I was listening to Jackson Browne’s seminal album, Late for the Sky (1974), today. One of my favorite songs from that album is entitled “Farther On”. It felt appropriate today to listen to this particular song. The New York Mets players and their fans — of which I am one — awakened this morning to the sad reality that this season is over. Like this song says, our “dreams have come up torn and empty”.
Last year, following a below .500 season, I published some musings on my team in a post entitled “Here’s To Hoping!”. The Mets gave us more than hope this year; they brought us to The World Series. They gave us October baseball. Hell, they gave us a little bit of November baseball. We went to The World Series. The World Series!
I have decided that rather than be saddened by the loss we experienced last night, that I am going to be grateful for the season we, the fans, were given. And, of course, I will remain hopeful for next year. (Hopefulness and a certain amount of cock-eyed optimism regarding “next year” are hallmarks of all New York Mets’ fans; it is in our DNA.)
So, they did not win this year. So, what? They got there, which is far more than any of us, individually or collectively, could have reasonably expected from this team only one short year ago! Actually, never mind a year ago, things looked bleak as late as this past July! And then, BOOM!
It happened. The unthinkable happened. Some trades were made at the deadline which shored up both our offense and our defense. The Washington Nationals imploded. We began to hit.
The long ball became our deadliest weapon. Yoenis Cespedes, who was acquired just minutes before the trade deadline, came to New York on what looked like a mission — a mission to tear the leather off of every baseball that was thrown his way. Boy, oh boy, was that exciting!
Tyler Clippard and Addison Reed added depth to the bullpen — depth we sorely needed. They formed the bridge from our young, but stellar, starting pitchers to our closer, Jeurys Familia — himself a young man with little experience who, stunningly and, yes, surprisingly, emerged as one of the most reliable closers in baseball. Yeah. Hell, yeah!
We battled the Dodgers and the Cubs, teams with the most effective starting pitchers in all of baseball. Nearly unhittable, these guys are. Tell that to Daniel Murphy, our second baseman. He got hot in the playoffs — so hot that he tied a record for post-season home runs, a record which was set by — wait for it — some guy named Babe Ruth. And he hit them off of the most unhittable pitchers in the game. Yeah. Pretty impressive.
Alas, The Kansas City Royals were impressive, too. They played their game, capitalized on our weaknesses, waited out our starting pitching, got to the bullpen. This year was their year. That’s okay. Our journey took us farther than we or anyone else expected us to travel this year. It was a long and often strange trip. It was a great time to be a Mets’ fan throughout this pleasantly surprising season.
At the end of the day this should be everyone’s goal, shouldn’t it? To exceed expectations? To achieve the unthinkable? To be pleasantly surprised? Yeah. Who wouldn’t be happy with that? I would be happy with that.
I have set my own goals for this month. I would like to take a page out of the Mets’ book and exceed my own expectations. I decided to take part in National Novel Writing Month. I have no idea if I have a novel in me, but I am going to start writing one — or something else — every day in the month of November. I have set a goal of 1,500 words a day. Who knows? Perhaps, like my Mets, I will surprise not only myself, but everyone else, too. Maybe, just maybe, I will look like this at the end of November:
When I think of this season, this is the image that will stick with me. If I become discouraged by my own arduous task, I will close my eyes, summon that moment right there, and remember that obstacles can be overcome. That guy? That’s David Wright. He’s our third baseman, our captain. He missed most of the season because he was diagnosed with spinal stenosis, which could have ended his career. (Its onset has ended many a promising baseball career.) That it will likely shorten his career, that it has already stolen much of his power and agility, saddens me beyond measure. Undoubtedly he, too, is disappointed in the cards he has been dealt.
You wouldn’t know it, though. Not only did he NOT give up, he continued to be a credit to the game. AND he went to The World Series. The damn World Series. Yeah. So, what am I worried about? Typing? Thinking? Pshaw!
Here, for your listening pleasure (and mine), I give you the song that inspired this post, Jackson Browne’s “Farther On” (from the album Late for the Sky, 1974).
I have a sneaking suspicion that if you asked him, Jackson would admit that he, too, exceeded his own expectations. I wonder if he wakes up some days thinking, “Wow, I can’t believe I wrote THAT!”