I ain’t gonna lie: The Opening Night loss really bugged me.
Part of it was because I’ve only gotten the chance to see a few Mets games from beginning to end so far, and they’ve won only one of them.
Part of it was the team’s general lack of urgency, an eerie reminder of recent seasons.
Part of it was battling back from a 4-run deficit, only to see it depart on a petty balk that might have gone unnoticed were it not for that cancerous little midget David Eckstein. (If I hear one more broadcaster call him a “winner”, I will Elvis my TV).
Part of it was I knew it would sour my whole day, despite my best efforts to prevent such meaningless events from negatively affecting my life.
But mostly it was because I knew the media doo-doo storm would be in full poo-flinging swing. I knew that the Mets would be absolutely murdered in today’s papers, on the local sports channels, and by the radio yakkers, all of them spewing forth with absolutely no perspective whatsoever.
I avoided all three outlets like the plague for most of Tuesday, because I knew what they would say, and I knew it would just anger me. Sometimes, getting annoyed can spur you on to do great things, but Tuesday was not such a time. I wanted to coccoon and wait out the media maelstrom until the next game.
But for reasons I still don’t fully understand, I visited Newsday‘s online site late in the day. I felt drawn there by evil forces I couldn’t resist, like Frodo aching to slip on The One Ring. And while there, I saw a link for a Wallace Matthews article entitled “Citi Field lacks real Mets fans”. And god help me, I clicked and read.
I shouldn’t be mad at Wallace Matthews for this literary abortion of an article. I’ve documented this fact at Scratchbomb enough times: The man lives to eat joy and shit out despair. I knew exactly what he would pen on such an occasion. And yet I read it anyway. I’m at fault here, not Matthews. He’s just doing what comes naturally to him, like a dog eating its own vomit.
For Wallace Matthews, the Mets opening a new stadium with a listless, embarrassing loss is like eight Christmas mornings rolled into one. Except in Matthews’ version, there are no presents under the tree for anyone and he gets to tell all the children in the world that Santa Claus was raped and bludgeoned to death.
With all that said, let’s dive in, shall we?
