I watched only Chowdah’s home run last night in the game vs. the Rockies (L; 5-2).
One of the unfortunate facts of life in New York City is the crush of people one encounters day in and day out. By the math alone, you’re bound to see something you don’t like, eventually. And at the risk of turning my stomach again, and your stomachs, I saw something rather temporary, but rather unfortunate, on my ride home last night. It ruined my dinner. Frankly, at the time of this writing (5a), I’m still not with it.
So I sucked down water and avoided anything else that would turn my stomach. Flipped on the game just to catch the score, wished them luck after the home run, and landed on my bed with such ferocity that I think I cracked another one of the support slats. (Never you mind how the first was cracked.)
Funny thing is, had I gone with my initial instinct for plans last night, and headed out to Coney Island to see Beltran in his Brooklyn rehab start, I’d’ve missed the incident entirely, and gotten sick by way of too many hot dogs and too much beer, and the sideshows that take on an unappreciated ghoulishness once the sun goes down.
Carlos Beltran went one-for-three with a walk and an RBI, yet still managed to get picked off first, which means he’s most definitely a Met for 2009. Peter Botte of the Daily News seems to believe Beltran will stick with the Cyclones through Friday, so the possibility of making myself sick on Friday is still alive.
In my life, I’ve not had a six-month run of illness like I’ve had this year. A throat thing; an eye thing; a couple of stomach things; my back; my recent cold. Usually I’m healthy as an ox and can pace bulls. Got to thinking about this last night and wasn’t sure if I could be blamed for the Mets woes or if I could blame the Mets for my woes, or simply chalk it up to coincidence.
If I had a training staff, though, I’d probably fire them. Good thing I don’t have a training staff. I hate firing people.
But does anyone remember Carlos Beltran’s swine flu business back in May? Before the bone bruise, the guy couldn’t keep anything down and had to be put on fluids.
The wrap-up of this woeful series against the Rockies is, at the time of this writing, ten hours away. Hopefully I won’t have that nauseous feeling and Beltran’s knee won’t explode and we can both share the same airspace at Kesypan Park tomorrow, braced for whatever new horrors lurk around the corner. Or under that dumb ride that carries people up slowly, then down slowly, in a doughnut-shaped carriage.
omniality
Section Five Twenty-Eight 