Anyway, I was kind of amped up.
I wonder why.
On top of it being a fantastic night at Two Boots Hell's Kitchen (44th and 9th, stop by) the Mets finished the July end of the season with a ridiculous back and forth swing of the emotional Metsian pendulum, one which swung more violently in one 7-10 day span than I can ever remember in my 10 years of full-fledged Mets fandom, my 25-27 year awareness of the Mets, or my 20 years living in New York City.
They sent us off into August on an unbelievable high, 2 games back in the division heading into the last 2 months of the season with another new and exciting player on his way into town to reinforce a roster who has hung on tight but desperately needs the help.
And there I was, ready to get home after the long night, write about it and the way I experienced the moment Wilmer Flores hit that home run.
And then I lost my footing on the pedals crossing 48th.
I tried to recover, but it was too late, and I skidded to the ground in front of a couple going home, or where ever they may have been going.
I hopped up immediately, the folks certainly concerned and immediately coming to my aid. My right forearm, on the bone side, was bleeding, and modestly. I asked the folks if they had any napkins, at which point a man pulling a hot dog cart across the street offered me napkins and squeezed hand sanitizer into my wound, which I would later find out is deeper than I thought (probably a couple centimeters.) It burned, but I enjoyed it. I felt alive, and already on the way to recovery while shaking my head at the turn of events.
I love this town.
"You can get band-aids there," the man said, pointing to Duane Reade on the northwest corner of 48th and 8th, a perfect place to crash if you can take care of everything yourself without an ambulance involved. I parked the bike, after thanking the folks who stopped to help, went into the place and bought big band-aids, Bacitracin and a spray-bottle of hydrogen peroxide. And a bottle of water. I grabbed some napkins, went back outside, took care of business and got back on my bike after sealing the wound.
Apple was kind enough to give me replacement rubber ear bud covers for free, after which I kept biking on 59th Street over the bridge and onto the Long Island that houses Queens and Brooklyn. I biked home to Carroll between Franklin and Washington, around the corner from where some Bums used to play baseball.
As the narrative of this post changed in my head as I was immediately thrusted into wound-healing operations, I thought to myself that what I am going through, and anything I have gone through in my life, pales in comparison to what Yoenis Cespedes has gone through in his life, especially just to play Major League Baseball in America...or what Wilmer Flores has gone through over the last 72 hours alone. Or what the Mets franchise and its fans have gone through.
They, and we, have gotten through that shit.
I'll be fine.
As I basked in the glory that is the final trade we made for such a potential 2015 game-changer, I went through the Cuban man's short career, including every home run he hit in the Derby at Citi in 2013. Then I watched his throw from left in Anaheim when he was with the Athletics.
Already, seeing him in those other uniforms looks weird. Watching him in the Orange and Blue, which we were afforded 2 years ago, looks just right. They are the colors he was meant to wear. And I can't wait for him to get started.
I LOVE THIS TOWN.
2 months left. 2 games back. And a MONSTER about to enter the lineup.
A pennant race beckons.
What fun this will be.
A Cespedes for the Mets of Us.
LET'S. GO. METS.
