So long, sweet lucky helmet
Sixth inning, runners on first and second, two outs for David Wright at the plate. Crack! There goes a smoking line drive to deep left...
Back back back goes Willie Harris...he leaps...throws his glove up...and smack the ball lands in the glove and Harris lands on the ground. Wright slams his helmet down in frustration.
309 miles away, I echo Wright's emotions, slamming my helmet into the closest immovable object: the wall.
I just stared at the helmet, nearly in two pieces, in my hand. There she was, the helmet I have worn for two years, thrown around for two crazy seasons, flung across the room on countless occasions, and she just couldn't hold it up anymore.
She's hurt, but I think she's salvageable.
My roommates are refusing to give me any duct tape to fix her up, but I will continue to wear her as the team struggles, falls out of the first place, and attempts to hang on to the wild card lead.
Maybe cracking it almost in half may be the best thing for the Mets. Maybe this will break some sort of curse that's been hanging over the Mets. Who knows?