On June 1, I remember watching the New York Rangers’ season, one filled with Stanley Cup aspirations and one where the Rangers won the most games in franchise history, come crashing down in six games to the eventual Stanley Cup champion Florida Panthers. My second thought, after “I can’t believe another wonderful season has ended without a championship”, was “I can’t believe I’m going to be stuck with this boring, lifeless, miserable excuse for a Mets team for the next four month. Hockey season can’t come soon enough”.
I wish I time travel back to confront my slightly-younger self. I’d probably just say “OMG” and “Grimace” and “the Mets are over .500” with no further explanatory context and watch as my past self ties himself into knots trying to figure out if I’ve finally gone crazy or perhaps been dosed with some sort of psychotropic drug.
And yet, as improbable as it is to think about it, that’s where we are today. The Mets are winning. The Mets are above .
500. The Mets are one game out of a Wild Card spot. But beyond all that, the Mets are fun.
And they’re not just fun, they’re fun in a chaotic and cartoonish sort of way that seems to happen during those magical seasons, something that feels uniquely Metsian. The Mets, in just a few short months, have given us Seymour Weiner, the Rally Pimp, Grimace, the Gay Mets, and now OMG. This is, inexplicably, the same season that saw the Mets start 0-5, go 9-19 in an abysmal May, blow numerous.
