UPCOMING EVENTS

Watch this space!

Aaron Heilman Tries for the Darwin Award Assist

I have become intolerable, or so I'm told.

This past week, the Mets have seemingly done everything in their power to ass away their lead in the NL East, in an endless variety of ways. Most days, it's the bullpen, but occasionally the starters and defense chip in their share of ineptitude. If it's a true collapse, then at least it's an eclectic and creative one. It's like the Trout Mask Replica of chokes.

As they dropped 6 of 7 at one point last week, I transformed into a complete manic depressive whose moods were tied to the roller coaster that was the Mets' week. To further my masochism, I also insisted on monitoring the Phillies' soaring prospects via my XM Radio, which revealed an interesting parallel symmetry.   Every time Jose Reyes would commit seven errors on one play, the Phightin' Phils would get a game winning hit by some career minor leaguer September call up.

Only a blind man or a fool would see this as anything other than a sign from the baseball gods. And that sign would be an enormous hand descending from the heavens to flip you the bird.

My reaction to this state of affairs wasn't been pretty. I stomped around the house. I threw my Sambas across the living room. For reasons that now escape me, I kicked my messenger bag across the kitchen floor, as if it and not Guillermo Mota was serving up meatballs to the Nationals.

Now, The Wife is normally indulgent of my obsessions, the Mets included. When I debated whether purchasing playoff tickets was a wise use of our limited funds, she insisted that we go for it. But she's not a fan of her husband stomping and sulking around the house like a tinhorn despot. After a week of horrendous Mets losses, and the ridiculous tantrums I'd throw in their wake, it was clear that I should get a handle on my Mets-induced rage, lest I come home from work one afternoon and be greeted by changed locks and divorce papers.

The Wife suggested going upstate to my mother's house last weekend, hoping the mountain air and lack of street lights would chill me out. The problem is, my mother's house is full of Mets fans, and I'm Rachel Ray-cheery compared to my mother's outlook on the team's prospects. No matter what the year, her fandom temperament remains squarely in the Doom and Gloom Camp. She expects the team to fail, though this never prevents her from watching or listening to every single game.

She did this even in the early-to-mid 1990s, when the Mets were so atrocious they had to hang a side outside Shea that warned CONTENTS NOT FIT FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION. Back then, she'd inevitably turn off the radio at some point, usually the fifth inning or so, when the team would commit a Crime Against Baseball so heinous that even she'd have to give up in loud disgust. And the very next night, she'd be right back in the same spot, listening to the same god awful team all over again.

While upstate, I was constantly counseled to chill out by my mother. When I was a kid, she used to call me the Angry Parishioner, because I was always up in arms about something. She warned me I'd give myself an ulcer before I was 30, and that prediction proved correct (although I'm pretty sure the culprit was coffee and not temper). Now that I'm a parent, she's locked into some parenting of her own, making it her mission to keep me from flying off the handle, with limited success.

Yes, I agreed with her, I should chill out. Yes, I was setting a terrible example for The Baby. And yes, in the grand scheme of things, the fate of the Mets holds little importance. Even if they won the World Series, it would not improve my life in any measurable way.

All weekend, I was determined to behave myself and stay on an even keel, regardless of the outcome of any stupid game. Saturday, that proved easy, thanks to a gem pitched by Oliver Perez. I foolishly convinced myself that I'd gotten my baseball-related rage issues under control.

Then came Sunday's game, which was an 11-inning cardiac special. That game was as bad for your heart as a bowl of remoulade with bacon and pate floating in it.

The Wife and my mother tried desperately to calm me down. And I tried desperately to calm myself down. But when the Mets stormed back to take a 3-run lead, then Aaron Heilman immediately tried his best to throw it right back, that ain't exactly a recipe for Serenity Now.

As they entreated me to calm down, I sat on the floor of my mother's living room, knees drawn up to my chest, the tiny amount of hair I have clutched my hand, breathing heavy to keep from hyperventilating, even though I have never hyperventilated in my life.

And I slowly began to notice a strange sensation in my right armpit. The armpit is not a place where one normally experiences any sensations, strange or otherwise. But I felt something odd there, as if someone had just jabbed me under the arm with a broomstick. Almost as soon as I felt this weird pain, my arm started to feel tingly. Only at the top, near the bicep, at first. But it wasn't long before the feeling traveled down to my hand, and my fingers felt numb and distant.

Not knowing what else to do, I windmilled my arm. When that didn't make it feel any better, I grabbed my right arm with the left and tried to massage the bicep. I defy you to do that and not feel weird, even when surrounded by loved ones.

Then I got one of those panicky thoughts that can only turn a bad situation worse by making you even more of a basket case than you already are. Like, You are way too drunk to drive this car, or, You haven't studied for this test at all. And the Panicky Thought was, You are having a heart attack.

I realize now that when you're having a heart attack, it's typically the left arm that goes numb and tingly. I think I realized this at the time, as well. At least I did in the rational part of my brain. But that section was having a hard time finding an audience against the bleating of my emotional bullhorn: YOU ARE DYING.

I tried to crowd down this idea by having my brain think of a flurry of things all at once and overload the negativity. But of course, the handiest distraction was the Mets, and at the moment they had nothing positive to contribute.

So I paced the living room, clutching my tingly arm, hitting the floor extra hard in a vain attempt to drown out the Mets' collapse and my own wigging-out brain. This was, of course, interpreted by The Wife and my mother as more stomping. They both threw up their hands, convinced that I was an incurable maniac.

"Why does this get you so upset?" The Wife yelled. "You don't even like this team!"

And it's true. If ever there was a demonstration of the Jerry Seinfeld's Rooting For Laundry Principle, this year's Mets are it. I've written about this before, but it bears repeating: I don't love this team, I tolerate them. The thought of dying because of any team is ridiculous. Dying for this bunch of underachievers would be ironic, since most nights they look dead already out on the field.

And I thought about how ridiculous it would be to die of a heart attack because of a Mets game. That'd be awesome--I'd end my life as a Fark post. I'd become one of those goofy stories people email to each other for a day or two. IDIOT METS FAN DROPS DEAD; DOCTORS DEEM THE CASE 'HILARIOUS'. There'd be no room on my tombstone for an epitaph, because you'd need the space for an enormous carving that read NICE JOB, DICK. YOU'VE WIDOWED YOUR WIFE AND ABANDONED YOUR INFANT DAUGHTER BECAUSE AARON HEILMAN HAS A SORE ARM.

The Wife was rocking The Baby on her knee, and I leaned over, still clutching my tingly arm. "Your dad is an idiot," I told her, although I was telling myself as well, " and he shouldn't get so wrapped up in nonsense that means nothing. I'm sure you're gonna think I'm ridiculous one day, and I will be. But one day, you'll have something stupid that you care way too much about, and maybe it'll help you be more normal and handle real crises better. And I promise that no matter how mad the Mets make me, I won't ever get mad at you."

I'm paraphrasing here. But The Baby seemed to catch my meaning, based on the way she sucked on a mushy cucumber slice.

My arm gradually felt better. I still don't know quite what the pain was, but I suspect a pinched nerve. My brush with Death has finally allowed me to mellow out, if not completely then at least significantly. During Monday and Tuesday's crap fests against the Nationals, I didn't throw a single shoe or punch a single door jamb. I did let forth some truly sailor-worthy epithets, but I can't be expected to quit cold turkey, can I?

Bottom line: If the Mets make the playoffs, awesome. I'll go to as many games as I can and cheer my head off. If they somehow blow a 7-game lead, they'll have done something that no major league team has ever done. So I'll have witnessed history! Hoorah!

This is how magnanimous I've been feeling: on Tuesday night, I monitored the Phillies-Braves game, put in the awkward position of rooting for Atlanta. In the top of the 9th, Chipper Jones hit a two-run homer to give the Braves a four-run lead. I actually said, "All right, Chipper!"

Then I stabbed myself in the junk. Because I never want to be so mellow I'm okay with praising Larry Wayne Jones.

Posted 09.25.07 11:03pm * Permalink

Copyright 2004-08 Scratchbomb Inc. Trespassers punished by catapault