- November 25, 2024
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At about 10 p.m. yesterday, Dec. 4, it was released that New York Mets franchise-favorite shortstop Jose Reyes signed a six-year, $106 million contract with the Miami Marlins. I found out on my phone, in bed, during my pre-sleep, wind-down routine.
After reading, though, any chance I had at shut-eye quickly went flying out the window.
A lifetime Mets fan, I watched Reyes enter the big leagues in 2003, when I was 15 years old, not even old enough to drive. And now I was watching him leave New York, for baseball-hating Florida of all places. It didn’t seem right.
Enough rumors had been circulating prior to the announcement that it hardly came as a surprise, but I don’t think I honestly formed an opinion about it until I read the words.
Reyes to the Marlins. Done deal. Six years.
Before, the logical side of my brain would point out that, sure, even though Reyes was a stud, he’s also injury-prone and would demand a massive salary. Would it be worth it to re-sign only to lose him for another half-year or more, especially if we (it always becomes the possessive “we” after enough years of fandom) again fall short of the playoff?
And what about the clean-slate theory? Maybe that had warrant.
But after the papers were signed, logic took a powder. Emotions ruled, and they told me I was losing a friend.
Joe Reyes, No. 7. I watched him grow up, from a scrappy prospect into the electric beating heart of a team that, for most of the past five-plus years — let’s face it — have been a horror show. Ponzi schemes, historical collapses, manager swaps, bad pickups, injuries, injuries, injuries …
I have an uncle who swears, every season, that he hates everything about the team and will never watch another game. He says to fire everyone, burn the jerseys, bulldoze CitiField. He tells the world he’s finished, done.
But he always comes back to give them one last shot.
Reyes was the team’s persistent glimpse of hope, the young, homegrown, fun-loving speedster who just — literally just — won the batting crown, the Mets only, ever, in history. He didn’t have a thing to do with Bernie Madoff. He wasn’t the closing pitcher who broke his throwing hand on his step-father’s face during a fight. He wasn’t the slugger we bought from Boston who, in two seasons in New York, has only hit half the amount of homers he did the previous year for the Sox.
He was something to be proud of, the kind of player who gives your team a soul.
And the fact that he signed inside the Mets division is only salt on an already infected wound. It means that me and the rest of his fans will still constantly have to see him. It’ll be like the girlfriend who lives nearby and still runs in the same circles as your “friend” friends. We’ll have to avoid eye contact when we see each other at parties. We’ll suffer awkward small talk after rubbing elbows at bars.
By coincidence, I’m lucky enough to work with two fellow Mets fans, two other gluttons for punishment with whom to share the burden of my pain. All last season my editor Brian, our sports editor Andrew and I would commiserate about how “we” lost last night’s game, or how we should handle our bullpen next time out. So after I read about Reyes, it was automatic. I had to contact them. They had to know how I was feeling
“I already feel nostalgic,” I wrote to Brian in an email. “It’s like the last day of summer when my brother left for law school and Matt Clay moved to West Virginia for college and our Wiffle ball season was over, and would stay over, and that was that.”
To Andrew, I wrote: “I can't sleep. Reyes. The Christmas season is a sham.”
I’d call my parents and my brother, but there was a chance they were sleeping, and why wake them? They’d have plenty of time tomorrow to eulogize. Plenty of time to try to figure how we’re going to fill that shortstop gap, and when the next time their favorite team might have a little hope might be.
They’ll have all the offseason to listen to “experts” talk about stats and money and new stadiums and matchups. But, inevitably, the facts won’t matter on opening day, when the cameras come on and the announcers go live and there’s a glaring hole at shortstop, just about the size of what might have been.
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