I had moved my coffee table out of the way. I was standing. Pacing. You could cut the tension with a knife, and I was the only one in the room.
“Popped him up!” Gary Cohen may have said. I couldn’t hear it for I was too busy screaming, jumping and enjoying a hard-fought game.
I stopped jumping just long enough to make sure Luis Castillo put the game away with the can of corn.
“Hmm…,” I thought. “Castillo sure has happy feet.”
“He dropped the ball!” Cohen likely exclaimed. I couldn’t hear it for I was too busy screaming, jumping and trying not to punch a hole through my television.
Mark Teixeira slid across home plate, sealing the win for the Yankees.
I collapsed to the floor, much like I did on October 19, 2006. I fell to the ground in a heap. A heap of shock. A heap of disbelief. A heap of Mets fan.
Then, as if my mind couldn’t process what it just saw, I began to laugh.
On my knees, in an almost prayer-like stance facing the terrible black box that just showed terrible images of a terrible play, I laughed.
It started as a giggle. A small laugh as the calamity still played out in front of my eyes. The Yankees were on the field celebrating and I’m on my knees laughing.
Onto my rear I moved, back slouched and feet stretched in front of me, the chuckle turned into a full bore laugh. I sat and laughed at my television, alone in my house.
Alone, but very much connected. Connected to every Mets fan across the world. We were all one at that point. One very sad and shocked baseball fan.
Laughing to myself, I shook my head. I shook it off. I pulled myself to my feet, slid the coffee table back to it’s tiny divots in the carpet and plopped onto the couch.
I pulled myself up, just like the Mets need to do. They need to pull themselves together and dust themselves off. They need to come back tomorrow and use this game as motivation. They need to go out there and win.
What? Fernando Nieve is starting tomorrow?
Ah, crap. Nevermind. They’re screwed.
