My family was kind of a Mets microcosm when I was growing up. My father and I were the die-hards with my sister offering casual support, while my mother was the long suffering enabler … Sister and Mom tolerated our tendency to hog the TV when a game was televised, but when the games ended my sister and I would battle it out over Three’s Company vs. The 6 Million Dollar Man.
It got pretty ugly … I’m talking Comet to the eyes and throwing kitchen utensils ugly. And it was always lose / lose for me. She’d usually get the best of me because she was six years older and on the occasions when I did manage to strike a blow (like the time I threw a jar of Ponds cold cream at her) she would pull the “he hit me in my uterus now I won’t be able to have children” card, which was a Pavlov’s whistle for my parents to intervene and beat the tar out of me while she’d watch Dynasty in peace.
And after all those beatings I took she still ended up having kids … but I still love her in spite of her failure to appreciate Gigantor. I don’t get it. Giant robot fighting other giant robots, push button controller, and the most excellent theme music… What’s not to like?
When the Mets were on, my Dad and I only argued about one thing, the Mets, and we did it a lot. We loved to argue, (a staple in Greek discourse since 553 B.C.). Arguing was an art form for us replete with biting sarcasm, crescendos of volume and pitch, fist-pounding emphasis and flippant hand waving … we had it all. There was my eternal obnoxiously confident optimism vs. my dad’s curt reasoned and dismissive pessimism. This dichotomy persists in Mets fans to this day. We are of two minds, those who enjoy their Gatorade bottle half full and those who refuse to drink the Kool-Aid.
Then, as soon as the game was over it would start again, Star Trek or Dallas?… I mean COME ON … Interestingly, one of my favorite Science Fiction writers, Theodore Sturgeon, spoke to this optimistic/pessimistic Mets dichotomy in one of my favorite episodes … Amok Time — the one where Kirk and Spock fight to the death! Spock, after seemingly killing Kirk, says to this younger more handsome bigger eared Vulcan dude (who happens to be bopping his wife):
“Stonn, she is yours, after a time, you may find, that having is not so pleasing a thing after all, as wanting. It is not logical, but it is often true.”
Kind of like Henny Youngman’s line, “Take my wife … please.” The Mets are a lot like an abusive spouse when you think about it, they insult your intelligence, take all your disposable income, belittle your dreams and ambitions and demean you in front of your friends.
The line by Spock, however, relates to Mets fans like myself who for years and years were pessimistic about our inability to build from the farm, who complained about our tendency to trade away our prospects for aging stars, and now that we have what we’ve clamored for we don’t like it so much! We find flaws in the approach, we complain about how long it’s taking, demand rash trades and bold moves! Believe me, I feel all these things myself — you see in every Mets fan there is an optimist and pessimist struggling for mastery of our eternal Mets soul.
Even I feel doubt creeping over me these days like some sort of arctic duck covered in crude oil. It’s been too damned long, this can’t go on, there has to be an end to the hardship I tell myself.
The universe would be thrown off balance if an injustice as destabilizing as this suffering were to continue for much longer. Birds would start attacking, the ice caps would melt, the earth would be thrown off its axis, the Corona Ice King would stop serving pistachio flavor!
Fortunately things have a way of balancing out. Like the Yin and Yang, for every darkness there’s a light … Our suffering not only builds character, it creates a kind of Karmic surplus only with draft picks. Eventually all the heartache translates into Noah Syndergaard and Brandon Nimmo and Kevin Plawecki… Conforto, Montero, Matz, Herrera and Reynolds too… The list goes on and on.
Pipeline lists have become a kind of salve for our collective Mets wounds. Baseball Prospectus ranked the Mets farm system at number eight, describing it as “A Solid blend of pitching and positional talent, ranging from high-risk/high-reward types at the lower levels to safer high-floor prospects nearing the major-league level.“ Feels good reading that doesn’t it? It’s like baseball balm.
Now Sandy Alderson came into his New York GM gig knowing payroll would be limited with ownership desperately reallocating a massive debt. He knew two of the toughest challenges would be the impatient fan base and the Sharknado media. He also knew that the Wilpons’ financial distress might be a blessing in disguise, giving him the opportunity to work with impunity. Here was this window, this unique chance to take a failing big market franchise and perform a small-market rebuild, restocking the organization at it’s roots. What we’ve always wanted right? Four years later, is having not so pleasing a thing as wanting?
If you ask me, the front office has done its job. They promised to rebuild the farm system and they did. Glass half full right? Wrong! Since 2011, Mets payroll has been reduced by 58 million dollars. The greatest farm system in the world won’t help you if you are reducing payroll by an average of $14 million dollars per season for four years running.
And that, my friends, is on ownership.
My Dad has passed away but I still argue with Mets fans when I can. These days it is more a blame game. Who is responsible for our losing? Alderson? The Wilpons? Collins?
The informed reply suggests some combination of the three but composite reasoning doesn’t do it for me. While I would certainly agree that Collins helps in the winning department about as much as a blow torch at a three alarm fire … this team is tantalizingly close and would hurdle right over the top with just a little boost, just a few dollars more.
But no … if you weren’t feeling dejected enough, just wait for it … like Jacob Marley in rattling chains we now have the specter of wasted once-in-a-generation talent at the foot of our beds — the notion that Harvey and Wheeler and deGrom could see their efforts evaporate on account of an ownership group that is incapable of even that drop that would fix the roster.
This my fellow fans is a crime against the game and an insult to the baseball gods, which might just wipe out whatever positive Karma our suffering has accrued by pissing them off all over again. The enemies at the gate of a bright future are, alas, the same ones charged with delivering on that future. The enemy lies within.
