Richard Kriheli

Black bests Orange, again.

Last night, a bunch of guys from Butler celebrated sweet sixteen victory over my alma mater. I saw a streak of black jerseys in videos and pics while the ones in orange modestly dotted the back of the frame, dejected – heads hanging low. The Syracuse Orange’s punking out of the big dance opens up a segue to a more dismal fan topic of mine – the annual New York Mets letdown and accompanying bitchfest. I used to get super amped for Spring Training and the swing of another baseball season, but lately its getting tougher to stomach.

To recap the ulcer-inducing blunders, spring twenty-ten version : Carlos Beltran went stealth and dug out his knee; the recently signed setup man Kelvim Escobar couldn’t play catch without wincing, two rookie standouts (Ike Davis and Fernando Martinez) have monster springs and get promptly sent down to the minors, former Met Doc Gooden crashes his car while completely lit (again), the 4th & 5th starters in the rotation are unsettled, Omar Minaya still can’t complete a sentence, and our tablesetter Jose Reyes has a hormone imbalance. Can I get a big WTF? It’s not even April yet, boys.

I started thinking back to when the Mets were actually relevant in New York, and tried to find a root cause of this bizarre stretch. Something has to be responsible for it, right? I figure we find it and and perform a Jobu-like exorcism to regain a sense of normalcy. And then it dawned on me: the introduction of the black hat/jersey is the dark cloud we’re looking for.

In 1998, the franchise introduced the black alternate jersey while all the other jerseys received a black drop shadow. The decision was undoubtedly financial — to increase jersey sales. A big drop shadow on the franchise has been cast that is now twelve years running. Yes, I know that ’98 was the year that ushered in the Piazza era, and that the black also represents the colors of the vintage New York Giants baseball franchise (after all, the blue and orange came from the Brooklyn Dodgers and NY Giants as well). But these kinds of decisions should have been finalized with the birth of the franchise in 1962 and not after the team has logged significant history. And yes, I also know that the team has been playing far better than what we had to witness in the 90s. But, the story remains: the franchise with all the potential and financial freedom it has consistently comes up short. And I blame it on the black jerseys. Why? because it’s not them. It simply doesn’t fit. Much like Brooklyn has lost face in recent decades, the Mets have followed suit. Even blatantly so, with a big, black drop shadow.

The Mets have lost their identity. They can’t even settle on a consistent look anymore. Calling it an alternate jersey is laughable. Come on, there is nothing alternate about it. You think I’m not watching the games? It is abundantly clear that the real alternate jerseys are the main ones. The black jerseys are used far more than the regular home jerseys for sure. I bet the loss of face and focus may indeed be the contributing factor to the team’s recent troubles. You don’t see the Dodgers and Giants introducing new colors into their palette, do you?

Seriously guys, ditch the black on the field (feel free to stick them in for commerce if need be). Stick with the storied blue and orange. Stick with identity, brand and history. In graphic design, a drop shadow is a visual effect underscoring a shadow of an object, giving the impression that the object is raised above the objects behind it. This effect is not may bring visibility up, but really it’s nothing more than illusory. So maybe it’s time to cut it out of the equation altogether. And maybe your star shortstop won’t need ph balanced soap. It’s bad enough that home is in a place called Flushing.

Spring has sprung, though the thermometer begs to differ. This usually points to the start of yet another potentially heartbreaking season of New York Mets baseball. I’ve followed this team faithfully since the rise of Darryl in ’83, which means a quarter of a century has elapsed since. I sit here thinking about all the time and energy I have invested in my life as fan. I can’t help but lament at the time lost. When doing some simple arithmetic, I am looking back at roughly 530 aggregate days of my life spent on watching games, engaging in discussions, and other trite, related endeavors. That’s a lot of time, folks. I can’t hop back in time and give my younger-self some pointers, but it is worth doting on what a sans-Mets life would have looked like. Thus, I conjured up my latest list of nine, dedicated to ways my life would have been different had I not been a Mets fan (in no particular order):

I’d be nicer to neighbors.
Let’s face it, I live in a Yankee city. Everywhere I turn, I see Yankees paraphernalia despite most folks being bandwagon wannabe’s. I respect people who love baseball, and can have a legitimate argument about the sport. Somehow “Mike Piazza is gay” is not even worth a breath. So my love for baseball and the Mets, has turned me against my simple-minded neighbors, as I walk the streets with my bitter scowl. I believe taking the Mets out of the equation would have made me oblivious to their ineptitude.

I’d dress better.
My wardrobe is overrun with a bunch of jerseys and caps that would have Allen Iverson vouching for me. It certainly doesn’t help that my favorite all-time athlete was a serious drug-offender (thanks, Doc). I am certain that this fairly casual, nonchalant approach to fashion has singled me out, particularly in my younger years, when it wasn’t so commonplace to sport these type of clothes outside of the stadium. And this stuff isn’t cheap either. Definitely less green in my pocket as a result.

I’d have beaten Natalie Rodriguez’ boyfriend down.
Yes, I was blindsided in the junior-high schoolyard by some jackass thinking I was sweatin’ his girl. Truth is, I did look at her, and I had a nice beating to show for it. I get the feeling that less hours of sweatin’ the ’86 world champions could have translated into sweating more for the good of my physical prowess. This would effectively turn the table on that mess of a fight. I would whoop that guy’s ass now, but what if I did it in ’86?… cue the domino-effect taking full steam.

My adolescent social life would’ve rocked. (Less Mookie, More Hookie/Nookie)
Cutting Mets baseball would have meant going out more during my teens. I consciously chose to watch games in lieu of partying away my summers. I would have played more hookie in the fall with Maria Llompart, than watch Mookie steal bases. I could have at the very least scammed a bunch of amateurs at poker in those days. These kinds of shenanigans translate into a much richer teen social life.

I’d be a math genius.
I was already pretty stellar at math. But I never took it to the next level as my path had summoned. Partly because I was more concerned with the calculations of WHIP and OPS rather than any signifcant metric that would have really propelled “higher education.” Harvard or Yale could have been my bitches, folks. Instead, the pride of Flushing consumed me so much that even my later academic ventures were flushed by orange and blue.

I’d already have a child.
Last year, my wife and I spent time watching almost every inning that was available to us on SNY and ESPN. Close to five hundred hours that could have been better used towards procreating. Instead of watching the Mets piss away their season on the last day of September against the Marlins, I could have already been pissed on by our own giggling, crying little one. Me thinks that is far more rewarding piss.

I’d have less drama.
Every year, without fail I sit at the edge of my couch, biting my nails with my heart going bonkers as I watch the inevitable balloon burst (aside from 1986, of course). I wade through the news, rumors and quite frankly the drama that envelops this franchise. This same drama trickled down to every facet of my existence to the point that I became a magnet for it. Drama with my personal and professional life particularly. White hairs sprout from my chin with a ferocity. I’d be an ascended master with peace in my life, without the Mets.

I’d be rich, and not just by name.
Almost 2 years of my life has ticked away via swings and misses. There should be no misses when the fat pitches are right at my knees, begging me to take a big hack. I don’t think there would be as many whiffs had I focused my attention, energy and time on business. With my passion and devotion, I’d have invented Google, Facebook or at least the Snuggie and I’d be laughing my way to the bank right now. Instead, I’m still paying Mo Vaughn’s salary while hoping that Jose Reyes and David Wright bank in September.

I’d write better.
I’d certainly have a book or three done by now. With all the nuances that go into fiction writing including planning, architecting, editing, etc it is no wonder that I have still yet to complete a novel in my career. Yes, I have a modest backlog of short fiction and poetry, but I know I am capable of more than writing blogs about how the Mets jacked me. Here I am, throwing another valuable hour away from writing my debut masterpiece, waiting for CitiField to open its inaugural gates to yet another hair pulling, nail biting season. Wait, my hair is gone.

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Regardless, I live my life minus regrets. I simply have no room for them. Rather, with all the time traveling going on these days on LOST, my mind tends to wander. Great, that’s exactly what I need – another diversion!