Next week I’m heading to Philadelphia. Why, I have absolutely no idea.
OK, that’s a bit of a lie. I know why. It’s tradition. Mom and I hit the road. We watch the Mets. We bond. It’s a lovely, wonderful and important annual rite. It also tends to end poorly for the Metros…or at least it typically lines up to be pretty irrelevant.
We go at different times of year. Each season a new location. We knocked off many of the appealing new stadiums and vacation-worthy spots off the bat. Since, we’ve taken in the Mets at historic locales like Wrigley and Fenway. It’s been a decade now. I’m now married with a one-year old. Taking a few days to catch a series (that’s right, not one game, but a series) is no longer as simple an equation as it once was. Still, we soldier on.
So this season, instead of a plane and pools or mountains, it’s a car ride and the Phils. Two games that again mean very little in an inconsequential Mets season. The depressing part is that the once-floundering Phils have managed to leapfrog the once-surprising Mets and again relegate the Amazins to an amazingly comical sideshow. By the time we arrive at Citizens Bank, our Flushing folly will probably be languishing in the NL East basement (not to say such a result is shocking in the least given this roster).
We will nonetheless don our colors and cheer on this bunch…and continue to dream about the next time our Mets road trip might have some bigger implications. Ya gotta believe, right? Even if believing might be on hold until 2014 or so.
About the Author: Cecilio's Scribe is the founder of The Legend of Cecilio Guante and a generally pessimistic fan of the Mets, Jets, Knicks and Rangers. A fine NYC-based gentlemen who hones his marketing skills as his primary trade by day. Husband, chef, father of a newborn and after-hours blogger by night. Proud alum of the mighty Big Red of Cornell. University. Hot sauce devotee. Staunch protester of the continued wussifcation of American sports. Sometimes I rhyme slow, sometimes I rhyme quick.