Flushing 2032

"Good afternoon, New York Mets? Yes, yes, just a moment." Roberta pressed the intercom button. "Mike, it's Bob Remsen. Shall I put him through?"
"Tell him I'll talk to him tomorrow. Citigroup can wait a day on the team's 401(k). I don't plan on retiring this weekend anyway."
"But what if I do?"
"Then this whole organization might as well fold. I still tell Omar that if it weren't for your pound cake the day Johan Santana brought his kids to see how he felt about the team's atmosphere, then the Phillies would've won the pennant in 2015."
"Oh, yeah right. Mr. Minaya wouldn't have any of that talk."
"I'm gonna head down to the stands, 'Bert. I've been waiting twenty-eight years to see the team retire numbers five and seven. I guess this officially means Jose's done swiping bags. Just when we could use a good shortstop, too."
"Michael, Michael, Michael. Don't worry! I'll get the boys we need, you just make sure we got the dough to pay 'em." The longest reigning general manager in the sport had just walked in, and even at seventy-four, he was still not one to have his baseball acumen questioned.
"I'm not sure if we could ever have enough cash to keep buying out Paul. But you da GM!"

I was one of the few who could get away with teasing Omar about our manager situation. For the past seven years, we'd gone through five managers. Paul LoDuca. Tony Gwynn, Jr. Paul LoDuca. Ed Travers. Paul LoDuca. Paul and Omar have always had a colorful relationship. Ever since the days of Paul saying and doing things to make the front office cringe in 2006 and 2007, it had been a rough road for the two. Everyone agrees that the only unbreakable bond between them is their common obsession with the New York Mets since birth.

"I'm tellin' ya, Mikey. If that little punk pushes down one more umpire over a questionable called strike in the ninth inning of a 12-3 rout, I'll make sure he doesn't manage so much as an ant farm!"
"That little punk's won ya four division titles and a World Series -
"Ay! Shut up already, you coming downstairs or what?"
"To party like it's 2007? Yeah, five minutes. My wife's bringing my David Wright jersey."
"Ay dios mio, Michael, you're our CFO, not our head cheerleader. It's bad enough you can't type with those four World Series rings on all the time. Like Fred always said, if we gave Mr. Met a checkbook and sat him at your desk, no one would ever know the difference. See you behind the plate."

I sat in my office a few more minutes, waiting for Julia to get to the stadium with my jersey and the kids. Being married to the New York City Schools' Chancellor always meant having to be patient while some principal whined to her about class sizes. My cell phone rang and I headed downstairs.

"Daddy! Did Mr. Wright ever hit a home run?" My youngest daughter was just starting to learn the terminology of our family's favorite pasttime.
"Yes, pumpkin. Mr. Wright hit lots of home runs. C'mon, I think he and Uncle Keith wanted to show you something before the game."

I led my wife and our three kids up to the Ralph Kiner Television Booth. The room has carried the same name since I was a teenager, and probably will until Gary Cohen and Keith Hernandez finally decide to hang up their microphones. They each only do a few innings a piece these days, but remain just as incredible as ever. Wright was beginning his second year in the booth, and SNY's ratings were at an all time high. My suspicion is that the population of female Mets fans exploded when they were able to stare at New York's favorite pretty boy every night on TV. I happened to think David was doing a good job, but the critics weren't being as kind. They did have a point though. Few people want to hear a play-by-play man gush about how Mets fans are the greatest fans in the world when the middle reliever has just been booed off the field after giving up yet another home run.

"Hey, Emily! You know what this is?" Keith was already in the booth.
"A babblehead!"
"Nope, Keith's a babblehead," David Wright said as he walked into the room. "This is a bobblehead. A Willie Randolph bobblehead. Has Daddy ever told you about him?"
"He was Daddy's favorite manager!"
"Mr. Wright's favorite manager too, Emily," Keith proclaimed. "I brought it for you."
"Thank you, Uncle Babblehead!"
Keith chuckled. "Stop corrupting Mike's girl, Dave!"

It was a beautiful night at Shea. It felt so liberating to say Shea again. One of my proudest accomplishments was negotiating with Citi to drop their name from the stadium five years ago. Omar wanted to kill me since buying out that contract put a strain on payroll, but Jeff Wilpon backed me all the way.

Nothing could top the gorgeous May evening. I had been working for my number one obsession for the past twenty years. We were in the midst of three straight years of sitting atop the NL East. My two favorite ballplayers of all time, Mets for life until they retired after the 2027 World Series, were about to have their numbers hung from the Jackie Robinson rotunda. With my beautiful family at my side, we took our seats behind the dugout.

"No one will ever touch this man's career record of 1,804 stolen bases!" bellowed Master of Ceremonies Tom Glavine from the field. "With a lifetime .310 average, he helped lead the Mets to six World series titles dating back to 2007. He'll tell you with his trademark smile that it was Pedro Martinez' Game 1 perfect game that did the trick, but that doesn't excuse our shortstop's .512 batting average during the Series. Ladies and gentlemen, as we take his number out of use for the New York Mets, please give it up for the shortstop, number seven, JO-SAYYYYY REYES!"

At the chorus of 45,000 people chanting his old familiar theme, Reyes came running as hard as ever onto the field. Lo Duca could be seen bellowing his name from the field as well.

I leaned over my GM's shoulder. "Omar, I don't care if he goes after the entire opposing team with a bat tonight, you can't fire him now."
"I'll do what I can, but if he lets Vegas win tonight, I might just lose it. Ever since they moved, he can't seem to get it through his fat little head that they're still the Marlins!"

The ceremonies continued. The love for Reyes was omnipotent. The same went for Wright a few minutes later. The old left side of the infield tandem raised each other's arms, reminiscent of all the times they strode down the ticker tape parades together. What a night to be a Mets fan.

Later, P-Dubs

Posting here is my last official action on my PwC-owned laptop. This is my last day as an intern, and I will now take a one-year hiatus from the firm to finish my undergrad degree as well as start (and hopefully finish) my Masters of Business Administration in Finance. I've already been asked back to be an Associate in Fall 2008. At this moment, I'd say I am almost definitely going to accept the offer.

I'll probably post more frequently going forward. After my return from the Internship Development Program in Disney, that is. A paid trip to Disney? Man, these guys expect way too much from me.

Talk to you all on the other side of the Mouse.