Really proud of the boys right now. I know that I and just about every Mets fan in existence had nooses fixed to our necks and were ready to jump after the four-game ABSOLUTE FUCKING DISASTER in Philly, expecting the absolute worst as they headed to Turner Field of Bad Dreams. As mentioned in the comments to the last post, I had a few bets going that our dear team would be either tied for first or in second by the end of this weekend. So I was expecting a sweep. What I didn’t expect was that it would be the Mets starring as Cinderella. And how about that: the lead is now at four over the Phillies (thanks for showing up, Marlins!) and a robust 7.5 over Atlanta. Being poor sucks, but I’m glad to give away that money. Word.
I also promised a self-imposed exile from watching or paying attention to any of the games this weekend. Turns out that I just can’t stay away (masochism suits me). The deal with myself was broken when I received a text from Danny which read “DEAD CENTER.” So I assumed that was good, and had to find out exactly what happened (this would be the perfect time for Delgado to stay awake). Throughout the rest of the night, Stan would flash his phone at me, taunting me with the score. (Petulantly, and not wanting to get my hopes–which were all too frequently raised and quickly dashed during the Philly Nightmare–I’d say “The bullpen’s just gonna blow it anyway.”) On Saturday, after gorging myself at the Red Hook Ballfields (omg, seriously one of the best atmospheres I’ve experienced in New York, and the best flautas I’ve had since moving from California) with Stan, I was back at his place watching the U.S. Open (good showing by the young Americans Donald Young and 6’9″ weirdly-cute goofball John Isner, despite their losses) and would periodically quietly pipe up, “What’s the score?” After a mocking “Oh I thought you didn’t want to know!” replete with that unctuous face he makes, he’d relay the information. My reaction: “Mike fucking Pelfrey is doing that?!” Atta boy, Pelf. Great time to get your first win of the year.
After going to bed much too late on Saturday*, I woke up this afternoon just in time for the final game of the series. I switched on the radio and immediately switched it off, thinking I was jinxing them with the Braves already scoring. I’d check the computer and see it was tied up. I’d switch the radio back on to hear David Wright (can we start the MVP chants now?) hitting a 2-run shot off Smoltz. I would do this back-and-forth for the duration of the game, especially when Heilman gave up a hit, and when Wagner gave up a hit. I listened to “Maggie May.” (I have been on a mission to discover Rod Stewart back when he was foxy. Any suggestions?). I checked the score and saw 3-2 with two outs and a man on. GAH WAGS! I turned the radio back on, and phew.
I guess I should have more faith. I wasn’t in the mood for my already-broken heart to be completely decimated this weekend, and look at that: it’s started beating as strong as it was last weekend.
*So, okay: my self-imposed Mets exile would’ve been much easier had I accepted the invitation to go to Worcester with my something-or-other-I’m-not-sure-yet. We had a nice little back-and-forth all day on Friday before he left, my favorite being:
Anderson: Please please please come. I’ll buy you a white hat so that you can fit in.
me: are there non-white people in worcester
I’ll buy you white skin so that you can fit in.
me: i want a clambake!
Anderson: Worcester is not even close to a beach
me: oh do you need a beach
Anderson: Whatever, you’re just afraid you’ll be burned at the stake. We stopped doing that to minorities at least ten years ago.
Even though his promise of going to Fenway on Saturday was tempting, I ended up declining the invitation. And then this happened. And then I got this much much later on that night:
Anderson: No hitter. NO HIIOTTERT! I SAAW A NO HITTER and you coauld have too if you were’nt so STUPID adn LAME1 OMG. i’m drunk. yahdood
I am so stupid.