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RUNNING ON EMPTY. | metsgrrl.com


deadend9-27-07 This is the part where I don’t know what to say.

There is part of me that just wants to rant, and then I’m going to hear how I don’t KNOW what it’s like, really, and you know what, I know that I don’t know what it’s like. But that’s like telling someone who’s 22 that they’ll never see a truly *meaningful* Bruce Springsteen show, because after 1975, he just wasn’t the same. I’m here now. Now is what I know. If I was 8 years old you might tell me that I don’t know what it’s like but you wouldn’t tell the 8 year old that, you might do it in a kind way while you bent down to straighten their favorite Mets hat and wipe away that tear perched on their cheek. I was going to say “Here, I get to be 8” but it doesn’t matter if it’s here or there. It’s not like I don’t know the history or I don’t understand heartbreak in 31 different flavors. I know this is the 32nd flavor of heartbreak but I get it. Trust me, I get it.

I also accept the whole concept of having to earn my stripes, but if I’m saying EXACTLY WHAT THE VETERAN MET FANS ARE SAYING why is it any less valid or why am I any less entitled to say it?

That’s just warm-up whining, I think.

But I am angry and sad and infuriated and incensed and numb and tired and agonized, and tonight’s game just blows my mind. Completely. But before I talk about that:

So I don’t have my playoff tickets yet. Yeah, they were sent out when everyone else’s were sent out, and I know where they are, but I don’t have that magic DHL envelope. I don’t have it because I had to have the delivery rerouted to Manhattan from Brooklyn, because you know you’re never home when they deliver this stuff. And then it’s been a comedy of errors and well-meaning excuses that I’ve decided remind me of the 2007 Mets. For example, effort by one person (say, the CS rep who answers the phone and asks me if Brooklyn is near Manhattan) but a complete lack of effort by another person (the guy who gave me the wrong phone number to fax the authorizaton to), and then continued ineptitude (the guy who answered the phone and realized that I had been given the wrong number and took the information himself, only to allegedly omit the floor number), and then the piece de resistance when the delivery guy claimed he didn’t have the company name, or it wasn’t on his slip, or he didn’t have the floor number – any one of those things – and instead of just trying to do SOMETHING, like just going to the 17th floor to see if there are more than one company there, he just gives up and phones it in, or the clerk in the office who swore to the CS rep on the phone that my package was now at the station and I was welcome to come pick it up any time before 8pm. I waited for an hour before I finally had a tearful meltdown that I exaggerated to my total benefit so I had a reasonable certainty that the tickets will be delivered tomorrow before 12 noon, and then walked out to 42nd Street in real tears.

And then I came home and watched the Mets lose. With Pedro pitching. And I’m not disgusted or disappointed so much as just plain old WORN OUT.

We’re out of time. We’re out of excuses. And as of tonight, we’ve run out of road.

TBF and I have this ongoing debate, that I mentioned in the comments in the last post. I keep saying it would break my heart more for the Mets to make it to the post-season and then choke than for not to get there at all. He maintains that the opposite is true. I thought about it some more and the thing is, it’s not just that they’d make it to the post-season, it’s that they’d make it to the post-season by tripping over it or backing into it AND THEN choke, which should surprise no one. I am all for the romantic scenario of the gritty underdogs battling and getting beaten and getting up again and winning when everyone said they wouldn’t win. Everyone said the Mets would win. Maybe that was the problem; maybe it was too much of a given and they never really thought they had to fight for it all that hard.

In the end, though, it’s all my fault. Because before I left work tonight I sent an elaborate email to my managers explaining what half-days I need to take in the next week and a half and why, and oh, it might change, and oh, Major League Baseball are morons, and, oh, thanks to the Red Sox for taking the evening slot (since one of them is from Boston). The humiliation when I don’t need to take those days will be hard to face, given the amount of Yankees fans around me.

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