| Volume I, Issue X -- extra mets lose extra --
This is not good. Not good at all. I’ve been subjected
to so much
agita today, that the last thing I need is to hear Gary Cohen on
WFAN with his "the Braves are two bases away from a World Series."
Screw you, idiots. No way are we going out that easy.
I have not had a good day, and it all started from waking up
late
for work, feeling like a balloon, and after staring into the mirror
for a brief, yet horrifying second, I noticed that my eyes were not
looking so good. Puffed. Red as apples. Looks like allergy season is
as stubborn as the Mets. Won’t go away, and all that.
So, me the playoff watcher, I always root for New York. And
it’s
always because I don’t like the cities our teams are playing. It’s all
about proving who’s bigger and better, as far as I’m concerned, and
why should we let Atlanta roll over on us now? Them, the world capital
of what? They may make Coca-Cola, but we probably drink more.
That’s us. New York the selfish lover – we take and take and take, but
we don’t give back.
I hailed a cab that never came, stumbled the half mile to the
bus,
chased it one stop, and arrived at work in a heap with absolutely no
caffeine yet in my system.
Bored? It gets better.
Two hours into work, I realize just how essential coffee and
cigarettes are to my health and well being, and I take five minutes
for both. A blustery October day, everyone’s dragging out the wool
sweaters. If there were leaves to be seen, they would surely be
beautiful. I am content to stare at the latest scantily clad model on
the billboard in front of me, and watch sheepish businessmen
wandering in and out of the strip club across the street. Shame on you.
It’s 11 o’clock in the morning, says the little mother voice inside of me.
Upon return, I learn in detail from my boss that the health
of the
company currently paying my bills is not so good, and if I were me, or
if I were he, or if he were me, or whatever -- may want to consider
finding a new job before I’m out on my ass. They are not firing only
me – turns out, matter of fact, that all our jobs are in jeopardy, and that
our particular division of the company may fold.
My first thought is, boy oh boy, permanent employment really
does
have its plusses. But then I remember the IBM massacre of 1993 that
tore my hometown in two, and I feel a little better. Those poor sots
probably thought they had it in the bag. Whoops.
Okay – win the damn game already!!! (the game,
remember?) Top of
the 10th, there’s a man on 2nd, and he’s running to
third!!! You’ve got to
take it!!! Don’t let us down!! This is really too much. Gary and Bob
are excited. Me too.
Where was I.
So, after a busy morning at my apparently-soon-to-end
freelancing gig,
I head over to my real job, where we have new editors to impress,
bruised egos to massage, and a boat-load of work to do.
But it’s mostly fun, and it’s never boring, and --
"THE METS HAVE THE LEAD 9-8 IN THE TOP OF THE
10th!" Gary Cohen is yelling again. Loudly.
And then he’s quiet again. Didn’t they win? Duh,
says my roommate.
The home team gets last ups, silly.
Oh. See – I told you I only pay attention to the
playoffs. You see -- I’m a
miserable sport, and as a youngster, I was always getting in trouble for
having a lousy attitude when we lost. Ruined my whole day, it did. I don't
care for sports much, anymore.
Work was cool, went for a walk, grabbed coffee with the
quirky reporter
who got sent to L.A. for the O.J. civil trial, and is still on assignment.
Longest damn stakeout I ever heard of. Now he chases Robert Downey Jr.
rumors and harasses other various wayward celebrities. He sighs, and
remarks how he wishes he’d be back in New York, and makes a
comment on how it’s actually a lot more fun, and what a privilege it is to
have a good job here. Oh, don’t mock. You know it’s true.
I feel guilty for bitching. Would you want to live in L.A? I
think not. I ask
him if all the stereotypes really hold. They do, it seems. Everyone drives, and
everyone is writing a screenplay. That everyone-drives bit seems like a good
idea, as we fight Sixth Ave. pedestrian traffic on our way back to the office.
"TIED 9-9. THIS IS TOO MUCH!" Gary Cohen is
yelling. (shall I stop
saying that?) So it’s tied again. I can’t stand this. Absolutely flummoxed.
Roommate is screaming and pounding the floor.
The work day wraps up nicely with some good conversation, and
I’m
typing up book excerpts from Geri Halliwell’s memoirs for a Sunday
assignment, I battle my morbid curiosity regarding Ginger Spice and her
anorexia/bulimia issues.
Yeah.
I hop on a Hoboken bound bus for a fun-filled evening with
prospective
future roommates, who offer me a beer, we sit down and watch the 0-5
game, and it’s all but over, and then there’s that pesky 3 point showing
from the Mets.
So we shoot the breeze, talk politics and religion
(that’s the problem with
other folks in journalism – the conversations are always so interesting!
Really.) Of course, as I always do when I meet someone that I hit it off
with immediately, they throw me a curveball.No pun intended.
Turns out, they don’t want to make a decision until November 1st.
Well, Everybody in Vests and call me a Gap commercial. That’s
really not helpful.
I board the return bus to the Port Authority in that now
familiar state of
deflation. Everything around me seems to be suddenly hostile. I arrive
home an hour later, to my Queens abode, and I drown my sorrows in some
of my own horrible cooking.
The game is on.
And here we are. The bottom of the 10th, and
they’re tied again. As
Howard Stern would say -- oy vey.
We’re in the boring beginnings of the top of the 11th
inning, tied (so what
else is new), and the Braves fans are chanting that horrendously offensive
Indian chant that we used to do when we were 10 years old and building
teepees in the woods behind school for history class.
Mets deliver a scoreless inning, at which time I begin to
lose hope. But
then again, that is a foolish thing, considering who we’re dealing with.
The Amazin’s. Be amazin’ for us, will ya?
Braves up, first one, then two, then three – bases are
loaded, winning run
on third, time called, goddamn! I’m going in to meltdown here. We’re
seconds away from history being made, and then all of a sudden --
There is a walk. A walk, for God’s sake! Sonofabitch
W-A-L-K-E-D
the bastards!
It’s over. The World Series will begin next week in
Atlanta. Oh God,
it is so over. It is so, so, over.
Here in Queens, I have turned off the radio. Roommate is
speechless.
He is not moving. The only sound out on the street is the rustling of
dying leaves, leaves waiting to fall. Like the Mets just did. The
evening air is
chilly. There is a moment of silence, silence for fallen heroes. Silence
for dreams deferred. The block is for once, completely dead. As well it
should be. Grown men are crying somewhere, drunk men are beating their
breasts and the bar, alternately, angry men across the region are probably
hitting things, breaking things.
Oh, but the pain, the pain, the pain! And then it begins to
rain, here in Queens,
over a darkened Shea Stadium, darkened now for the season.
Dammit.
I told you already. I don’t need the agita.
Email: dj140@hotmail.com
Next Update: 1 November
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