It might be , it could be, IT IS!!!! A love story I will share during this trying time....

October 25th 1986, Shea Stadium. The greatest game ever played....

Even as a 9 year old I was able to grasp the enormity of the moment as the Mets would come back to win the 86 series. With a great mix of veteran leaders, high end young talent and a great pitching staff I saw like many others the makings of a potential dynasty.

First the drugs spiraled out of control, then came the injuries and clubhouse hostilities. The next thing you knew a situation that started out with so much potential greatness fizzled into mediocrity. One by one my heroes were being sent away packing. Gary Carter who was an absolute rock for us would take his pop ups and go west. Darryl Strawberry would take his mirror and razorblades in the same direction. Bob Ojeda ditto. The hardest one to take was my idol and the reason as a natural right hander I worked so hard to perfect my lefty stroke, Keith Hernandez, Keith, KEITH, KEITH! in Cleveland.

All I knew was the Mets so what was I going to do? Like everyone else was forced to I rolled with the punches always believing that with a few moves here and there Davey Johnson would lead us back to our rightful place on the mountaintop. 

May 30th 1990....

Davey Johnson, the winningest  manager in the history of the New York Metropolitan Baseball Club fired!!! This, this was the last straw. I decided then that these were no longer my Mets. I began a personal fan strike and vowed never to root again for the mets.

Flash forward 1 calender year....

The addictive nature of this game has a funny way of drawing you back though. At this point I was 13 years old and the Transformers and Thundercats grip on my imagination had been replaced by constant daydreaming about the budding boobies on my female classmates. As I searched for after school entertainment I suddenly found myself jonesing for a baseball fix. At the time my cable carrier provided WGN which on most days carried a 2:20pm Chicago Cubs game unopposed. I fell in love seeing the beautiful Ivy wall and the packed stadium everyday for the second division staple. Harry Caray and Steve Stone were a perfect combination. One provided analytical commentary based on his experiences as a big time pitcher in the show, the other was a stoned homer. Mark Grace stepped in as the model ball player. A clutch, consistent gap hitter with a great glove. No Keith though but an acceptable substitute. Over the years I would be wowed by the exploits of Sammy Sosa, Kerry Wood with that phenomenal start to his career, the great Greg Maddux and others. I had completely changed over. The Mets were an afterthought, the enemy, the girl that broke my heart and now I was shoving my new girlfriend in her face. 

The Cubs were actually competitive during this time. I was never really one for "lovable losers" and I would always hate that phrase. I didn't live in the era of the "cursed billie goat" or the "black cat jinx" so I didn't fully realize what I was getting myself into with these baby bears.

October 14th 2003, Wrigley Field, The Steve Bartman game....

By this time I was a grown up. I had a 6 month old daughter and was getting my first taste of real responsibility. The Cubs had built a contender behind the cannon arms of Kerry Wood, Mark Prior and Carlos Zambrano and were poised to break the longest championship drought in Baseball. In the eight inning with the Cubs up 3-0 and Mark Prior dealing up to the plate steps our old friend Luis Castillo of all people. The rest is still too painful to discuss. The Cubs would lose the game and the Series and never again get as close as they did on this fateful night.

It all seemed to happen so fast that I didn't really process it all at the time. A few days after the series ended it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe there really is something to the legend of the "baseball gods" and that the "curse of the bambino" and other assorted nonsense could be real. It left a bad taste in my mouth and I would again walk away from baseball for a year.

September 29th 2004....

The story breaks regarding Montreal Expos GM Omar Minaya being set to join the Mets as Head of baseball operations. I watched from a distance as an exciting series of moves being made from the hiring of Willie Randolph, to the signings of Carlos Beltran and Pedro Martinez slowly brought that old feeling back and as well as some serious heat to the hot stove. I was back again this time for good. For better or worse til death.

In 2006, we got close but we lost. We lost it on the field which is ok. No curses, black cats or goats, just a perfect Adam Wainwright hook.

I've since decided that since I was born a Met fan than I should die a Met fan. I still like to watch the Cubs from time to time and Carlos Zambrano is still my favorite player, well maybe second favorite after Jose Reyes but I tell this story as a precautionary tale. The grass looks greener, but sometimes theres a jerk that wants a souvenir bad enough to blow a world title opportunity waiting in that grass. Lets keep our chins up and keep rolling with the punches guys......