Wednesday, January 13, 2010
BELTRAN.
I was effectively offline for most of the evening, and emerged from the subway around 10pm. While waiting for the bus, I idly checked Twitter. And then realized I couldn’t sort through hours and hours of tweeting. (The best take on tonight’s panic is courtesy Wrigleyville 23, oddly enough.)
I called home.
“No seriously, WTF?! Beltran?”
“12 weeks.”
“Not Beltran!”
“Yep.”
“Our All Star, Gold Glove center fielder.”
“Yep.”
“#$@^%” (Imagine the Tasmanian Devil when you read that.)
The hipster girl standing next to me looks annoyed that my whining is interrupting her listening to the new Vampire Weekend. I hang up.
Waiting for the truth to sort itself out, waiting for the Mets to have an accurate grasp of how to handle the media and the public, and not that I had a ton of hope for 2010, this is really putting the icing on the cake.
And I feel guilty about bitching about any of this with what is going on in Haiti. (Please donate now if you haven’t.) How completely insignificant my team’s season is compared to all of that devastation.
