To Dream the Possible(?) Dream

I have a colleague, Jimmy, who is probably my polar opposite: Christian, and politically conservative to the point where he's not sure if Rush Limbaugh is a moderate. He had me dismissed as "another liberal" the first time he saw a cast recording on my desk, and when Bill O'Reilly ranted about how dare Jews complain if someone wishes them a "Merry Christmas," guess how he greeted me on December 24th?

In about two hours, though, if the weather holds up, that won't matter a bit. Tom Glavine will throw a baseball, and Jimmy, myself, and three or four others in my office (including, thankfully, my boss) will be drawn together in the great bond of brotherhood known as being a Mets fan. We will reminisce about the great year of 1986, when a young (but still pretty ugly-looking) Jesse Orosco struck out Marty Barrett, and the late Bob Murphy hollered for the second time in 25 years: "The Mets have won the World Series!" We will cautiously allow ourselves to dream that Willie Randolph (one of the few Yankees we can abide) and crew can take us back again to our days of glory.

I was eleven years old then, watching the seventh game, the only game of the series I could watch (school and Jewish holidays interfered with the others) at an upstairs neighbor's apartment, and I just remember falling off the couch to my knees, arms in the air, mimicking Orosco as Shea Stadium went into bedlam. My best friend the Yankees fan graciously called me to wish me congratulations, a tradition that I would have to grudgingly reciprocate four times since.

Twenty years it's been, now. People born in 1986 have graduated college, gotten master's degrees, and are holding jobs making more money than I do. I don't care, though. I remember when garish blue and orange went with pinstripes (geez, and folks wonder why I have no fashion sense), when "Let's go, Mets!" was the cheer of the town, and the world was right.

Let's go, Mets!