What’s unfortunate about that Omar Minaya/Adam Rubin flap is that the reporter became the story. 

When that happens, too many are pulled into the realm of the meta, and unless one has a firm grasp on (among other things) elements of post-modernism, semiotics, and the works of the Wachowski Brothers, the meta becomes too much to handle. 

“Some of us are world-class thinkers,” a college friend once wrote me.  “Some of us are bankers, and lawyers.  Some of us pump gas, some of us grow fat on the couch and collect a government check. 

“And some of us are potheads.”

With that, I urge you to visit this discussion of the Sheffield mess from yesterday, as sparked by Adam Rubin’s Daily News Mets blog entry.  If you follow blogs ravenously, I’m sure you caught Mr. Rubin’s take.

However, what’s evolved since 8:48a is a comment thread as long as my right arm (I discovered recently that my right arm is decidedly longer than my left).  Despite more-than-occasional name calling, I’ve found this comment thread to be not only delightfully PG-profane, but, in aggregate, a full cover on the matter of Sheffield and the matter of Rubin’s alleged lackeyism.  And on, and on, and on.

It’s remarkable people accuse the man of brown-nosing, even after he’s said on camera that his livelihood had been messed with.  Red pill, blue pill: does it matter?

I agree with most of Mr. Rubin’s take; I wouldn’t hold him just to
release him spitefully, but he’s being paid.  So he’s needed.  If
Sheffield wants to slip in the shower or sprain his pinkie toe, that’s
his business. 

I am not paid by the Mets or Adam Rubin, by the by.  I’m also not paid by the New York Daily News, I’m not advocating the use of marijuana or any illegal drugs.  I’m not trying to denigrate gas station attendants, nor am I advocating the use of fossil fuels in this dangerous political climate or given the nature of our fight to keep this planet from suffocating us all.  I’m also not saying the effort to turn back climate change should be a confrontational fight.

It’s at this point that, were I a cartoon, my head would inflate to six times its already-massive size, and pop like a balloon, leaving only scraps just above the knot.  Would the Mets front office hire a guy like me?  Late twenties; a profiler of their ineptitude; scraps for a head?

Mr. Minaya, I hereby lobby for a job.