Jeff Wilpon woke up at 5:15 AM, hit the alarm clock, and put on his robe. He stuck his feet into his slippers, wiped the sleep away from his eyes, and had a single thought come to his mind.
"Maybe today will be the day."
As he brushed his teeth and hopped into the shower, his mind kept coming back to it. The thought hung there like the towel on the rack above the sink. "Could today be the day?", he asked himself. He pondered the idea some more, hoping to come up with an inkling of what it would be like. Was today going to be different? Maybe the planets lined up in some cosmic way, managing to eliminate it as a topic of conversation. Maybe I'll wake up and it'll all be different. He grabbed his morning paper, took a deep breath, and looked to the sky.
"What would a day be like," he thought, "if not a single person asked me about the Mets' payroll?"
Just the thought of that question made him bristle. You see, Jeff hated to be asked about the Mets' payroll. If he could just run away when the topic was brought up, he would. "How do I answer a question that there's no answer to?" Jeff pondered. "If only there were a way to change the topic, if only there were a way to make the questions stop."
Driving down the highway, Jeff's mind drifted to other topics. As he reached his favorite coffee shop to pick up his morning cup of joe, he waved to a friend whom he recognized. They shared a laugh and he headed inside to make his purchase. Standing in line in silence, Jeff felt at peace with the world. "3.95", said the cashier who handed Jeff his latté. That was when it happened.
"Hey, Mr. Wilpon! What's happening with the Mets? Are you gonna pay Cespedes to come back?"
Jeff felt his face become warmer than the latté in his hand. He squeezed it and the coffee spilled all over the ground, onto his pants. His day was ruined and there was nothing he could do about it. Today wasn't the day.
All of this because there was absolutely no way for him to remedy the situation of the Mets' finances.
Well, other than paying money for good baseball players at positions of need, that is. Beyond that? Absolutely nothing!
The preceding is purely fiction, adapted from the following comment in Ken Rosenthal's piece last night: