For his first several years, he wore the garments of champions.
He was a brightly burning star who never once flickered (as I
recall), who did the Mets and their crowd proud. He threw
century-speed fast balls and diving curves, set home run records
and loved the fans with pride and glory and a brotherly smile.
He roamed the home field with Di Maggio grace and Gibson power.
He controlled the flow and direction of every game.
And then he wasn’t there. Suddenly. Mournfully. I looked up as the
New season began and was met by an emptiness.
His name was Seaver, Strawberry, Gooden, de Grom and now Alonso.
And it goes on as much as I long to stop the hurt. But the cycle recurs.
Greatness. Emptiness. A too brief teasing curtain call wrapped in the
applause made of echoes of better times. And too abruptly, he leaves
to follow that unfeeling mistress, Fate.
But the real Met fans remain. You Gotta believe. Just don’t ever ask why.