Enter Blue Radio: Let’s Go Mets

Many years ago, I kept a small blue radio on my kitchen counter, so that I could listen to NY Met games. Why?

Because, I’m old school like video music box, classroom beatings, and dangerous Halloween nights.

I grew up immersed in baseball. I played it every day of my life, up until the day I quit varsity baseball–because I’d rather spend my time chasing girls than balls. I was always a Mets fan, because my grandfather had been a NY Giants/Brooklyn Dodgers fan, until “those fucking bastards” stabbed him in the heart, as he liked to say. It’s worth noting, Grandpa Fly would argue until he was blue in the face that he never cursed, while cursing during his heated defense.

“I don’t fucking curse; you god damned liar.”

At any rate, I was very content with the Mets of the 80’s, cocaine addicts playing ball hard, punching the opposing team in the face, just because they could.

Then 2007 happened, a collapse of biblical proportions. The NY Mets ceded a 7 game lead with just 17 games to go, to the bastard Phillies. I will never forget the anguish I felt when they were eliminated from contention. It was like a death in the family occurred and some Yankee traitor, Willie Randolph, was presiding over the funeral arrangements. It was a dark time for Le Fly and his blue radio.

The following year the Mets collapsed in almost the same end of year fashion. After that, I was no longer a baseball fan. I stopped listening to games and I haven’t visited the field since. As a matter of fact, I’ve never been to Citi-field. People have offered me free tickets, field level, and I told them to fuck off. You couldn’t pay me to go.

Now the Mets are trying to rope me back into their snare. They are playing an elimination NLDS game tonight, versus those ‘fucking bastard” Dodgers and I am secretly rooting for the Mets to succeed. I want to believe. Hell, it’s the Mets’ stupid slogan, aside from the juvenile “Let’s Go Mets” chant.

If the Mets win tonight, I will take out the blue radio, dust it off, and place it back onto my kitchen counter top. I will wear old jerseys and talk shit to my fellow Yankee fans, who, by the way, were unceremoniously escorted out from playoff contention without a fight.

Two thousand and fifteen has been a year of false starts, faded momentum, and trickery. Let’s see if the Mets can provide me with a much needed respite from the drudgery of this God forsaken stocked market.

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