Three-thousand miles, a couple decades, and a multitude of them 'life-decisions' away, "WHY DO I HAVE TO LISTEN TO YOUR MUSIC?!" I shout in the general direction of a kid pedaling by my Oregon porch/office on a too loud bicycle. "I should water my yard," I say to myself barely out-loud maybe. I've been working on my posture lately. My childhood, my youth, is dead. Funny, I don't recall any real pain. On a scale of hang-nail to Adrian Beltrane's torn right testicle -- we're talking toenails clipped a tick too short. You'd expect more drama. Death throes, at the least.
In an already horrid 2017 campaign which saw me rolling my ankle whilst taking my garbage to the curb mere moments after donning my Mets cap in a show of support (I thankfully avoided the DL), this is mayhaps the low-point. The now is a frustratingly injury-riddled season of woeful under-achievements. Of another David Wright surgical procedure. But now the halcyon days of yore can't even bear the weight of our hung hats? Oy vey iz mir.
Strawberry mercilessly sunk the dagger further into my soul: "We’ve never been back. I never want to go back, I’d rather stay with the Yankees than deal with the Mets."
Damn Yankees. He then went on to extol the loveliness of one Mr. George Steinbrenner. Damn Yankees. I still say they ain't catching the BoSox this year. At-home 'away' games, or not. Damn Yankees. Damn my dead childhood. My dead childhood is an '84 Topps Strawberry card with his face inserted at its corner. An '87 Topps Lenny Dykstra card. I can still see its wood-panelled borders. I was 11 years old during the '86 Mets world championship run. I forget how much older I was when I realized they were all a bunch a' coke-heads. I have kept that filed away and keep this news in the context of that folder.
"[Steinbrenner] is probably the greatest owner there ever will be in sports. He loved people and he loved his players. Anyone that puts on a Yankees uniform is family to him. He doesn’t turn his back on his players, like the other organization across town. It’s just the reality, it’s real. The players on the '86 championship team, we don’t even deal with the Mets. It’s not Fred Wilpon, it’s the new thing."
The new thing. My phone ain't working right. I'll have my step-kid High-schooler look at it for me. He's a real whiz with that sorta thing.
IN (JEWSMOKE) ADDITION:
IN (JEWSMOKE) ADDITION: