New York City is great. It's magical, really, especially with the leaves slowly but surely turning orange and red. The Mets are making their bid for the National League Championship Series, their penchant for a comeback is almost enough to induce cardiac arrest in the most loyal of fans.
I've recently found myself in a rather peculiar situation, with recent access to a ton of free time. Let's just say it: I got laid off. Although I'm not the first person to ever experience unemployment, it is the first time that I have ever been of the adult perspective to understand the mounting pressure of needing a job.
If you knew me before I started the role that would have me mentally so drained I was in bed by 8 o'clock on weekdays and closing my eyes in bars when I'd try to hang out with friends, so on edge that I had to go back on my SSRI, and so overworked that I lost about half of my body weight, then you might not recognize the person I become. Who is this diva? This diva is free, I guess.
That being said, I did spend the last month at home. To recover, to recuperate, to remember the goals I was trying to accomplish? I checked the NJTransit schedule immediately after running into a former student who launched herself into my arms and asked me "where did you go?", leaving tear stains on my brown dress. I had to go home because as magical as New York is, I knew that if I stayed, I would never get over the heartbreak I was experiencing. Picture this: it's raining, I'm sobbing, there's a slice of Pepperoni pizza in my hands at 3 p.m. on a Wednesday. Yeah, it was rough.
I grew up in a household where my father was a massive Mets fan. I also was a very sporty kid, from softball to soccer to lacrosse and field hockey, I did it all. I wasn't always the most graceful, but I was definitely passionate. But see, the thing was, I could never get into baseball. Which was crazy because my dad and my two sisters watched every game religiously, creating a separate group chat to talk trades, players, and whatever it is baseball fans discuss. I wanted nothing to do with it.
Until, I'm suddenly 23 and I'm at home, anxious on a daily basis, trying to get my life together enough to make some version of myself proud. My dad is watching the Mets play the Brewers and I decide, 'hey, might as well just lock in.' I'm having an existential crisis regardless. Life is short and pretty unforgiving and I'm far more aware of that than I ever have been. And that's saying a lot.
Magic. That's all I can disclose about the way the Mets play. This is a team I've been watching since I was a little girl, singing Take Me Out to the Ballgame and gorging myself on cracker jacks and soft serve in a Helmet. But, somewhere along the line I stopped paying attention.
You know what I paid attention to instead? And it's going to come across as rather vapid. My phone. Or someone who might not like me. Or the time I fell up the stairs in front of a boy in my freshman dorm, my air force ones remaining planted about 2 feet from where I landed like the Wicked Witch of the West. Seriously, who falls up the stairs?
So, for the first time since I was 13, I paid attention to this game and I actually found myself getting excited when Lindor caught a ball or Jose Inglesia's OMG played on the speakers. When they won, Mendoza gave a heartfelt speech and the team sprayed champagne on each other. The energy was electric, like they were my children. I thought, this is perfect. I'm so proud of these guys I have never met and only ever vaguely paid attention to before.
My dad, an actual Mets fanatic, who was alive when they won the World Series in 1969. And no, dad, I'm not calling you old. I'm just saying you were lucky enough to witness the Miracle Mets. Well, guess what. My fingers are crossed that I'm just as lucky.
Well, that brings me to my next topic. I became a meme. By accident. Right before Lindor hit the Grand Slam that won the Mets the series, I was drinking a corona and crossing my fingers. I grew up in a very superstitious household. If the Mets were winning and you were sitting in the corner of the couch, well, you better keep yourself right there. It was blasphemous to move, especially mid-inning, even if you really had to pee. So, when my parents bought tickets to watch the Mets play the Dodgers at Citifield, I knew there was magic somewhere in my veins. Maybe not, but delusion is a powerful tool.
The Mets are down 3-1. Pete Alonso has 2 strikes against him, but also is up to 3 balls. My mom taps me on the shoulder. "Do your trick, they need it." And so, I closed my eyes and crossed my fingers and clutched my corona. And guess what, Pete walked to first plate.
Now, am I saying that my prayers to the Mets gods did anything? I'm not saying that it didn't. But I know better than to take credit for a team so full of life and heart as the Mets. You know what I think changed, however? I believe. Because if anyone is going to beat the odds, it's this team.
I feel as if I'm a kindred spirit to them now. It's funny looking back at it, every year of my life, the Mets have been there. A solid figure in my development, background on the television screen of my life. But now so much more. They are the hope that I needed in a particularly challenging season of my life.
If Ms. Met ever reads this, I really do believe that this team is something special. Either way, it's been a hell of a time drinking Coronas with my mom, accidentally going viral on Twitter, and hearing the joy in my dad's voice every time the Mets beat the odds.
Final note.
Let's go Mets!
🤞fingers crossed
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