I admit to deriving a certain sense of moral superiority from being a Mets fan. There's no quid pro quo for Mets fans. We don't believe that if we support this team . . . if we buy tickets, and t-shirts, and caps, and hot dogs, and giant foamy 'We're #1' fingers, and . . . whatever else, then the you, the team, will win! We know, as a matter of empirical fact, that is not true. We're grown-ups.
There's no reflected glory for a Mets fan. Our support is unconditional (what choice do we have?) Still, just yesterday, I had packed it in. I was prepared to turn my back on the crusty, ghetto home run apple, the frankenmascot charms of Mr. Met, and all the rest of it. All this pragmatic routing is, truth be told, exhausting. But, I can't really bring myself to stay away. Today, I'm back. A little melancholy, to be sure, but still hanging in there. I'll be at Citi Field next year, with the rest of the suckers. We'll be hoping for the best, even though we all know that it probably won't work out that way, and that it really doesn't matter.
No comments:
Post a Comment