I left work Friday with two goals--to not watch Jose Lima pitch that night, and go to the Saturday doubleheader and observe Mike Pelfrey. To paraphrase our President, "Mission Unaccomplished."
Friday I walked over the Brooklyn Bridge on my way home, not wanting to think about the Mets. Alas, I decided to stop at Floyd on Atlantic Ave to get a beer before I made the rest of the trek home. I sat down, looked up, and watch Dontrelle Willis hit a grand slam. Suddenly the cold beer in my hand didn't seem so sweet. I believe my text message to my pal Erik said it all: "LIMA MUST DIE."
All this week I have battled my annual summer insomnia, and Friday it came home in spades as I finally fell asleep at 4 a.m., then woke up at 6 a.m. with no hope of getting any more shuteye. At 10 a.m. I realized there was no chance of me making it through one baseball game, let alone two, so I called my friend Jocelyn and said I couldn't make it to the game. Thankfully they were last minute freebies, so my guilt was trimmed just a bit.
I struggled to watch the first game, almost as much as the Mets struggled with the bases loaded. Then game 2 rolled around, and it was obvious Pelfrey was nervous. But the Mets offense was not. When the team got a 9-2 lead, I promptly fell asleep. It was the best sleep of the week. I woke up when the 17th run was scored, then dozed off again. I climbed into bed at 11, and slept like a baby.
Perhaps my insomnia came from worrying about the Mets? And Pedro? And the 5th starter slot? Who knows--at least I am awake enough to enjoy the last game before the break.
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