A Personal Eulogy; Throwing in The Mets Towel

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A Personal Eulogy; Throwing in The Mets Towel
(Photo by Spencer Platt/Getty Images)

It was almost surreal.

Watching Mets games was removed as a priority a while ago. The circumstances around me would dictate whether or not I would be destined to swallow my medicine and watch my favorite team labor. 

However, by no means was I to avoid socializing with my friends simply to watch replacements try to scrap wins and allow the stars to come back with a chance late in the year.

As seldom as I watched, I was informed of the happenings for each game through my cell phone courtesy of a monthly $3.99 service that alerts me of late-inning lead changes, Mets home runs, and ultimately, final scores, which have typically felt like death sentences. An evening out with my friends would typically be infiltrated by the somber news of a Mets loss.

Now, I could have cancelled these updates and save me the pain of having my infinite optimism chipped away at every night. But as bleak as things appear, the dim hope still flickered. I wouldn't devote nights to them, but I would keep a close watch on the events of that night's game.

Naturally, I have chosen to get an extra hour or two of sleep the last two nights rather then watching one Triple-AAA squad square-off against another until 1:30 A.M. Needless to say, this decision has proven to be wise.

Last night was a strange occurence. I typically sleep smoothly through a night, but at roughly ten of one I abruptly woke up with severe stomach pain. Clutching my stomach, I peered at my phone and saw I had one text message: "Padres tie the Mets 2-2, in the Bottom of the 9th." I received the text merely three minutes before I woke up in stomach pain.

I wasn't responsive, although a bit agitated. K-Rod, who has pitched with as much fire as Randy Moss did catching balls for the Oakland Raiders, must have blown another save. No matter, there's no sense in getting angry. And my stomach pain eased up rapidly.

Ten minutes later the stomach pain re-emerged and had to be taken care of. I won't be explicit, but I will tell you that I rushed to the bathroom at 1:03 and came out at 1:07 feeling very relieved.

I promptly checked my phone with a sense of dread, and sure enough I received a text message that said, "Everth Cabrera hits a game winning grand slam HR (two) in the bottom of the 9th. Padres beat the Mets 6-2."

Disappointment quickly gave way to wonder. As if our season wasn't over already, this has to place the final dagger in the coffin. And as K-Rod blows the game I'm simultaneously experiencing worse physical pain then I've ever felt. This instance can only be paralleled to Harry Potter's scar searing whenever Voldemort is in sight, and that's supposed to be fictional.

Such is the bond I have with this team. Sitting in my family room where I venture to watch my favorite baseball team is a brick that is somewhere along the Citi Field fanwalk. "Mets Fan From Start to Finish, David Geller."

Last night appeared to be the finish. And the supernatural forces that were conjured from placing that brick along Citi Field held me accountable for my promise.

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