I tend to write most about baseball for public consumption when I see good things. Hey, we are who we are; I am prone to praise.
The Cubs series sweep at Citi Field in New York was worthy of plenty.
The Mets are a disaster right now. So many hitters are on the DL that Mickey Callaway had to start 5 lefty batters against Jon Lester. Power sources Yoenis Cespedes and Todd Frazier have been mediocre, then hurt. So many pitchers are on the DL that Ron Darling could come down from the booth and make the team.
Here’s how bleak it is in the Mets bullpen: RHP Paul Sewald was awful in May, to the tune of a 5.29 ERA. As June began on Friday, there was Sewald called upon in the high leverage 7th, to protect a 2-0 lead with lefty bats galore coming up. Callaway later said he had only 3 relievers available. Sewald did what he does; let both inherited runners score, gave up one of his own to give the Cubs a lead, and then CAME BACK OUT for a disastrous 8th inning capped by Kyle Schwarber’s 3 run homer. Ballgame.
Saturday night’s 14th inning 6 run bullpen blowup was declared by the New York Post a step in the right direction.
Acknowledging all of that, how the Cubs finished off that 6-1 road trip was undeniably encouraging in the big picture, and fun as hell to watch.

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Allow me to explain myself.

Mom was an opera singer and a voice teacher. She also knew that Bill Terry was the last National Leaguer to hit .400.

Dad once was a sports writer, and is my favorite baseball fan.

He also can detail musical evolution within the 15 Shostakovich symphonies.

My oldest brother Jon plays the bass, slide guitar, banjo, dobro and pedal steel. He was once considered a Don in the Chicago Bluegrass Mafia.

My other older brother Bobby was a center fielder on a really good high school team, for which I was the bat boy. The team bus picked me up at elementary school for away games.

My passions have always been split, equally. I was the kid racing from tennis practice to trumpet lessons. A trip to New York usually meant both Yankee Stadium and Lincoln Center. I’ve chased concurrent dreams, and professions, in both music and sports for as long as I can remember.

I now often go from radio shows directly to sound-checks. I sometimes sing 15 songs at a sold out concert, go home to watch a game on tape delay, then host a show in the morning.

I am a very fortunate man.

So an event like Hot Stove Cool Music this past Friday night at Metro is powerful bliss.

Hey, look! There’s Max Crawford, an original member of Poi Dog Pondering and now the leader of the Total Pro Horns, who also happens to run the electronic scoreboards at Wrigley.

Hey, that’s our emcee Lin Brehmer, a fine high school pitcher and Cubs season ticket holder who is also the best rock and roll DJ in the city.

Who’s starting the show on bass? It’s the organizer of the whole night, Len Kasper. He’s relieved that the Cubs game he just called did not go extras or have a rain delay. He’ll try to get home at a reasonable hour, because he’s doing the national game the next day on Fox.

Our greatest living baseball writer, Peter Gammons, is over there tuning his guitar as he preps to play a Paul Butterfield Blues Band song called “Born in Chicago.”

The musicians we get to play with include members of Smashing Pumpkins, Local H, Shoes, Wilco, Bob Mould, and Rage Against The Machine. In the middle of the show, Rick Nielsen and a couple other members of Cheap Trick show up and take the stage.

Every one of them loves baseball.

These realms, the two that I will always inhabit, are not that different.

Friday was a passionately played sandlot game.

You figure out who can play shortstop, who wants to catch, and who ought to be put safely in right field. There aren’t many young lefties who pull.

Who’s the best fit for this high harmony on “Surrender”? Which guitar players will step up and nail “Cherub Rock”? Whose amp should we make sure not to turn up too high?

Introduce yourselves, practice for a bit, then play. I mean, really play. Pay attention to one another, listen and watch to find the best way to make magic.

I’m torn right now as to my favorite personal moment of the night.

I stumped the Hall of Famer Gammons with my favorite baseball trivia question in the green room. For the record, Theo Epstein got it later with his first guess.

I got to sing and front “Monday” with a full horn section, Jimmy Chamberlin from Smashing Pumpkins on drums, and Wilco’s own John Stirratt on the bass.

We’ll go with 1 and 1a.

“Worlds colliding” isn’t a fair description.

Life is ours to create, experiences and interests ours to curate.

Friday night was a perfect, unforgettable night in the world I live in. And I know there are millions who live there with me.

Epstein’s guitar playing needs some work.

• Matt Spiegel co-hosts “The McNeil & Spiegel Show” 9 a.m. to 1 p.m. Monday-Friday on WSCR 670-AM. Follow him on Twitter @mattspiegel670.

Hot Stove, Cool Music was held Thursday night at the Metro. I’ve been looking forward to it for months, following the lead of the tireless and enthused Len Kasper. There were lots of schemes and plans. Len has grabbed the reins of the musical side of this thing and made it better every year. I’m really happy to help him with it.Last year, the headliner seized an opportunity to grandstand. This particular attempt at being a fearless truth-teller was woefully misguided.  He embarrassed himself with inaccuracies and downright foolishness. He bummed out a group of organizers and participants who deserve far better.

So this year, Theo Epstein called in the big gun.

Eddie Vedder, what a gem. Warm, mellow, kind. He paid for his longtime guitar tech and monitor person to fly in. He decided he wanted his favorite Cub growing up, Jose Cardenal, to be there. So Eddie flew him in.

Eddie was pleasantly surprised at the musical competence at our rehearsal, because we got the right guys Pros. Great players with good vibes, who did their work to learn everything and showed up ready to go. The rehearsal stretched long, arrangements were adjusted by good ideas, and he showed what a generous musician a big-time rock star can still be.

Joe Shanahan and the Metro are the perfect host and venue. That place reeks of historic rock credibility, and it sounds amazing when it’s full.  Every year, this is my favorite green room.  Musicians, baseball execs, radio people, Hall of Fame writers, random former Cubs and/or Red Sox.

Green room

Early in the night, I turned a corner and eavesdropped on a moment: Theo and Jose Cardenal one-on-one.

Jose: “You’re doing a great job, man…”

Theo: “Thank you Jose. This is a special team to work for, and you’re a part of it.  I want you there when we win, OK?”

Jose: “Yes, yes, man … I’ll be there, thank you.”

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You’ll see why I taught a vocal part to these guys.

You get to Wrigley Field at 8:15 a.m. The neighborhood is already buzzing, and the ballpark bar is filled with workers prepping for the masses.

You’re part of a radio show speaking directly to the hopes, fears, joy and criticism of a rabid Cubs fan base that still can’t quite believe this is happening. Your interactions are alternately filled with calm, titillation, analysis, nervous laughter and genuine romance.

The president of baseball operations sits down with you at 11:30 a.m. and thinks back to his first few months on the job in late 2011. He tells you about the 125 members of the scouting and development team, all together in a hotel ballroom in Mesa, painstakingly mapping out a manual on how the Cubs were going to teach the game. There was one day for hitting, one for pitching, one for defense, a fourth to consolidate. A blueprint emerged. He tells you how this week those same 125 people were flown in, with their families, to walk the warning track and sit in the bleachers for the first home playoff game of the era the day before.

Symmetry. Deserved rewards.

The manager tells you at 12:40 p.m. that he couldn’t be more proud of his team, for approaching these moments the way they have. He doesn’t say it, and he doesn’t need to, but you know he has been the driving force for their confidence and calm. He’s a master of both strategy and atmosphere. He told you at the beginning how trusting relationships would be built and how brutal honesty would get the best from his players.

It’s worked.

The show ends, the neighborhood fills and you wait for your friend to meet you for the game. He’s a lifelong Cubs fan, approaching 50, ready to attend his first ever October game. You’re in the upper deck on the first-base side. You get sky and sunset views. The orange and red foliage on neighborhood trees behind the bleachers reminds you all evening that this is fall baseball, and your gratitude multiplies.

You stand with two strikes, for every batter on either team. You question the best manager you’ve ever seen when his starter gets hit hard, because that’s your right. You’ve invested the hours watching and learning the game so you can feel you ought to be in charge. The fans are glad you aren’t.

You high-five strangers when the Cubs get out of a jam. You jump and cackle when the pitcher gets an RBI single. You watch the hot-headed Cardinals pitcher lose his cool and hope he crumbles.

You watch the last remaining rookie slugger join the power barrage, guessing fastball against a frustrated pitcher and destroying a three-run homer into the right-field bleachers. You watch him sprint around the bases, jump into the dugout and bounce from teammate to teammate as the crowd roars, knowing of his traumatic season and arduous work to get through it.

Deserved rewards.

As the “middle closer” is striking out the side to get out of a fourth-inning scare, you hear a swell of cheers moving behind you and turn around. There’s the owner, walking the aisle between the 400 and 500 levels, high-fiving every fan in his path. He knows how patient they’ve been. He’s also drinking in their appreciation, accepting the praise for how he’s allowed the architect to build the foundation.

Deserved rewards.

It’s 4-3, Cubs. The scrap-heap starter turned reliever is trying to survive a threat. A single to right field ties the game but doesn’t give up the lead. Instead you watch the right fielder, who will soon be subbed out for a better defender, deliver an absolutely perfect throw. He’s the best athlete on the field, and he’s playing the best baseball of his professional life at the most important of his times. You plan to watch the throw again and again when you get home.

Like your mom used to say, a beautifully executed play looks like ballet.

You watch the 26-year-old “veteran” leader take the lefty reliever deep for the second game in a row. You doubt one run is enough. Later, the 22-year-old slugger hits a blast you think must have hit one of those now-empty rooftops behind the giant right-field videoboard. The slugger gets a curtain call, which you miss because you’re still talking to strangers about the majesty of the bomb.

You cringe when the reliever you don’t trust, against St. Louis, comes in, and then you smile when he dominates. You watch the closer bring the shrine tantalizingly close to bliss, needed outs dwindling down to one. The best Cardinal singles, bringing the tying run to the plate. It’s not going to feel easy.

Good. This isn’t easy. Rebuilding an organization isn’t easy. Finding future stars in the draft, in trade and in international signings isn’t easy. Coming together as a mix of players and accepting whatever role the boss asks of you isn’t easy. Hell, trusting the plan while watching three years of noncompetitive baseball from your couch isn’t easy.

And winning a playoff series against the top rival and organizational model isn’t easy. It’s stressful for the viewers. But the stress makes the success that much sweeter. This is why you always embrace the stress.

They win. You look to the sky. You think of Cubs fans you loved who aren’t here, and you hope they’re watching. You thank the stars for your presence. You hug your friend. You sing along to a song you hate. You let yourself say nothing, drinking in as much as your senses will allow. You sing some more. You text your father. You don’t leave.

You watch men in uniforms and then suits pile on to each other with that special mix of relief and elation. You watch the media scurrying to capture their words. You look to the brand new videoboard to see the disco-ball champagne celebration going on inside the clubhouse. You see the shortstop-turned-second baseman who took so much criticism this year in ski goggles spraying champagne onto the ceiling, and you wonder how on earth we all got here.

Deserved rewards.

You want to see that twice more.