So I knew we'd be fine tonight. No, not when it was 43-3. Earlier. Not when Benson singled up the middle. Earlier. Not when it stopped raining in Florida. Earlier.
No, I knew all would be well at around 10:30 am PDT, about a minute after I cleared security in the San Francisco airport. For who appeared to my wondering Met fan eyes but Daniel Joseph Staub. Le Grand Orange, the King of New Orleans, Keith Hernandez's conscience, and my favorite player when I was a boy.
It's a sign! Time to beat some Marlins like drums!
I then thought that this was my chance to tell Rusty the story of the Rusty Staub signature baseball glove my parents made for me, something I hadn't managed to do when I shook his hand last year after the Tunnel to Towers run, a farcical episode told here in late March . Apparently Rusty's Spidey senses were tingling: Moving quickly for a big man (as it's inevitably said), he darted into the men's room, where my vestigal sense of shame prevented me from following. Exit Staub stage right, exit losing streak, all's well.
I know it's greedy, but 12-4 wasn't enough , not after this horror show of a week.
Incidentally, it's probably good that Shea doesn't offer Bring Your Dog to the Stadium night. I can just see hundreds of pit bulls tearing each other apart while our crack security forces huff their way up the stalled escalators. Though Manny Aybar did mess on the rug. Bad Manny! Time to take him to the vet. Honey, Manny wasn't happy here in the city, so Mommy and Daddy, um, sent him to a farm. He's happy there. Um, he's running around in a field with Mike M. and Felix and his other friends. That sounds nice, doesn't it, honey?
OK, I've officially demonstrated that I'm out of material. Going to bed. Nice to be back.