Those who know and love me are fully aware of my little jaunt over to the left coast last week. It seems that my folks felt I didn’t get enough golf over the holidays and needed to come out for one more week before the new semester.
Excepting the lovely company, Sunday was a wretched day. What the hell happened?! I could speculate, but there are far better people in this world to offer analysis and conjecture on the situation. The last thing anyone needs is another 2 bits tossed into the growing bank of Mets mockery.
There are a lot of things that go through one’s head when witnessing a collective meltdown of extraordinary players. Like all good fans, I feel the bizzaro need to take partial responsibility. In my heart, I know it has nothing to do with not wearing my number 7 jersey. It isn’t that I wasn’t listening to their games as regularly as I could have. It wasn’t hubris. I know better than to get cocky about the September play of my Mets. At some point, I need to let go and recognize that I had absolutely nothing to do with it.
Ordinarily, such a collapse would also signal the end of my baseball watching season. Like so many sore losers, I am not above storming out in a huff. I have no qualms about curling up into the fetal position until February. I take no issue with pouting my way out of a seriously depressing September of play.
Then again, there is always Rule 15c:
15c. If one of your best friends loves a certain team that has a chance to win a championship, and your team is out of the picture, it’s OK to jump on the bandwagon and root for his team to win it all. That’s acceptable. Like Temporary Fan status.
Thank God for Bill Simmons. As Chicago remains one of my truest loves, I want nothing more than a city of happiness. As I live in the heart of Cubby-dom, I will throw my windows wide and let the organ stylings of Gary Pressy fill my home. I will join my dearest of friends in their Cubs affection. I will don my Cubbie blue like our poseur of a mayor. I will humbly embrace my Temporary Fan status.
That is, until next spring.
Last Wednesday, I asked the relatively new imperialist, aka Steve History, what he would be doing over the weekend. He answered that he would be going to the track.
Wait a second. “The race on Saturday?” I asked. His response: “I have no idea. It might be.” For those who are countrymen of the relatively new imperialist or have been living under a rock, Mr. History was to see the Belmont Stakes, the third in the Triple Crown, the “run for the carnations.”
Me being me, I asked Mr. History to put down a few bets. He kindly agreed. To make life easier for the lad, I sent him an email:
Hey Mr. History,
Can you place a few bets for me? They are contingent on these post positions being final:
4 C P West
5 Slew’s Tizzy
6 Hard Spun
7 Rags to Riches
If the post positions don’t change, you can just show this to the guy at the betting window:
Race 11: Belmont Stakes
$5 exacta box 7, 2, 3
$5 exacta key 2, with 3, 7
$5 Superfecta 7, 3, 2, 6
Simple enough. I figured that Rags to Riches would win, but there would be an outside chance that Tiago would rock it. Hedge the bets, right?
The race results: 7, 3, 2, 6.
Okay, not that the outcome was a huge surprise, and it wasn’t like there was a huge field, and it wasn’t like I know too much about the horses. Turns out, I know enough to hit the superfecta. In this particular race, it wasn’t brain surgery, but it still felt nice!
At least it did for a little while. Dreams of new 500 thread count sheets evaporated like the steam off a pile of horse manure. It seems that Mr. History didn’t go to the track that afternoon, but attended a barbecue instead.
June 10th resolution: Never send in the British when cash is on the line.