Apr 08 2019 06:46 AM
I've been reading all these Hey, Nineteenies. And frankly, they make me sick.
Just look at d'Arnaud's, at Patrick Mazeika's, at Devin Mesoraco's, at Tomás Nido's, at Colton Plaia's, at ... Eric Fuckin' Langill's! I mean, LO fucking L, right? All these guys are hinting of an exceedingly fine 2019, and all that fineness is predicated on me being out of the picture. As if!
I'm not looking to get hurt. I'm not looking to fuck up. I'm not looking to go the way of the dodo. I'm doing everything I can to prevent that happenstance, and all these other mutts in Mets uniforms are not-so-privately rooting against it. I'm sick of it.
"Hey, it'd be a shame if Ramos turned an ankle, but if it happens, I'm ready!"
"Nobody want's to see Wilson get popped for PEDs, but if it goes down like that, they've got a great alternative resource in me!"
It's enough to make a guy paranoid.
I'm a borderline All-Star catcher that the Mets have paid perfectly good money for. I can bat in the middle of the order, handle the running game without embarrassing myself, and run a staff of awesome pitchers. If I put aside my Nike and Under Armour chest protectors, I can wear a classic Wilson protector, and then have my first name on my chest to match my last name on my back. But even though that would be cool, I don't do that, because it's not about me. It's about the TEAM.
So, yeah, it's my intention to catch 140 games and frustrate the hell out of the rest of the rest of those bastards. If it goes down that way, it'll be good for the TEAM.
But how's it gonna go down? Remember, if you bet against me, I will take it personally, and you'll be dead to me. DEAD.