The maelstrom appears on the horizon.
Same place and time as last year.
Threatening to take down the ship as it roars and snaps the oars in half.
Waiting patiently, we man our positions waiting for an answer.
Calmer seas. Less threatening.
The captain doesn’t even have his hands on the wheel. Just a multicolored pen and a scorecard.
For many of us we could see the good times coming.
Or the promise thereof.
We gave them superhero names and each game they were the statue themselves that we watched in awe as every moment became eternal.
At this time last year, the Mets were awful. On offense, at least. Waiting to score just enough runs, play just enough defense to back these gods among men.
Last year at the storm, the ship righted itself. It repaired it’s damage with Cespedes and the return of d’Arnaud and Wright.
Last year was a trip to the World Series at least one year ahead of schedule.
This year we wait on a miracle as every team has come up with a blueprint on how to beat the Mets.