NEW YORK, NY – Us fans of the NY Mets are remarkably adept at compartmentalizing pain… as in mental anguish. It is an essential evolutionary trait borne from the broken hearts and shattered dreams of those that came before us. Crushed and discarded souls of “Ya Gotta Believers” and ‘The Magic Is Backers” litter the streets of New York City, Tidewater and Port St. Lucie. Surviving a shared fanaticism for this comedically catastrophic ball club demands an almost innate ability to cope with Amazin’ absurdities. Brushing aside surreal or unfathomable events and/or injuries involving hedge clippers, cabs, rib removals, Gazoo helmets and gopher holes is not only part of the Met Fan Job Description, it is what keeps us from withering away in a corner not named Kiner’s. Processing indigestible or farcical events – like tearing a shoulder to shreds just swinging a bat – are cruel tools that need to be readily accessible on a minute-to-minute basis via one’s Mets Fan Utility Belt… courtesy of Kahn’s Franks.
We are a tortured, tormented and scarred lot, numb from years of losing, being mercilessly mocked by Stanks fans and yet, like Chuck Wepner, we keep coming back for more, when even the Bayonne Bleeder would toss in the towel. Like too many vicious blows to the head, it takes its toll, however and we are constantly inventing or imagining impending doom…
Thus, today’s headline.
Has the tide finally turned? Is Steven A. Cohen our David Hasselhoff, at long last rescuing us from our collective struggle swimming against that unrelenting undertow of prospect flops and management miscues? Heck, we don’t know if the guy can swim!
What he can do, what he has done, though, is nothing short of… Unfathomable. Unbelievable. Unthinkable.
-Exiling the Wilpons.
-Slipping PEDs into Cano’s latte [pure conjecture]
-Bringing in bona fide studs and a superstar, not retreads or Fire Sale Walking Wounded.
-Walking the walk!
It is all… Well… Amazin’.
The Magic is
Oh, and Francisco Lindor and Cookie Carrasco are fine… for now. [GULP]