A Tale of Two Scandals

What's up everybody, it's Cheddar Ben here, your moderately friendly Y2K correspondent formerly of the upstate persuasion but now holding down Broadway at 110th Street.

The move went fine, thanks for asking. A little hectic, of course. But one of the clear benefits of being in the city was being able to hop on the 7 train to watch Los Mets take on the San Diego Padres last night at Shea. This as opposed to the bizarre and truly lamentable MLB.TV blackout rules keeping the Amazins off the airwaves and internet in Buffalo.

So, clear advantage, 110th Street.

It was, of course, the second night of Mike Piazza's return voyage to Queens (three days only!), and a momentous one at that.

Yet again, the old-new dichotomy illustrated by A.F.O.M.G. yesterday was on display, with the added oomph of a valuable home Pedro start to boot.

For the second straight night, Mets fans showered their visiting former catching hero with copious strings of adulation, and then cheered their team as it showed the San Diegans how pennant-winning ball clubs win close games.

I'm sure plenty of you saw this whole thing play out, and it was splendid.

But there was another, more subtle dynamic running through the evening as well, one that shows in stark terms the vast gap that exists between a the problems that descend on a winning ball club and those that plague a losing outfit.

And as with so many of these things, you can assign blame or credit to the New York Post.

I mean, when you're running hot, you're running hot, and there's a trickle-down effect at work. No man can dodge the New York media effect fully -- that's asking too much.

But as the Post demonstrated yesterday morning, it can come at you in different ways. Maybe I'm crazy, but I'm not sure that Michael Joseph Piazza will remember Wednesday, August 9, 2006 all that fondly.

Against the loss, there were the two memorable home runs and a near-miss on a third (though I'm convinced Pedro grooved the first one as a token of appreciation), not to mention the constant applause and rare road curtain call, which the sentimental Pedro, fresh off his return to Boston, was certain to appreciate.

That's a lot of love to be outweighed.

But on the other hand, there was current Mets backstop Paul Lo Duca being exposed -- outed, you might say -- on the front page of the New York Post (link available by clicking the title above).

And for what? For what crime against god and country was Lo Duca indicted in newsprint? Apparently, banging a hot 19-year-old co-ed from Long Island. And the band played on.

Oh, Mike. Life is just not fair. It certainly wasn't for the leader of the 2002 Mets. Most of you are old enough to remember when a superstar Mike, the king of Shea, was battered from here to Sunday by allegations that he was a deeply closeted homosexual, a feeding frenzy engineered by Rupert Murdoch's finest (not a compliment) tabloid.

These accusations, true or not, haunted Piazza for the better part of two years. Unintentional comedy foamed up like suds on a washing machine, predicated upon an unproven and sordid premise.

It wasn't the media's finest moment, to be sure. In short, the result was thousands of column inches of humiliating gossip, the famous "I'm not gay" press conference, a possible marriage of convenience to Playboy hottie Alicia Rickter, pretty much the works.

This was a surefire Hall of Famer being put through an essentially unprecedented wringer, all for sport.

This stuff even followed him to Mike Piazza Night at Shea. You can't forget it. June 18, 2004, a ceremony to mark the slugger's record-breaking 352nd home run as a catcher. Johnny Bench, Yogi Berra, Pudge Fisk, Gary Carter, and A.F.O.M.G.'s nemesis Ivan Rodriguez are on hand to honor the foremost of their ilk.

Mikey is cheered to the rafters, presented with multiple awards and a shiny Rolex. But what does the clubhouse, led by captain John Franco (grinning like an idiot the whole time, natch), give their guy as a heartfelt gift on this historic day? A bottle of pink wine.

Honestly, it's just not fair.

But that's how good it is to be on a winning ball club. Everyone faces the music in their time. With the Mets 13.5 games up, the soon-to-be-divorced Lo Duca's punishment was being linked in the press with a slamming teenager, photo accompanying.

Getting called "a two-timing scum" probably hurt. But there's degrees of these things. Check the quotes: "'I thought he was cute, too,' the teen said. … She said Lo Duca then approached her and her friend, and the trio partied until 3 a.m. … The teen even dedicated part of her myspace.com Web page to Lo Duca - and posted a sexy photo of her perched on his lap at The Coyote bar in Island Park."

I mean, you've got to tip your cap. Unless you're Piazza, in the middle of a resurgent 2006 campaign (.296/.353/.521 before Wednesday), and get to come back in the middle of this comparative lovefest.

I can only imagine him picking up the paper in his hotel room yesterday morning, seeing this spread, crumpling the rag with a quickly reddening fist and screaming, to no one in particular, "You call that gossip?" Maybe the maid walks in during the tirade. That would be amusing.

And you have to think -- if the 2002 Mets were leading the NL East at the time of the Post's "scoop," might everything have not been different?

If there had been actual, meaningful baseball to be played in Shea way back when, wouldn't it have been easier to shake off all the gay rumors as a sideshow, instead of them mutating into a twisted main event?

Doesn't the success Lo Duca and Co. are enjoying provide quite a bit of cover on that front, given that the public's attention isn't in the gutter at the moment, and won't have to be until after the playoffs are over?

In effect, wasn't Piazza paying for the sins of Roger Cedeno and the gang back in '02, and doesn't he continue to pay for them to this day?

I think the answer is yes on all counts. Not that many people get a free pass. But for many reasons, Wednesday showed how good it is to be on board with the 2006 New York Mets. Being an All-Star catcher with skeletons in the closet (sorry) has never been so easy.

Keep up the good fight,

Cheddar Ben