After several months haitus rehabilitating his writer's elbow and typist's fingers, quaffing a significant supply of real ales and tea biscuits, Jaap Stijl announced his return to the editororial staff at Archie Bunker's Army and pronounced himself "One hundred percent healed, one hundred percent healthy and eager to put the past behind us, eager for the season to begin."
Looking as though he had spent the winter months with his fingers in newspaper portions of fish n chips, elbow deep in malt vinegar and mayonaise, Mr Stijl caustically denied rumours of an extensive rehabilitation programme and reiterrated his commitment to being part of the Mets blogsophere that will "revel in the making of history, in the rebirth of the Mets in the NL East and a return to casual domination."
Refusing to take questions from reporters, Mr Stijl asked that readers and colleagues alike "end the endless speculations of the universe and focus on the business at hand. We have a lot of serious business ahead of us and serious business takes serious minds and serious facial expressions and serious eating habits."
Besides, Stijl noted, "If I were, as rumoured, undergoing some sort of extensive rehabilitation programme why would I have been living a mere fourty paces from a place like The Three Tuns,
on the High Street in Alcester?
But enough about the writers and the real ales down the gullets and auld Roman market towns. Now that the Stupor Bowl is finally over, now that the frivolity of another failed Jets camapaign has stung us in the guts like a dodgy curry after twenty pints of gassy lager, it is time, for lack of any other remaining American sporting interest, to make the pilgrimmage back to the Mets and Major League Baseball.
If you're looking for omens, staring up at the sky for shooting stars signifying a brilliant Mets fate this season, look no further than the fact that this season is the 20th anniversary of the Dead End Kids.
Frankly, if a roster composed, in part, of the likes of Danny Heep, Stan Jefferson, Dave Corcoran, Tim Teufel, Barry Lyons and Bruce Berenyi, can win the World Championship, then certainly this season's group has a fighting chance.
Especially now that the National League's weakest arm will no longer be behind the plate for the Mets and subjecting his particular brand three hopisms to the second base bag and allowing basically, every single runner with legs to steal on him.
Awwww, c'mon, enough pelting The Piazza with abuse. He is now the property of the San Diego Padres. Good luck and good riddance:
(gracias, Deadspin)We couldn't help but notice that at his press conference announcing his signing with the Padres, Piazza termed the decision "the best situation" when in reality it was the only sitation seeing as how the Phillies, the only other team showing even tepid interest in him, actually had the nerve to want him to split some time playing first base in addition to catcher.
Well, we all know how afraid Mike Piazza was of playing first base for the Mets so now he can be happy, slobbering over the last dregs of his dying career, crouched behind the plate, injury-prone and letting the National League run roughshod on the basepaths in front of him.
Was this payback, the Baseball Gods making up for the Mike Cameron for Mr Nady trade?
Posts
2 comments:
I had a feeling you were a Jet fan.
That tormented logic with which Mets and Jets fans are cursed forevermore. I think we need some guys in the Mets booth who cover a sporting event like those English soccer broadcasters.
There is indeed some perverse correlation in the symmetry of the Jets/Mets fan union. Worthy of some sort of anthropological study although I reckon that the primary commonality rather than a dual curse is the fact that Mets/Jets supporters, unlike say, Yankees supporters, do not have visible lobotomy scars!
Post a Comment