Apr 17 2019 12:03 PM
I'm gone. A memory. A wisp. I went to Spring Training with the Mets, having spent the last year recovering from Tommy John (what do you think the T.J. stands for?), and at the end of camp, I was set free. But I was there, so I get a thread.
It's a rough deal for an infielder to get set loose over a shoulder injury. I don't need to throw 95 on the mound. I just need a good enough arm to throw to first. And hey, I'm a good contact hitter. I may not be a righthanded Jeff McNeil, but then again, I may be. You don't know! Just the notion of that should get me some attention.!
But now, here I am three weeks into the season without a new system gobbling me up. Will I be an Omaha Royal? A Red Rock Expresser? Or maybe I'll be a Duck, an Atlantic City Surfer. A Texas AirHog. I would kill it in indy ball.
Maybe I go to Japan to be a Hanshin Carp, or to Korea to become a Busan KT Sonicboom. Why not?
Or maybe I head back to the Bronx, and coach at my alma mater. No shame there. Or maybe Dilson Herrera and Ruben Tejada get hurt, and the Mets call me back again. I guess I'm not really anticipating that call, but I entertain hopes and that's my right. I don't want to see anybody get hurt, but when I close my eyes, I dream that an opportunity opens up with the Mets, and I crack the lineup, and the next thing you know, I'm hi-fiving a disembodied arm like I'm doing above.
I'm T.J. Rivera, and my career is up in the air. Where's it going to land? Maybe you know.