Welcome To The Terror Dome

So, tonight I had my first fantasy baseball draft. At first, when I noticed the date of the draft, I thought that was kinda early in the year to be having a baseball draft. I mean, I guess I realized that baseball season was two weeks away-- Hell, I certainly knew the Mets home opener at Shea was in three weeks, as they open on my birthday and I will be in attendance-- but the "Oh my God, baseball is almost here, thank God!" feeling didn't hit me until tonight. It's funny when you consider that I've been looking forward to Shea Opening Day since my buddy told me he got me a ticket, but it's stranger when you consider that I've been really looking forward to this season since January 12.

See, that's the day that we got Carlos Beltran. That's the day Omar Minaya knocked me on my ass. He practically slapped me upside the head for even thinking the notion that being a Mets fan was bordering on hopeless, especially when compared with the Yankees and their godawful fans. With the signing of Beltran, Minaya began repaying the debt the Mets (and more specifically, Fred Wilpon) owed to their fans.

It wasn't just the losing. It wasn't dealing with seemingly millions of Yankee fans on a daily basis, complaining about A-Rod only hitting .230 with runners in scoring position while blissfully sailing towards another AL East crown while I watched John Franco, Mike Stanton, and other assorted "relief" pitchers blow game after game. It was the culture of ineptitude that had started to grow and multiply around the Mets as a franchise, something which frightened any true Met fan.

It was the bungling of the entire A-Rod negotiations, only to learn in Sports Illustrated that Texas didn't even make an offer to A-Rod until the Mets publicly declared themselves out of it, because everyone assumed that A-Rod wanted to be and was going to be a Met. It was reading in the same SI article that A-Rod himself figured he'd be a Met that November. But somehow, Steve Phillips couldn't get it done...

It was the half hearted courting of Vladimir Guerrero, which only served to get fans expectations up only to crush them once again. It was over paying for Tom Glavine. It was trading Scott Kazmir for Victor Zambrano (Rick Peterson, I love you, but when exactly are you on the clock for those '10 minutes' it'll take to fix good ol' Vic there?). It was the general feeling that no one in Flushing knew what the fuck they were doing.

Initially, I thought that Omar Minaya had just continued the trend. Initially, I didn't like the signing of Pedro Martinez. Too much money and too many guaranteed years, I said. But I didn't realize at the time that Minaya was just taking the first step toward s banishing that culture of ineptitude that had sprouted at Shea.

January 12 changed all that. When Beltran walked to the stage at that 11 o'clock press conference, Minaya firmly declared that the days of not knowing whos in charge or what the Hell is going on are over. And just to further ram that point home, Minaya deliberately scheduled the press conference three hours before the Yankees official introduction of Randy Johnson, seemingly only to pique Steinbrenner and Yankee fans. It didn't take a genius to realize that Minaya was jabbing at the long held assumption that Beltran's monsterous NLCS was simply a final audition before donning pinstripes. The premier free agent on the market was being introduced to New York. Yet it was in Queens, not the Bronx.

Think about that for a second. All throughout the year, when you heard about Beltran, where was he supposed to land? In the Bronx, replacing Bernie Williams. Aside from the Red Sox, where was Pedro going to land? In the Bronx as well. But that's not how it went down. The premier free agent position player and the premier free agent pitcher both signed with the Mets. Not only did the Mets come away with the two biggest prizes of free agency, but they went in and swiped them away from the Yankees.

I immediately went out and dropped $250 at the Mets clubhouse store on an authentic Beltran # 15 jersey. And it wasn't so much out of respect for Beltran as it was for Minaya. I will (hopefully) enjoy Beltran running down balls in the center field gap and blasting game winning home runs for the next seven years. Hopefully he will not turn out to be Bobby Bonilla, or Roberto Alomar. But in dropping that money, in wearing that jersey, I am more thanking Omar Minaya. For giving me hope.

Now, I'm not completely drinking the Kool-Aid. Do I think the Mets can win? Honestly, probably not. Trachsel's injury certainly doesn't help, although plugging Kaz Ishii in at the #5 spot is not that bad (especially at the low cost of Jason Phillips). But who knows what Kris Benson shows up (or what his wife will do). And who knows if Victor Zambrano will throw the ball in the strike zone, let alone win some ball games. Can the bullpen protect the leads that Beltran, Piazza, et al. hand to them, when Pedro leaves after six innings? Can Reyes stay healthy? Can Kaz make the adjustment to second and follow his countryman Hideki Matsui's path of rapid improvement in his second year in the majors? Can David Wright continue maturing into Scott Rolen?
That's too many questions, especially in the NL East. The Braves get Hudson and Smoltz in the rotation. The Phillies have a ton of talent on paper and no Larry Bowa being a psycho. The Marlins might mash people to death with the addition of Delgado. Even the Nationals have a little spunk.

But do I have hope? Yeah, I do. Maybe not to win the East or the Wild Card. But I do have hope in the way things are going. I do have hope in the kids-- Reyes, Wright. I would have enjoyed watching Scott Kazmir develop, but I'm very excited about Philip Humber. To play some meaningful games down the stretch in August. To get on a run in June and watch Pedro throw a gem at Shea. To see Beltan jump over the center field wall and steal a homerun, and hear Shea Stadium explode on a beautiful Saturday afternoon. To take the season series from the Yankees again.

I'm just happy that I honestly can be hopeful again. Let's play ball!


Shout out to my grandfather...