I’m not about to get delusional over the Mets’ 2-0 start. Or their 1.00 team ERA. Or Lucas Duda’s major league leading two homers. Or their bullpen’s 0.00 ERA.
No, I’m not rebooting my pre-season prediction of a last place finish for the Mets (for the record, I made that prediction not in writing, but at the bar of the Irish Cottage in Queens, which is a Mets bar, by the way). But after a perfect two games into the 2012 season, I will allow myself, while I can, to smell the roses. Because by mid-summer, I expect to be smelling something akin to week-old lobster shells.
So forgive me if I take at least 24 hours to savor this moment of baseball bliss, where hope springs eternal and all the stars align, albeit briefly. First place. Undefeated. Johan the ace once again. Wright is healthy and hitting. Duda’s a stud. The bullpen is untouchable. Beautiful weather. Big crowds at Citi. Bernie Madoff in the rear-view mirror.
I’m not about to ponder the possibilities of a post-season run by the Amazin’s. And I’m not getting nostalgic and romantic about a ’69-like Cinderella season, just because this is the Mets’ 50th anniversary season. I’m just, you know, trying to soak in a little feel-good vibe until the whole thing goes up in flames. Is that asking too much?
Maybe the Braves, who have looked totally feckless thus far, are still hung over from last season’s implosion. Maybe the Mets will get spanked by the Nationals when they come to Flushing this week. I get it. 2-0 is nothing to hold a parade about. Just give me another week or so of optimism. I’ll be in Philly next Sunday, my first road trip to Citizen’s Bank Park. How wonderful would it be to strut into that place with the Mets in first, acting like my team finally has it’s act together, tossing my New York attitude around just to get under the thin skin of those dreaded Philly fans. So what if I get a cheesesteak tossed at me? Big deal if someone douses me with with a Frank’s Black Cherry Wishniak. I just want one day to boast over the red menace, even if it means running for my life out of South Philly. It’ll be a memory to carry me through the inevitable dog days of summer.
Off the Foul Pole 