Exile From Trillville
The Mets Obsession
“I’m sick of this obsession and I’m not talking about that P.Diddy cologne you’re wearing,” said Kiera Knightly.
We were at Citizens Bank Park watching the Phillies and Mets go at it in seats so close to the field that one could hear Mets third baseman David Wright chomping on a wad of gum and pounding his glove with his fist.
I was wearing my Mike Piazza jersey (former Met) and fitted Mets baseball cap, hanging on every play and completely ignoring my date until now, but didn’t understand the accusation.
“Obsessed you say, bonkers you are,” I replied with a Yoda-like sentence structure.
Suddenly, a foul ball came my way courtesy of Phillie Ryan Howard or maybe it was Jimmy Rollins, regardless I caught it barehanded.
In response, an angry Phils fan, who looked exactly like actor Clive Owens of King Arthur fame, lunged at the ball, while shouting barely decipherable British profanity. Before long, an angry mob of Philly fans circled me and Clive, chanted ungodly insults because of my Mets attire.
I looked for some blue in the sea of red, but to no avail. I was the only Mets fan in the entire stadium. The big screen focused in on me and even the announcers gave me hell. Clive was their unofficial spokesman and his message was clear. Whack!
Clive and I threw down. With the mob aiding his cause, he was getting the better of me. Suddenly I heard a voice from the sky. “Who left the damn outside lights on last night!” My dad had woken me up with a misdirected accusation more effective than any alarm clock.
Awake, my mind quickly shifted to the important matters of the day. The Mets were playing the Washington Nationals at 7, but I had a date. Times like this test the will of man, but it was no question really… I would stay home and watch the Mets.
Just kidding, of course I chose the date. After all, a wonder like this girl, who shall be referred to as S for now, doesn’t come along often. It was the first time in two weeks that I had chosen anything over the Mets. Kiera was right. I was obsessed, although the P.Diddy reference was pretty lame.
I’d spent the last two weeks on a strict regimen. Go to work until five, head to Muscle World, and then confine myself to my room for about three hours of complete Mets devotion. Nothing, not a fire, the return of Elvis, or an adventure with Ahab would pry me from these games.
I’ve even assembled a Mets shrine on the wall of my office cubical with Press clippings of every victory as well as a large picture of Mets’ star Wright, in the middle because he is the centerpiece of the team.
No longer do I watch my favorite shows. I watch the Mets games, and when there is an off night, I go to bed early.
I need help and Dr. Phil can’t be reached. He’s too consumed with baby’s mamas, paternity tests, and misled adolescents.
The only way to reduce my attention in the team is a losing streak. That isn’t going to happen. Not the way the Mets are swinging their bats.
The date with S was a Band-Aid(r) where stitches were required. Perhaps, if I received a steady dose of S, it would be the remedy, but I won’t be able to get that fix for at least another week. S is heading south for the week. Only God knows if she will ever come back, especially if Brad Pitt or Colin Farrell-look alikes are lurking.
Like any addiction, it is best to admit that it exists and that it will require special attention. Play it like Alcoholics Anonymous. “Hi, my name is Nick and I’m addicted to the Mets.”
Then again, I’d likely be lynched for such passionate devotion to the Phillies National League East rival. There’d be no sympathy, only the path to the dark side. “Join us fans of Philadelphia and together we can rule the world!”
No, I’m going to control this addiction. The first step is tossing out the P.Diddy cologne named Obsession and from there I will do my best to tame this addiction.
Gloria Gaynor could only survive “in the night,” but Nick or Viper as my friends call me will, can survive 24/7, with or without the Mets, I think.
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