I am not going to lie to you - I, Daniel Jackson Fowler, am worried. What in God's name is going on? The Mets sign Roger Cedeno, Pedro Astacio, and David Weathers and trade for Mo Vaughn, Robbie Alomar, Jeromy Burnitz, Shawn Estes, and Jeff D'Amico. After all those moves, I couldn't help but think that Christmas had come early. I spent the entire offseason alternating between singing Christmas carols and "We are the champions." But it appears that my dream is well on is way to becoming a nightmare. I have started humming the "death" music of such fine bands as Godsmack and Marilyn Manson.
The Mets' ownership had bestowed an assortment of gifts on me and thus the Christmas carols. Likewise, "We are the Champions," resulted from the fact that I presumed, perhaps foolishly, that after all these acquisitions, the New York Mets were poised to win their first World Series since 1986.
On the first day of Spring Training, I picked out the outfit that I planned to wear to the Mets Championship Parade down Broadway: my black Mets jersey which was going to say "Fowler #1" on the back, my cap from the 1986 series, my lucky soccer T-shirt from fifth grade (which I am not embarrassed to say still fits me), and of course my silk, leopard print boxers. While you might not think I would look good in this collection of clothes, you can be damn sure that I would be proud to walk down Broadway in the get-up. Apparently, however, I am not allowed to wear the outfit in my apartment because when I modeled it for my roommates, one of them tried to attack me with a steak knife while another simultaneously screamed "I kill you." Regardless, I thought I looked damn good.
Anyhow, after Opening Day - a 6-2 Mets win - everything seemed to be going according to plan. I even put on the outfit and walked around my room to celebrate (but avoided stepping foot into the hall because I value my life).
Al Leiter looked was in midseason form on the mound, and the Mets' offense (anemic in 2001) managed to score six runs. I almost tossed back a few cold ones before I went to class, but I figured I couldn't exactly explain to my professor that I was drunk because I was celebrating the Mets "World Series victory" on the first day of April.
Instead, a glass of red wine and a toast to Mets GM Steve Phillips, the designer of this dynasty, had to suffice. I thought about breaking open a bottle of Dom, but I decided not to jump the gun too much.
On day two of the 2002 baseball season, I nearly broke the unopened bottle of Dom on my television after the Mets managed to lose to the Pittsburgh Pirates. Okay, let's be honest - I lied. Do you really think I would have a bottle of Dom in my house? I don't think so. The bottle that I referred to previously is actually a King Cobra 40.
But the details don't matter. The issue at hand is that the Mets, a team I figured would coast to a record-setting season, had already suffered a loss two games into the campaign. You can imagine that I was beside myself in game three when Pittsburgh tripped up the Mets yet again.
At this point, I stopped rooting solely for the Mets and decided that I was once again a fan of "New York baseball." Basically what that means is that the Mets are playing like crap and depressing me so I begin to root for the Yankees as well. Usually, this happens later in the year when the Mets fall out of the pennant race, but I cheered like mad when Andy Pettitte pitched a gem in game four, pushing the Yankees record to 3-1 on the season.
My thought pattern here is that if the Mets suck, I can at least say I'm from New York when the Yankees inevitably dominate the league and win the World Series. Outside of the Mets winning the World Series, nothing is better than watching the face of a dejected Boston Red Sox fan after the Yankees whip them, as they have basically every year since 1918.
In games four and five of the 2002 campaign, the Mets got back on the winning track, picking up victories in the first two games of their series against the hated Atlanta Braves. I was back on the Mets bandwagon. I called up my friend - a diehard Yankees fan - and told him that I'd see him in the World Series. Of course he responded with some choice words, but I felt that I had made my point - the Mets were once again a veritable powerhouse.
After the Mets dropped game six of the year in 13 innings, a game in which they had ample opportunity to score the winning run but didn't, I became concerned. Also disconcerting was the fact that Mike Piazza and Mo Vaughn - the two most important components to the Mets offense - were both out with injuries, and thus the Mets offense once again looked feeble to say the least.
Then on Monday the Mets failed to score a single run against the Chicago Cubs, losing 2-0. Making the situation even more desperate was that the Mets put Mo Vaughn on the disabled with a broken bone in his hand. Apparently, Vaughn's injury was worse than the Mets had originally suspected.
To summarize, the glorious year that I had dreamed of since December seems to be slipping away faster than you can say "1918." Now my housemates, who mad fun of me for my "lucky outfit" are actually asking me to wear it around the house - perhaps to rub in the fact that I may have gotten a bit ahead of myself. I didn't mean any harm, I just felt that I was being "realistically optimistic."
Although I don't think it was presumptuous to clear my calendar of all October obligations in early January - so I would be free to watch the Mets blow through the playoffs - I have nevertheless come to the sad realization that the Mets will not go 162-0 this season.
Seven games into the season and I can already pretty much ensure you, my faithful readers, that I am going to develop an ulcer by the end of the summer. However, as ludicrous as it may sound at this particular juncture in the season, I guarantee that the Mets will at least make the playoffs or my name isn't Daniel Zachary Fowler III.
Wait, that isn't my name - nevermind
