Good evening. Today is Wednesday, September the 24th, and this is my last broadcast. Yesterday I announced on this program that I was going to commit public suicide, admittedly an act of madness. Well, I'll tell you what happened: I just ran out of bullshit.
Am I still on the air?
It's not the Howard Beale spiel [1] you're used to seeing on DiamondVision but it was the particular Paddy Chayefsky gem from Network that seeped to mind in the midst of Wednesday night's Mao Tse-Tung Hour of a baseball game.
Last night I got up here and asked you to stand up and fight for your heritage and believe the Mets are still en route to an inevitable division title — also admittedly an act of madness — and you did and it was beautiful.
But I think that was it, fellas.
That sort of thing is not likely to happen again, because at the bottom of all our terrified souls we know the Mets are a dying giant, a sick, sick, dying, decayed athletic concept writhing in its final pain.
I don't have to tell you things are bad. Everybody knows things are bad. It's a depression. First base isn't being covered. Double plays are going unexecuted. Balls are not cut off in center. Baserunners are stretching singles into outs. Opposing pitchers, if they're not flipping bats at will after smacking the third of three consecutive home runs on three consecutive pitches, bark in the faces of our hitters, unburdened by the slightest hint of retribution for their unsportsmanlike conduct. Sluggers carrying lifetime averages of .280 are retired with ease and regularity. Leads are taken and immediately surrendered. Series after series piles humiliation upon embarrassment upon debacle. Ricky Ledee is starting in left.
We know things are bad — worse than bad [2]. They're crazy.