You already know Monday night in Philadelphia was a bad dream. Monday morning in my subconscious was just a weird dream. In lieu of anything remotely pleasant to talk about from Monday night, thought I'd let you know about what I dreamt Monday morning.
This isn't a bit. I really had this dream.
Stephanie and I, after spending some time in a presumably local dry cleaners that let us linger about its premises like it was a Starbucks (after midnight, no less), were visiting another city, some combination of Chicago, San Francisco and Los Angeles, maybe more. Though it didn't look like Chicago, for at least a little while it must have been because I wanted to swing by this one particular spot under the El to show Stephanie the House of Blues Hotel, where I stayed on a 1999 business trip, the same one that allowed me to grab a foul ball off the bat of Carlos Lee at Comiskey Park.
But the House of Blues Hotel wasn't where I brought us to, which was more under a freeway than under an El. We took a cab to find it, but once it became clear we didn't, we were now on bicycles. And we were lost. Worse yet, it was dark out. So dark that we couldn't see much beyond what our flashlights and/or none-too-powerful bicycle headlights would allow. A scary situation.
Still we pedaled. Glided on our ten-speeds was more like it. Found ourselves in a neighborhood of rowhouses near the water. Maybe that was the San Francisco part. In any event, it didn't feel like we were finding our way back to our hotel in, ostensibly, the city that we were visiting.
Next thing I knew, the three of us — my high school buddy Larry Russo, the auteur from my high school reunion had somehow joined us — had climbed the steps from somebody's basement to somebody's kitchen. It was setup like the house I grew up in. There was a see-through door between the stairs and the kitchen, also like my house. I rapped on it.
There was a family inside. Big family. Three generations maybe. Nobody recognizable to me. As you could imagine, they were startled that three strangers had entered their home, but I explained that we were biking around (Larry was still wearing his helmet), had gotten lost and needed directions to our hotel. Stephanie explained that we were staying in “the baseball district”.
They accepted the explanation immediately and couldn't have been friendlier. Come on in, they said. We're watching the ballgame.
So they were. It was the Giants and Dodgers, the same matchup from ESPN Sunday night. This is where I got the feeling we were in Los Angeles because they were cheering for the Dodgers, who were winning. I think they were because I was a little uncertain of what was going on in the game and I was more uncertain as to where in California we were, so I hedged my bets. I said something like, “Hey, you must be happy with the way this is going.” Indeed, they were happy.
I explained again why we had entered their home. We were visiting town and had gotten lost on our bicycles and it was really dark out and if you could just give us directions, that would be great.
An older man, the father or perhaps grandfather, laughed: “I guess there's no 7 train around here!” It wasn't foreboding or anything. In fact, it was comforting. He kind of nodded at the rest of the family and indicated implicitly that he knew who I was, that he knew I blogged about the Mets, giving me the sense that maybe he, like the guys from Entourage, was from New York originally. For an instant, in their kitchen, I saw a sign that pointed to where the platforms for the 7 train and the Long Island Rail Road at Shea were. But we were still in their kitchen.
Almost verybody was having a good, friendly time: me, Stephanie, the unknown family. Larry, still wearing his helmet, however, was disengaged from the conversation. Instead, he asked a direct question of the man.
“Do you have a car?”
“Oh sure.”
“Could we put our bikes in your trunk and could you drive us home?”
“Sure!”
Oh good, we were going to get a ride home or back to our hotel from the nice man in, uh, Los Angeles who didn't mind us entering his house unannounced and knew of my apparently mildly famous Mets fandom.
That's the last I remember of the dream. Most dreams that I can remember are disturbing. This one was actually pretty OK.
i can't offer any intelligent comment about your dream, greg, except i'm jealous you still have such vivid ones, or at least can remember them. me, i pretty much flat-line until jolted back to consciousness by the thought of some deed undone or some decision unmade or some kindness unthanked. during the season, of course, i throw in some mets game i wish were unplayed.
like, say, last night's. without breaking the panic glass — there'll be time for that later — i'd prefer to regard such stinkers as the mets' own dampener on premature triumphalism. we are being reminded, however rudely, that nothing's won yet.
Greg,
There's always the distinct possibility that the Mets, in their infinite wisdom, balled up every ounce of their weekly supply of “suck” and got rid of it all on Monday night.
Even if not, it's a fourteen game lead, and six more weeks to figure out the best way to approach the postseason. let not your heart be troubled…
NostraDennis
Your dream is obviously a prophecy. The Mets have just finished 5 lean years, and five fat years will now commence.
Pedro gets shelled? Oh well, it's bound to happen once in a while.
Pedro gets hurt warming up? That's a whole lot less shruggable.
Maybe now the Mets Brain Trust will switch from its failed policy of “trust Pedro to know his own body best” to something more like “trust … but verify.” The team can't afford to let Martinez guess wrong like that again.
Obviously, your dream is about sex…
I think the Mets were dreaming too. That whole game, but the first inning in particular, it seemed like the boys in blue and orange were sleep-walking. Maybe somebody forgot to tell them we actually had a game monday night. They sure didn't act like they knew.
I think your mind is girding itself for possible heartbreak. A troubling thing happens to the team, and then your sleeping brain creates a world where you share the joy of baseball with the community of baseball fans that is wider than the Shea faithful. The dream says you don't need to see the Mets win everything, that you can just enjoy watching a game with good people. And your buddy with the helmet is the side of you that says, “Forget that, I want to see a championship.”
If the old man in the dream was Martin Landau and offered you the script of a bio-pic about the late Joey Ramone, I could have an interesting theory for you.
If I was to tell you what Dusty Hoffman used to get more of than Nicholson or Beatty back in the day in this room, do you think that's something you might be interested in?
Woo-hoo!
Does this have anything to do with Pedro's dratted calf?