You know who didn't make the Opening Day roster, even after Koda Senga, David Peterson, and, um, Max Kranick went down? Same answer — José Buttmonster.
But you know who manned up to take the hill in the Mets first victory of the year, giving up one run in six innings of Game Two of a cold, ugly doubleheader as my team got no-hit, and the whole damn season seemed to be on the line, all seeming lost? José Butto did. And that's my name, your ugly, derisive variations be damned.
But things breaking the way they break, I got shipped out. I'll be back, but performing at this level while riding a Syracuse/New York shuttle is a lot to ask, not getting to hang with the team and recover between starts, but instead getting banished to the International League and Days Inn continental breakfasts.
So something's gotta give, right? Perhaps I stick with this team and excel. Perhaps I stick with the team and falter. And it's highly likely (but certainly not set in stone) that I keep shuttling until my performance reflects that and I falter not because I stink or something, but because the situation gets the best of me. I can man up when called on, but I'm not made of stone.
What indeed AM I made of? And what will that produce in 2024? Here's your chance to say. Until then, my dream is to meet somebody in a Mets hat at a Five Guys or some place, and say hi, and be recognized as an actual Met. Wouldn't that be nice?
