Metropolitan meltdown

Sporting News, The, August 19, 1996 by Michael P. Geffner

How Bill Pulsipher, Jason Isringhausen and Paul Wilson, the Mets' talented trio of pitchers, went from prospects to suspects in six short months

From behind his desk in the Mets' executive offices, on a hazy-hot Sunday morning in late July, Joe McIlvaine suddenly unravels. Simultaneously uncrossing his legs and raising his voice, the tall, bespectacled G.M. pushes up squeakily in his seat, twists his mouth into a squiggly lipped, Charlie Brown grimace, and, using his right hand like a Ginsu knife, starts chopping down at the arm of his chair as if he were beheading a row of just-hooked bass.

"It's just not fair to these kids," he says. "It not only builds up unreal expectations but it's just plain stupid. I mean, sure, we want them to be successful, and, sure, we're happy that we have players that other people think are going to be great. But, please, give them a chance to get their feet on the ground in the major leagues first."

McIlvaine, whose passion obviously runs deep here, is talking about his hugely talented trio of Generation-X starters--Jason Isringhausen, Bill Pulsipher and Paul Wilson; combined age less than 70; all big and strong with 90-mph-plus fastballs; none with a full season in the bigs before '96--and, even more so, the ridiculously over-the-top media hype surrounding the three before the start of the season. Stories that came fast and furious and seemingly without end this spring, and all topped revoltingly with mounds of sugary superlatives. The condensed Reader's Digest version was this: How, propelled by the overwhelming force of club history, the three couldn't help but be the next in a long line of great young Mets pitchers--the next Seaver, Ryan and Koosman of the late '60s, or the next Gooden, Darling and Cone of the mid-'80s. And if the prediction wasn't stated exactly, it was definitely implied: that one could possibly win the Cy Young this season, while the others would merely settle for 1-2 in voting for rookie of the year.

"It terrified me," McIlvaine says of all the hyperbolic attention given to what he feels is the very core of his team's future. "It just scared me to death."

The whole thing reached the breaking point for McIlvaine during the first week of the season, when he caught a glimpse of something on the TV monitor hanging overhead, a freeze-framed image that chilled him to the bone: a split-screen of Wilson and Seaver, side-by-side, being shown on the team's flagship cable channel.

"I mean, my God, the guy hadn't even thrown a pitch in the major leagues yet and he was being compared to the greatest pitcher in Mets history," he says, pausing for a second to shake his head before snapping back in his chair and assuming instantly a look--and tone--of pure, blank resignation. "I mean, it's nice that we have some good young pitchers. But that's all they are right now. They're not proven major leaguers yet. That's the thing about New York City that irritates me the most--the way the media blow everything way out of proportion. And it's a dangerous area with these guys. Believe me, it's affected them. And the players on the other teams read about them, hear about them, and you can bet that every time they face them now they want to beat their ears in."

Reality bites, of course. And, by now, it's safe to say that nothing resembling an award will be handed to any of them this year. Not by a long shot. In fact, a moral victory for the Mets would be if any two of them were not mending on the D.L. by the end of the season. That's how bad it has been so far. Even the best case scenario over the final six weeks gives the threesome an outside shot of producing a measly 15 wins among them.

The season for them has melted down to something near ground zero: one imploding at the elbow in spring training, undergoing reconstructive surgery, and now sitting out the season hoping to come back in '97 in one piece; another, who had not a single inning of major league experience, staggering through shoulder tendinitis, torn shoulder cartilage, as well as a seriously shaken psyche; and the last pitching nearly the entire season on the verge of being sent down to the minors, if not to the nearest rubber room strapped in a straitjacket trying to figure out--with dubious tactics and work habits--why he suddenly can't throw strikes or consistently get out hitters for the first time in his life.

All of which proves the old baseball axiom: Don't ever count on baby hurlers before they hatch.

Pulsipher, the lone lefthander of the three and the baby of the group at 22, was the first of the "kids" to arrive, promoted in mid-June of last year, and the first to exit in '96: He hasn't thrown a pitch since March 18, after breaking off what he thought was "one of the best curves I ever threw" in the second inning of an exhibition game against the Expos, to a minor league shortstop, no less, named Francisco Matos. The pain started out as a twinge, but this was no ordinary twinge; it was the twinge, in fact, to end all twinges, a stinging snap, crackle and pop that shot up and down his arm from the funny-bone part of his elbow. Which immediately compelled the fiery "Pulse" to utter uncontrollably several select four-letter words and ask himself with a quick, wincing burst: "What the hell was that?"