Rewarded for Mediocrity?

Never really gave it much thought, but just found out that you can't create a save situation yourself, that is, if you come in to close out a game with your team up by three runs or fewer, if you give up a few runs to fall within that margin, it doesn't turn into a save if your team still wins. Basically, even if your team wins, you don't necessarily get rewarded for mediocrity. I like this.

Mets Classics

With tonight's rainout, SNY showed a "Mets Classic" from 6/11/05, the Mets' first over-.500 season since 2001. In this game, in the top of the 10th, after Carlos Beltran, two months in to a dismal season to kick off his seven-year contract with the team, and Mike PIazza struck out, Cliff Floyd came to bat. Floyd, a fan favorite who was always either a little or a lot injured, came to bat, got to two strikes and crushed a foul ball. He then fouled off two more pitches before sending one over the right-center fence, just to the base of the scoreboard, to the right of the homerun Apple.

Those were the days when hopes were brightening anew, the Piazza era was coming to a close, and no one knew the anguish and high-end futility that would define the ensuing seasons. Nonetheless, I was a little emotional seeing Cliffy win it in the 10th.

Every damn Yankees Classic is a World Series game. The Mets' classic games are usually insignificant, but scrappy blue collar wins, usually staring forgotten heroes (or Mike Piazza). I prefer the Mets when they're scrappy and bad, and not expected to win. I never went to more games than I did between 2002 and 2005. Empty Shea, so many great seats for cheap. Good times.

Did He Hear a Goodbye?

Some music is so good that sometimes, fairly often (because I listen to the best music. Just sayin'), I listen and lose breath for one of two reasons: 1) sometimes stuff is just beautiful, or 2) I desperately wish I were writing, performing, or singing that song.

There are some artists that do both: the Beatles is an obvious one, particularly when it comes to poppier fare like "And Your Bird Can Sing" (though that's no easy pop song) or Mean Mr. Mustard (though Lennon considered that one a toss-away. We should all be so lucky to sit under the table as John Lennon tosses us musical scraps). David Bowie is another one with Mick Ronson, doing his best VU, strumming Queen Bitch or, even better, Carlos Alomar laying down a funky, proggy riff on TVC15. These types of songs are the class of their genre, but like any great pop song, don't feel particularly complicated, though they might be and often are.

I don't play any instruments. I stopped playing piano when I was 15 and I bought a guitar when I was 31. Much to my son's delight, I figured out how to one-note (with zero technique) the chorus to the Moody Blues' "Driftwood" (don't ask me why I chose that one. It was in my head at the time). I even did my best Justin Hayward over my labored performance, but the guitar mostly collects dust. It's actually near me right now.

But then there is that singing. I can hold a note well, and have no real range to speak of (10 note? Low to middle C when it's humid?), but I have a great ear I'm tellin' ya'. I have relative pitch, and I can nail a harmony without hesitation, so naturally I'm drawn to harmonies. Crosby, Stills & Nash's harmonies have been described as a "miracle," and while I can't say that with any certainty, their vocal arrangements, largely assembled by Stephen Stills, fulfill my two emotional criteria.

Helplessly Hoping.

Two minutes and 37 seconds of subtle brilliance. The whole thing starts off perfectly like any Stephen Stills acoustic workout: four measures of A minor, C, G, & D, and then the vocals:

"Helplessly hoping her harlequin hovers nearby, awaiting a word." People might roll their eyes that the alliteration, which is punctuated by a muscular delivery of "hovers nearby." I love it.

Stephen Stills and Graham Nash are couched nicely in the right channel while David Crosby -- a singer whose phenomenal quality of voice is usually beyond (at least my) description -- is perched on display in the left. Stills is singing melody (the low part) in the middle until the word "nearby," when he and Crosby, who up to this point was singing the middle part, blend for an instant and Crosby continues to ascend, taking over the melody, finishing "awaiting a word" in the lead.

What I'm pointing out is no revelation, of course. What made CSN legendary were their miracle vocals, and the way those vocals are woven and arranged, and how Stills and Crosby constantly interchange, swap, and invert their parts to point where you often can't tell who is singing what anymore. Nash, with his falsetto, is usually identifiable, but he and Crosby often cross lanes here and there.

We're only at 25 seconds now.

"Gasping at glimpses of gentle true spirit, he runs, wishing he could fly." Basically the same as before with Crosby taking over the melody at "wishing he could fly," but this time with an added "only to trip at the sound of goodbye," where Stills slides back into the melody and the "bye" elongated .

"Wordlessly watching he waits by the window and wonders, at the empty place inside." Same as the first verse, but the second half of "window" is punctuated by Crosby, making it very clear where he once again takes over the melody.

"Heartlessly helping himself to her bad dreams he worries: Did he hear a goodbye or even hello?" The "hello" is sustained by Nash and Crosby while Stills takes it into the song's break, first singing solo on "They are one person," and then joined by Nash on "They are two, alone," and finally Crosby fills it out for "they are three together. They are four (for) each other."

Man I do wish I were singing this song.