Last week I did a spot on my friend’s podcast, a 365-day sports buffet, called “Sully Baseball.”
During the hour-long chat, my boy, Paul Franics Sullivan, asked me the collective state of the Mets fan. I said “nervous.” Despite the bulging lead over the Nats, despite the epic surge in the standings since the end of July, and despite their conveyer belt of divine young arms, the Mets have made their fans anxious.
Sully understood. As a native Bostonian and Red Sox fan, he could relate to the haunting sense of self, and the apparitions that come with a wretched baseball past.