Derek Jeter

New York Mets: This Time It’s For Real

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The Amazin’ Mets have jumped out to an early two-game lead versus Theo Epstein’s Chicago Cubs, and no Big Apple hardball devotee should feel supremely confident of a Mets 2015 NLCS victory. Unless you’re Pedro Martinez, who has decreed the series a forgone conclusion for the squad from Flushing.

For any self-respecting, long-suffering and resigned to endless mediocrity (That’s being polite.) Mets fan, the fall of 2015 will forever be remembered as the age of Daniel Murphy. Daniel Murphy has conjured and communicated with the spectral world and has gained strength from Shea Stadium ghosts named Donn Clendenon, Tommie Agee and Tug McGraw. Murphy has transcended the world most of us humans live in and is operating in a realm that is not quantifiable or familiar to the rest of us.

Daniel Murphy is morphing into an October play-off baseball god. Reggie Jackson will forever be known as Mr. October. Derek Jeter is Mr. November. And The Murph is what?

Daniel Murphy has always been a good professional hitter, but did anyone see Murphy as a force of nature repeatedly able to change the course of a baseball game with a flick of his wrists?

Being in the zone is something most of us are not familiar with or capable of comprehending. I thought I was once in the zone on a playground in Brighton, Massachusetts, located behind a ramshackle Friendly’s, where my jump shot refused to miss on rims that had more shake than a body double for Jennifer Lopez. I could not miss, but I wasn’t playing before 45,000 rabid Mets fans cheering for a dream that only months ago seemed beyond all reach; I was playing on a cracked asphalt playground hoops court, and no one cared too much and that included the guys playing in the game.

Daniel Murphy is for real.

Jacob de Grom is for real.

And all of a sudden, it feels pretty damn good to be a Mets fan. It’s nice to know that Yankee fans are watching our team in the play-offs.

Living in Massachusetts, I am the stranger in a strange land. No one cares that the Mets are creating magic in October. No one gives me a thumb’s up, or a confident and conspiratorial head nod when I wear my Mets sweatshirt.

I am alone in a foreign land. I watch the games solo and my fellow celebrants are diehard Mets fans scattered throughout this great land.

I have no compassion or empathy for long-suffering Cubs fans. I want to gain entry to the World Series this year. The Second City Cubs can wait for a second chance. With deGrom, Matz, Harvey and Syndergaard clamoring to grab the ball from Terry Collins’ hand, this feels for real.

This isn’t Kenny Rogers, there is no Billy Wagner blown save on the horizon, and it is physically impossible for former Met and current Yankee, Carlos Beltran, to look at a called third strike and end this NLCS for the Mets.

This time it’s for real.

I’m From The Jeter

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On the 40th anniversary of Richard Nixon’s resignation from the presidency, Tiger Woods failed to make the cut at the PGA Championship in Valhalla, KY. August 8th is now a date that millions of Caucasians have borne witness to their core beliefs shattering.

Former New York Yankee warrior and right fielder, Paul O’Neill, gained entrance to the hallowed monument section of Yankee Stadium. To celebrate the career of The Captain, Derek Jeter, will the borough of the Bronx find itself renamed Jeter? I’m from the Jeter.

Paul O’Neill is clearly a member of the all-time Sheridan Hardball squad.

And former U.S. Treasury Secretary Paul O’Neill will not receive a plaque at Yankee Stadium nor will he receive a Christmas card from the Dark Lord Dick Cheney.

Cheney’s transplanted heart must be doing the Electric Boogaloo at the prospect of U.S. forces re-entering Iraq. Rumor has it that Cheney is a stunt double for FX’s The Strain.

Oh, and 900 writers have decided to go after Amazon and its CEO Jeff Bezos. Rootin’ for the writers. I’m praying that Amazon doesn’t employ a drone strike versus this militant faction of wordsmiths.