May 05 2019 07:46 PM
They sent me down. I understand. Somehow, there's something wrong with hitting .333.
No, actually, it's unadulterated bullshit. I'm about the most animated guy in the dugout, supporting the guys who are playing when I'm not, even though they almost invariably have lower numbers than me.
Also, come on, I'm sleeping with some Star Wars apparatus on my face. My eyes don't look stoned anymore. My ass doesn't look fat anymore. I'm drawing walks, I'm hitting against the shift, and I'm not really striking out. Oh, and I got my head in the game more than previous years, and frankly, more than most guys out there. Head in the game, even when my ass isn't, if you get my meaning.
Nobody could be happier than myself about Pete Alonso's breakthrough. NOBODY! And you know why? Because no man is my enemy. Because Worf, my hero, taught me that the test of a true warrior is not how he fights the war without — but how he fights the war within. And because my grandma said the only competition is with the guy you were yesterday, and if you stay ahead of him, there's always going to be a place for you. "I've never seen a baseball team that had too many good players!" she said.
I've done everything the Mets have asked, and everything my grandma and Worf have taught me. And you know what? Apparently, the Mets have too many good players. Suddenly, there's no room for a former first-round draft choice with a 144 OPS+ and a solid glove to boot. I'm going to Syracuse. Because the Mets think they need another back-end reliever or some shit.
Answer me two questions:
Is this really what my season is going to be about?
What the hell is wrong with this world?