The Mets have signed their franchise player to the biggest contract in team history.
Putting aside questions of Wright's worth to the Mets for the next seven or eight years, this signing is a welcome balm to the deepest psychological wound in the Mets' fan psyche--our fear of the franchise player. Considering the Midnight Massacre, Doc's arm exploding, Straw falling off the wagon, the issue of which hat Piazza will wear to the Hall (if he even goes), and most recently Reyes, Mets fans have had little reason to believe in greatness as something not fleeting or borrowed.
In the karmic hell of Met fandom, any exceptional performance must mean an equally awful fate lies around the corner. And it seemed that David Wright, our squeaky clean would-be captain, was just the latest such case. He had his shot in 2006 and blew it. Then, as the team slowly imploded over the next few years, Wright seemed to go with it: first his defense, then his power, his plate discipline, and eventually his iron man health.
Last season, though, we got to see the old David Wright again. And now this. Given all the losing, the budget cuts, and the stupid diss from Wilpon in The New Yorker, I certainly would not have blamed Wright for telling Fred to go screw. But I guess he wasn't done here. I'm glad. I hope he's around the Mets forever. It almost wouldn't be the Mets without him.