one of the great title fights of all time, and I was thinking, I shouldn't badmouth Marciano so much. Yeah, he was small, and primitive, and slow - and yeah, Tim Witherspoon probably would have kicked his ass - but still, that fucker could take some punishment. Jersey Joe beat the living hell out of him for 12 rounds and he kept coming. Guy had very little talent and otherworldy guts - the whole "Rocky" package. He deserves respect.