"Unable to say exactly what the disease is, I want the Sonics to cure me." -- David Shields, writing about his weakness for the Seattle Supersonics
Yesterday was an unpleasant day. It wasn't awful--no compound fractures were suffered, no bankruptcies filed--but it was unpleasant, nonetheless. The dog had diarrhea and I found out that book/zine tour I was scheduled to go on in August had been cancelled. So I turned to the Mets to lift my spirits. They were going to complete a sweep of the Yankees in the Bronx, for the first ever, and, for the first time in weeks, I was going to be able watch the entire game. I tuned in not hoping for a Mets win, but needing a Mets win. Their victory would turn the tide on my crummy day and set the tone for a great week to come. It was a low-scoring, thin ice game from the start, Kris Benson topping Randy Johnson 1-0 for most of the evening. I started feeling better, noticing that the dog was nearly back to normal and that, by not going on tour, I'd actually save money. Then the Yankees defense went Bad News Bears and the Mets pulled ahead 4-1. I started feeling great, thinking about how I could work on the website for my other magazine with the time freed up by the cancellend tour. The Mets success was bringing validation, perhaps even euphoria, within sight. Then David Wright bobbled a grounder down the third base line. The door to a comeback was open just a crack and, true to Torre-era form, the Yankees came barging through, bold and rude, like always. True, the Mets were still up 4-3 in the bottom of the ninth, but I knew it was over. Once the Evil Ones got a runner to third base I left the living room, fuming, and went downstairs to read, foul mood guaranteed. When Allie came downstairs and confirmed that Looper had blown the game, I, well, read Steve's entry from this morning. He says it all.