It was not immediately clear what sparked the fight between the 28-year-old relief pitcher and his 53-year-old father-in-law, police said.

Moments before the explosion with his family, Rodriguez snapped at reporters who asked why he was not summoned to pitch in a bases loaded situation in the eighth inning.

“Did I f—–g pitch tonight?” Rodriguez snarled when asked if he was upset that manager Jerry Manuel did not ask him to protect a one-run lead. “Why do I have to talk to you f—–g guys?”

– Kristie Ackert and Jonathan Lemire, N.Y. Daily News.

Oh lord. So looks like the 2010 Mets season finally turned to full-blown absurdity last night, prompted perhaps by Jerry Manuel’s downright surreal bullpen management.

Obviously I don’t know what happened in the family room, so I’m not here to making sweeping moral statements about K-Rod beating up his father-in-law. I’ll leave “appalling” and “abominable” to the Daily News, though I’ll admit that it’s pretty hard to come up with a good reason for a 28-year-old professional athlete to be fighting a guy 30 years his senior.

I imagine we’re going to hear a whole, whole lot more about this, so I’ll reserve judgment until some more of the details come out.

The only thing I’m certain of is that Manny Acosta shouldn’t have been in that game last night. If you’re so desperate to have a set “eighth-inning guy” that you need to take a decent starter out of the rotation to anoint him the eighth-inning guy, then holy lord, let him pitch the eighth inning. You’ve got to give him some margin for error. Takahashi allowed two baserunners, yes, but it wasn’t like they both crushed the ball. And if he’s the elusive eighth-inning guy you’ve been searching for all season, he should be good enough to pitch out of a jam. Maybe guys are relinquishing that role so quickly because they know they’ll be yanked from it as soon as they fail the first time and are pitching tentatively.

Anyway, the small upside to the K-Rod thing is that probably no one will say the Mets are too nice anymore.

I found out yesterday that I’m going to Chicago on Labor Day weekend to watch and write about the Mets, and also probably eat a bunch of sandwiches.

If you’re in or near Chicago, you should come hang out. Matt Cerrone is going to put together some sort of party, so join me there as I make so many Blues Brothers references they grow intolerable then poke fun at whichever of Cerrone’s numerous bizarre traveling whims has come up in the last day or so.

If you’re not in or near Chicago, the Mets are offering a package that includes tickets and accommodations.

Obviously Wrigley is awesome and I love Chicago, plus the trip should mean different and hopefully interesting content for this blog.

I haven’t figured out exactly what that means yet, but I’m certain it will involve eating. I know about the fake-ass “pizza” they serve up there, and I recognize that it’s pretty good even if it’s not what pizza should be like, so I’ll probably have some of that.

And I know it’s a sausage town, plus I’m certain to go back to the Billygoat Tavern, both because they serve good burgers and because it’s on Lower Wacker, which cracks me up.

But what I’m really excited about — and what I didn’t know existed the last time I was in the Second City — is the breaded steak sandwich. Look at that thing.

If you know any other Chicago-area delicacies, please let me know. I’m not sure how much food I’ll be able to cram in my face in three days, but hey, when in Rome.