Monday morning I awoke to an email proclaiming the day “Black Monday”.  For a lifelong and die-hard Mets fan, a World Series pitting the Yankees and the Phillies is a nightmare.  To take 4-7 of my most sacred days of the year and desecrate it with the filth that is the Stankees and Phils is to cancel Christmas to a child and then tell them that instead of Santa and presents they will instead have a steady diet of liver and onions while being continually stung by bees.  Is it at all shocking that they’re calling this the Turnpike Series?  I mean is there anything more vile than the NJ Turnpike?

This World Series has no hero.  There is no protagonist.  There is only villain vs villain.  Evil vs evil.  How would I rather my poison orally or by lethal injection?  It reminds me of when the high school bully asked me if I wanted to be punched once in the face or twice in the stomach.  Is there a possibility of an impromptu players strike?  Swine flu for both teams?  Perhaps the only acceptable outcome is the apocalypse occurs before the series can be completed.  Tsunami anyone?

Or, really, truly, honestly, Pedro Martinez.  If he, a man who actually still wanted to be a Met, a man I can love and root for, if Pedro can strike out Arod whilst Arod cracks his hip bone flailing at some nasty pitch, and that, is in fact, the final out of the world series, I can smile.  I can watch Pedro donning a Phils cap and accepting his trophy.  Go Pedro.  F-U rest of world.  Or, perhaps, a steady diet of beer and Philly cheese steaks, while I continually poke holes in my Jimmy Rollins voodoo doll, and I will somehow survive.  Rod Serling, why oh why have you brought me into the Twilight Zone?

This is Daryl’s second piece on I Loved New York.  You can catch his last posting on Times Square and his most impressive bio: here!