When it comes to the corporatocracy of major-league baseball, in which billionaires beg for welfare, few things can stun, but one of the first moves by new commissioner Rob Manfred is as jaw-dropping as any made by his predecessor, Bud Selig. He’s named New York Mets owner Fred Wilpon chairman of the league’s finance committee. You know, the same Fred Wilpon who’s managed to turn the goldmine of a NYC baseball team into tin (accruing massive debts in the process) and was knee-deep in the Bernie Madoff Ponzi scheme. FromSNY(though the bold is mine):
Manfred removed Mets owner Fred Wilpon from the executive council, but later named him chairman of the finance committee, which is responsible for conducting hearings on league investments, changes in ownership, and stadium revenue and financing issues, among other things.•
Prevents spotting on Mets’ uniforms. (Image by Shattonbury.)
Many people were surprised when embattled New York Mets owner Fred Wilpon mocked and ridiculed the star players on his self-described “shitty team” in a recent New Yorker article, but the formerly wealthy idiot is just getting started. In order to send an even sterner message to his loser club, Fred Wilpon has decided to install a tampon machine in the Mets clubhouse, letting his players know that he doesn’t believe that they truly are men and that, perhaps, they are able to menstruate. This is poor behavior for two reasons. First of all, it is sexist as many women are great athletes and being compared to a woman is not an insult. Secondly, cash-strapped Fred Wilpon is charging $3,000 per tampon in order to raise money for his Madoff legal defense fund.
Fred Wilpon, a rich, dumb man who is no longer so rich but is as dumb as ever, is filled with rage for his ballplayers. Of course, he should be angry with himself for horribly mismanaging his baseball team and investing heavily in Bernie Madoff’s Ponzi scheme. But that’s not Fred Wilpon’s way.
To show his disdain, Fred Wilpon has taken to using outfielder Carlos Beltran’s locker as a urinal. The well-dressed dummy sits in the owner’s box at games, pointing at his players and laughing derisively. When Mets players are about to catch the ball, Fred Wilpon blows a vuvuzela and calls their mothers “whores,” hoping to distract them so that they will make an error. When he sees players’ wives in the stands, Fred Wilpon gestures putting his index finger down his throat, suggesting that they are homely and make him want to vomit.
Fred Wilpon decided to make an example of beloved team mascot, Mr. Met. Calling the bulbous-headed figure a “disgusting bag of shit,” Fred Wilpon took away Mr. Met’s uniform and underwear, forcing him to parade around in the parking lot with his genitals exposed. Mr. Met has been ordered to squeegee for change and turn tricks in cars. He has developed Hep-C and a serious drinking problem.
In a recent Sports Illustrated article, Fred Wilpon said the Mets may lose $70 million this year, that they are bleeding money. And there is no tampon big enough to stop that.
Mr. Met: Will use his mouth on you. (Image by Richiek.)
Much like team owner Fred Wilpon, Mr. Met is a balloon-headed symbol of mediocrity. (Image by richiek.)
Madoff-mired Mets owner Fred Wilpon, the handsomely attired and hapless dummkopf who, with help from his jugheaded scion, Jeff, has run the New York baseball team into the ground for half his adult life, is the focus of anew profile in the New Yorkerby the reliably excellent Jeffrey Toobin. An excerpt:
“In the game against the Astros, Jose Reyes, leading off for the Mets, singled sharply up the middle, then stole second. ‘He’s a racehorse,’ Wilpon said. When Reyes started with the Mets, in 2003, just before his twentieth birthday, he was pegged as a future star. Injuries have limited him to a more pedestrian career, though he’s off to a good start this season. ‘He thinks he’s going to get Carl Crawford money,’ Wilpon said, referring to the Red Sox’ signing of the former Tampa Bay player to a seven-year, $142-million contract. ‘He’s had everything wrong with him,’ Wilpon said of Reyes. ‘He won’t get it.’
After the catcher, Josh Thole, struck out, David Wright came to the plate. Wright, the team’s marquee attraction, has started the season dreadfully at the plate. ‘He’s pressing,’ Wilpon said. ‘A really good kid. A very good player. Not a superstar.’
Wright walked.
When Carlos Beltran came up, I mentioned his prodigious post-season with the Astros in 2004, when he hit eight home runs, just before he went to the Mets as a free agent. Wilpon laughed, not happily. ‘We had some schmuck in New York who paid him based on that one series,’ he said, referring to himself. In the course of playing out his seven-year, $119-million contract with the Mets, Beltran, too, has been hobbled by injuries. ‘He’s sixty-five to seventy per cent of what he was.’ Beltran singled, loading the bases with one out.
Ike Davis, the sophomore first baseman and the one pleasant surprise for the Mets so far this season, was up next. ‘Good hitter,’ Wilpon said. ‘Shitty team—good hitter.’ Davis struck out. Angel Pagan flied out to right, ending the Mets’ threat. ‘Lousy clubs—that’s what happens.’ Wilpon sighed. The Astros put three runs on the board in the top of the second.
