Oy vey, kreplach, I’ve been this way so many times before.
I am an Upper West Sider by birth, a National League fan by birthright. (My father grew up a Boston Braves fan. My parents rooted for the Giants before that team stole away to points west.) This time of the year was my own form of peyote worship.
As a kid, I wrote out annual forecasts for the . I had John (Little Hammer) Milner down for 35 home runs. Pat Zachry would break out with a 20-win season. Steve Henderson, that All-Star Game has a locker reserved for you. Skip Lockwood, man, oh man, you’re going to save 35 games, maybe 40!
I presented the list to my father and demanded he match me. He looked at me as a doctor would a patient at a mental health ward.
Too much spring optimism, followed by too much midseason darkness and end-season chaos, wore me down. I’ve ceded hallucinogenic optimism to my sons, Nick and Aidan. Aidan, in particular, forever sees the promise of a Met-Jet-Knick sun breaking over the ridge.
With acknowledgment that my crystal ball is a cracked and foggy receptacle of my hopes and fears, I’ll lead with my chin:
The Mets, accustomed to dwelling in a canyon of darkness, will walk blinking into the light this season, led by Matt Harvey and strong young arms everywhere. Wilmer Flores, the tall, out-of-place shortstop, will stroke the ball hard and prove sure-handed enough. The flight path of ’s career has passed its apex, but if he would stop sliding headfirst into bases (note to self: Why does this custom persist?), he might have a fine year. Dilson Herrera, a little second baseman with a sweet stroke, will start the year in Las Vegas but could be looking for a Whitestone condo before season’s end.
If only Sandy Alderson, who displayed a sure hand with pitchers and in rebuilding the minors, had not spent so much Mets coin acquiring geriatric corner outfielders. A closer fence seems unlikely to immunize Curtis Granderson against the encroachments of age. Michael Cuddyer, a professional hitter, had a fine spring. But he’s spent much of the last three years injured. To bet that pattern will break at 35 would have been a cinch when I was 14.
So here’s my prediction: The Mets will break the .500 mark, perhaps standing in the sunlight of 84 wins.
As for The Other Team? I was a teenage tribalist. With my friends Peter and Fred, I would hop the D train to to root loudly against the home team. I’m more mature now (note to self: Not really, but give the appearance of rationality).
is a splendid, if rapidly aging, pitcher. Michael Pineda has a rocket launcher arm. The brilliant Masahiro Tanaka has an elbow hanging by threads. Mark Teixeira has a beautiful swing, if only he did not harbor religious objections to hitting to the opposite field. Didi Gregorius has a questionable bat and an acrobat’s delicacy at shortstop. Alex Rodriguez in this lifetime has ingested enough performance-enhancing drugs to ensure that his muscles will twitch well into his next life.
The are the law firm of If, If, If & If. Manager is one of the game’s best, and if healthy, his team could cop a playoff spot.
If you read this in the corporeal edition of my newspaper, please tear this up. If you read it online, and know what’s good for you, click spike.
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