It's The End Of The World As We Know It

Leaves are falling all around, It's time I was on my way. Thanks to you, I'm much obliged for such a pleasant stay. But now it's time for me to go. The autumn moon lights my way. For now I smell the rain, and with it pain, and it's headed my way.

Ah, some songs can really sum up the way I feel this morning. Deep down inside I have a feeling of impending doom in my gut.

The Mets have made us all age several years in the past couple of months. What started out as an exciting season in April soon turned into a season full of questions in July and finally a season full of fear and anxiety in September. Now we are facing the potential of gloom and doom this weekend unless the Mets can find it in their hearts to spare us a long winter with 3 or 4 more wins by the end of day on Sunday.

It's a daunting task, and don't I believe these Mets have the stomach for it. At a time when they should be playing their best baseball... at a time when the stakes are the highest... these same Mets have lost their will to win. They won't tell you that, but you can see it in their eyes.

Something terrible happened to this team along their way to a World Series title. I believe it first started when Willie Randolph took Jose Reyes to task for not running out a ground ball. Something died in Jose Reyes that day. The smile disappeared, and with it the enthusiasm and focus. I'm not putting the blame on that one incident, but merely saying it was around that time. Since that day we have been playing worse than .500 baseball. We have lost 54 of our last 100 games.

Then there's Guillermo Mota, another player who contributed greatly to this demise. Not only did he never give the Mets the big boost they had all hoped for, but he delivered one poor outing after another, and soon his malaise spread throughout the entire bullpen. He had become our kryptonite.

Can't any starting pitcher on this team pitch more than 6 innings? All the skeptics warned us in Spring Training that the Mets did not have the pitching. Even Jimmy Rollins warned us. But no Mets fan wanted to believe that, after all John Maine and Oliver Perez were playoff heroes, and Mike Pelfrey was the second coming of Dwight Gooden. Plus we all trusted Omar.

At the trade deadline the Mets were a team that was desperate for pitching help. They needed help in the bullpen and they needed another starter for the rotation. It was the Mets' last chance and only hope to fend off the doom that was lurking around the corner.

KABOOM! The walls are crumbling down all around the Mets. The sound you hear is that of the bullpen imploding and taking with it the hopes and dreams of what was supposed to be "our season."

The only thing that can save the Mets now is a hero. But when I look up at the skies of Shea, I don't see a bird, or a plane, or a man in blue tights and a red cape. I see a glaring sun beating down on the playing field that was supposed to provide us with one more miracle to add to our history.

It can still happen. We still control our own destiny. But a hero must rise from among them. Where is he? Who is he? Won't someone please tell him that our Metropolis is in danger?

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