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And now you know why all us Mets want to locker next to Ol' Luke. The smell of squirrel funk can motivate a man.
And motivation can be in short supply in extra innings. But extries is when you call the bullpen with the game on the line and the only guy left is yours truly. Edgin. Sweet 66. And if I get in to a fix, well, there ain't too many guys behind me.
It was like that July 8. Fourteen innings are gone and the Mets and the world champs are tied at three. Matt Harvey started and went seven, but we don't score for him. We agreed to do that the minute we saw the Escalade. But you know, after we've burned a tankful of Torres and an aggregate of Aardsma, a sack of Rice, and a few volumes of Burke, it's me and it's Parnell, and they're saving Parnell for a dance that won't happen unless I pay the piper, or something.
So I'm out there and I'm working without a net, LIKE A BOSS, I tell myself. But I'm not sure I have it. And you know, without a net means they make you face righthanders and stuff. So before I go in, I've got my earbuds in, and I'm playing Warrant, and I'm playing Poison --- all the classics --- and I'm PUMPED.
Bottom of the 14th, I'm in there against Gregor Blanco. Just as I'm thinking "Who names a guy Gregor in this day and age?" BAM! he drives one the other way. But Eric Young is out there, and as deep as he plays in general, you should see his no-doubles defense. Dude was pretty much in had to buy a ticket for the left field bleachers. But I'm not complaining when the ball drops into his glove. And that was the lefty, the guy I'm supposed to get out. Punch-and-Judy-hitting lefty, too. GULP!
But hey, an out's and out, and "Cherry Pie" is still pumping through my veins. I can DO THIS.
Next up, Marcos Scutaro. A righty. I DON'T CARE! You are kindly invited to ground out, to... fuck, it gets through and he's on first.
("She's my cherry pie! Tastes so good, makes a grown man...")
One on and Terry's giving me that shitty-assed beady-eyed look. That one that says, "If I have to come and get you, you're not gonna be happy about it." How does such a short guy do that to me? He's not my father!
So, you know, Brandon Belt. Another lefty. Another drive the other way. Another beautiful picture of Eric Young in left. I'm getting pretty good at this induce-a-drive-to-the-warning-track business.
But Buster Posey. That guy's my bete noire. But one more chorus of "Paradise City" floats through my head and that punk is drooling a ball to third base. The fifteenth inning is over. I go back to the dugout, sit next Terry. Like a boss.
Natch we don't score. We're the Mets. Number 66 has to go back out there.
Sandoval is up. And, I'm sorry, but he's fatter than me. And I'm FAT. I mean, to look at me on the street, you might not say, "Hey, look at that FAT guy," but you see me in the clubhouse, and you ask somebody who I am, and they ask which one, you say, "the fat one."
It's true, and I'm self conscious about it. So Sandoval is up, and I'm pulling my belt up a little, feeling a little good because I'm not the FAT one in this confrontation. But you see, this is the ADD at work, because I'm all wrapped up in thoughts about relative fat and my head just isn't in the game, which is what Warthan is trying to tell me. So I hit the guy. And you know, next thing, shooting me from the dugout are Terry's beady little eyes.
BEAR DOWN, JOSH! WE'RE GOING WHERE THE DOWN BOYS GO! Kontos, whoever that is, bunts Sandoval to second. Thanks for the gift out guys. I know he's the pitcher, but I was all set to waste six or seven pitches getting him out. I watch Sandoval run and I KNOW it's going to take four of five hits to get him home. So I'm feeling a little better. Brandon Crawford is up, and you know, he resembles a major league hitter, so I'm sure not going to face him. Not with the winning run on second. Four quick balls of intention, and it's Andres Torres. I know his flaws because I saw them close up last year. He overswings like Cab Calloway on speed, so I teeeease him with the offspeed shit. My new specialty is turning these guys over, getting rollouts to third. And that's what he does. Two down. Runners on second and third. Last hitter off of San Francisco's bench is Cole Gillespie, which is ONE JAZZY NAME! But that's the ADD kicking in again. I walk him too because he also resembles a big league hitter.
Bases loaded. Blanco again. I've been in a game long enough to face the same guy twice. Perhaps for the first time in my career. I say a quick prayer to Sebastian Bach and let if fly. He turns it over. Weak grounder to second. And I'VE PITCHED TWO (highly eventful) SCORELESS with one long game on the line.
Bottom of the inning, the dam cracks just a little as the Mets score the best way they know how at such times, plating a guy on an error. Parnell takes about 20 minutes to close it, and I have my only win of 2013.
Jani Lane would've said it more poetically, but sometimes glory is a flying stallion, sometimes it's a plowhorse trudging through the mud. ¿Es la verdad, si, Jeurys?
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Hi. I'm Scott Atchison. My best day? Wow, let me see. I've had so many great games and moments throughout this season, it's hard to pick just one. But isn't that always the case for middle relievers with an ERA in the mid-fours, who miss big chunks of the season with numbness? 
