It's becoming brutally obvious to me that God is not a Mets fan. Ok fine, we get eliminated AGAIN on the last day of the season is cruel, heartbreaking fashion that nearly sends thousands of fans into local emergency rooms because their poor hearts can't take it anymore. You know what, we (and me!) can take that. We've done it before, and trust me, there will be plenty more chances for the Mets to break my heart into pieces followed by a collective team effort in spitting on it. I know that. I accept that. It's part of what being a Mets fan is all about.
But what I didn't think would ever happen is actually pretty damn close to happening: the Phillies are one game away from the World Series. Yes, it's the same Phillies that I said could never win a World Series because of their lack of starting pitching. Yes, it's the same Phillies who I said could never win a World Series because of their ridiculously small ballpark. But you know what, I'm okay with this. Baseball is unpredictable; and sometimes, it hurts.
But you know what, having Matt Stairs hit the game winning homer last night was like a double spit on my already depleted and drenched heart (imagine that). Because quite simply, Stairs is a scrub, who had a nice career, but has never done anything meaningful in the postseason, ever. If I'm going to get beat, let's not make it by the 25th man on the bench. Make it Utley, Rollins, Howard, or even Burrell...I dont care. Just please, the Phillies winning is bad enough. Do you have to rub it in???
(Note: I know what I just wrote goes against everything that Managers should be thinking on the bench. Of course you would rather get beat by Stairs instead of Ryan Howard...Howard is 100 times more dangerous. But folks, as a fan, watching a stiff beat you is like getting stabbed in the heart...and slowly watching the perpetrator twist it mercifully through. I would know this because I sat in the upper deck of Shea Stadium for game 5 of the World Series. We got beat by Luis f$($*ng Sojo. That kills me to this day)
I think most fans would agree with me: getting beat by a star is less painful than getting beat by a old bench player with diminished bat speed.
So as I watched Stairs' homer sail over the fence, I muttered a few profanities before turning the TV off. I couldn't take it anymore, my feeble heart had enough. It was like Sojo all over again. Only this time it wasn't a slow, pewny ground ball through the middle of the infield, instead it was a long majestic homer that seemed to travel to Pluto. Either way, same effect, I was crushed.