Dear New York Mets (most importantly Willie, Carlos, David, Carlos2, Jose, Paul, Jose2, Endy, Tom, Steve, Orlando, Chris, and Julio):
Hi guys. Just wanted to let you know that I am a huge fan of yours. Like really huge. Not meaning that I'm fat, I just really like you guys A LOT.
It all started back in 1986. I was 5. David, you were just 3 or 4. My Dad wanted to spend more time with his daughters and since that other New York team (which he is a fan of) wasn't doing so well, he decided to take us to see baseball played at its best. I don't remember too much about Shea Stadium back then. But I remember liking the hotdogs and the name Dykstra (I still heart you Lenny). I remember the song of that year (We got the team work, to make the dream work, Let's Go! Let's go Mets!) I was too young to remember Game 6 (I bet Bill Bucker still has someone kick him in the balls every night for his mistake) of that World Series, and the Game 7 win.
This:
led to This!!!!:
As I grew up we grew apart for awhile. I didn't come to your house for many years because, well, you were in Queens, I didn't have a car, and I liked cheerleading more than baseball. I didn't sell out like some others, I just kind of forgot about you and you well, forgot how to play baseball. Let's face it, you really sucked. But deep down I still loved you and supported you.
Flashforward to me as a teen. I found you again. You got your shit together. I supported our dear friend Mike with open arms. I clapped for Rey Ordonez even though I knew that most of the time, he was going to strike out. And then you came through. In 2000, you shocked us with your Wild Card win. And then actually playing like magic to make it to the World Series. That was great! Deep down, I knew you wouldn't win but I was overjoyed! You didn't suck! No one could make fun of us! Actually, the obnoxious fans of that other New York team could but they are obnoxious and mostly ugly and probably play on dodgeball teams called The Hotness.
But then what happened? Half of you left leaving Mike to carry a torch with a fat first baseman and a team that he couldn't commuincate with because no one spoke English. It felt like the early 90's all over again. But I stayed. And I cheered. I gave you everything. I even accepted Mike's blond facial hair. Give me some credit here.
Much like Jason Giambi's weirdo 'stache, in the days of yore, Piazza rocked some odd hair.
Flash to 2005. A shining ray of hope in the form of a very very very HOT third baseman named David. He came to us. And it was good.
The tongue thing just does it for me.
I understand why Mike had to go. He was getting a little old and lets face it, no team can have that much hotness at one time. You said next year is now. And while the division was tough last year and you were all so close, next year ended up not being now.
This year you told me it was the team and the time. And I believe you. I bought tons of tickets. I even travelled to that other New York team's house to play with you. I have spent more than I can afford of $6-7 beers and $4 hotdogs (which, by the way, you should have never have gotten rid of Kahn's, they were so much better). I have invested my time in you. And it's paid off. You've been working hard. You want to do well.
So I have one small favor to ask. Please don't ef this up. Even the Red Sox fans are counting on you. You scared me last week with your nonsensical losses. So play well, be strong, and I'll see you Thursday. I'll be the one screaming in the blue and orange.
Sincerely,
Ms. Jones
(David's future wife)
P.S. Really, though, just do your best. Let's go Mets!
