I approach every Opening Day with blind optimism that my beloved Mets are gonna make some noise. Most of the time that noise ends up being a booing crowd, a crying child or the pop of a ligament.
So I'm going pessimistic this year — last-place, 2-16 against the Phillies, 0-6 against the Yankees, David Wright gets traded, Jason Bay completes his transformation into a left-field Rey Ordonez pessimistic. It's all gonna happen. This team is doomed.
But even as I write this, optimism is trying to creep back in like a 17-year-old who's been kicked out of the strip club. Johan Santana is healthy, the starting lineup is intact, the fences are closer, the Madoff situation is kind of in the rear view. There are legit reasons to be optimistic.
But those reasons will fade like the velocity on Mike Pelfrey's fastball.
The Mets will be out of it by the all-star break. By August the empty seats will outnumber the taken ones and throughout September individual voices will be audible on TV broadcasts.
And being the sucker that I am, mine will be one of them.
Meet the Mets. The Mets are Meat.