Long west coast road trips can be hard on Mets fans, and not just the ones where they have to watch the Mets go 4-7. After a run of games that run well past Colbert and Conan, all those sleepless nights start to add up and make us go a little loopy. So we’ve gotten a bit weird this week and imagined what various Mets will be doing on their off day once they get back into the city and the jet lag wears off. As for the rest of us, we will be trying to avoid falling asleep at our desks and dreaming of a sweep of the Nationals back in the friendly confines (and friendly start times) of Citi Field.
Noah Syndergaard
A light flickers on. Noah Syndergaard’s returned home from a lengthy road trip, only to find a familiar costume laying on his bed. A note reads “Promotional activities tomorrow.” He scoffs. Again? Noah knows the value of the brand. Yet why must it be this way? Sulking over to his closet, he opens it and, on cue, a trumpet blares and a spotlight from above bathes the inhabitant in a white light. Assorted costumes of all colors and stretchinesses line the walls of this massive storage unit. Looking back at the costume on his bed, Noah sighs. Not today, not today. — Brian Duricy (@briansusername_)
Matt Harvey
Life on the road is hard for any editor. You set up that out-of-office reply and ask the world to stay at bay while you’re traveling here and there. Especially for a bureau chief in a massive city, the demands are relentless and unending. And when a business trip doesn’t quite meet your expectations, there can be nothing better than the familiarity of coming back to your comfy office chair, cracking open that laptop, and getting right back to work. There’ll be ample time to answer all the freelance pitches that’ve piled up; an editor can always get to those later.
But for now, Harvey must face the fear that everyone sees but won’t dare speak aloud … no, not his fastball velocity. It’s that story deadline staring him straight in the face. All Harvey can do now is lean back in his Aeron, curse the blinking cursor on that damned blank page, and hope the words eventually come to him. — Erik Malinowski (@erikmal)
Jacob deGrom
The iPhone alarm clock stirs to the sounds of The Offspring’s “Hammerhead.” Mets pitcher Jacob deGrom slowly gets to his feet, his unwieldy hair a sweaty mess. He scratches his head, only to get his fingers caught in a few knots. He winces, sighs, and untangles them. deGrom then goes to the bathroom, unsure if he’d rather eat or take a shower first. His decision is made for him when he looks down at the drain and sees that it’s all clogged up with hair. Another sigh. “I’ll deal with this later,” he thinks. He’s been putting off his long-desired haircut for far too long.
Feeling a rumble in his stomach, deGrom walks over to the kitchen and decides to make himself a Spanish omelette. It’s been an exhausting road trip, and he’s happy to cook at his own place again. Sure, the family’s away for a couple days with his wife’s folks, but it’s still good to be home. While the ingredients sizzle into place, his phone rings. It’s one of the people who works for his agent.
“Hey Jake, check out this pretty wild tweet. Just sent it over.” deGrom changes screens.
He stares at it for about 10 seconds, silent.
“Jake?” deGrom regains his senses. “Wow, yeah, that’s kinda nuts. Thanks for passing that along.”
He hangs up, takes a deep breath, and finishes making his meal. About halfway through eating, deGrom feels something funny in his mouth. He looks down. There’s a string of hair in the omelette. Andrew Mearns (@MearnsPSA)
Wilmer Flores
They can’t know.
I cried, once, on the field, and now I have the reputation as the “sensitive Met.” If they knew I spent time at the marriage bureau watching–observing–people after a long time away from the city, I’d never hear the end of it.
What’s their story? Are you here on impulse, or did you make an appointment? And what about them, over there? Why go through the trouble of getting a wedding dress just to unceremoniously sign your documents surrounded by dozens of strangers? They look terrified; they look content; they look confused. Oh–and there’s another couple scuttling across the street to the county clerk, hoping a judge can marry them during lunch.
The people are always different, but that’s what makes this place so comfortable. It’s grounding. That’s why I come.
I am the sensitive Met. — Eric Garcia McKinley (@garcia_mckinley)
Bartolo Colon
Bartolo Colon drives out of the Citi Field parking lot in his minivan. The Mets have been on the road for over a week, and unlike many of his younger teammates, Colon yearns for the simplicity of his suburban life. He only enters Manhattan to drive right through it, over the George Washington Bridge to his home in the suburbs.
When Colon gets home, he’s greeted by his wife and kids. He fires up the barbecue grill and throws on some steaks and hot dogs for a family lunch. After that comes a well-deserved nap. A trip to the local 24 Hour Fitness for the daily workout awaits, but for a little while, Bartolo Colon is just a dad. — Jarret Seidler (@jaseidler)
(The Passion of) Lucas Duda
The door to the bodega stuck a little, causing just the slightest bit of extra effort when a customer attempted to enter. But for Lucas Duda–a great cathedral of a man–it swung freely as if the hinges were recently oiled. He moved to the counter with the languid walk of a deckhand, and set a massive paw upon the slightly-tacky front counter. Light of day long gone, the Mets first baseman had just one errand to attend.
Once each year, he bought a single lottery ticket–a simple scratch-off–for an unrevealed reason. He never commented on it; perhaps it was a way to honor a passed gambler of a grandmother or perhaps just a simple superstition. The quiet first baseman never said, and he certainly wasn’t going to start today. He merely pointed a finger at the glass case, and mumbled softly. “One, please.”
As the cashier reached for the ticket with his right hand, a harrumph came from not too far away. Stocking a nearby aisle was the bodega’s owner, a well-worn middle-aged woman in casual clothes and sporting a fresh Washington Nationals cap. The cashier paused, and Duda looked in the direction of the noise. Slowly, deliberately, the captain of the bodega stuck one gnarled finger out, and tapped it on her left bicep. The meaning could not be more clear.
It took half a moment, but the cashier nodded, then pulled his hand back. He reached back out to pull a ticket off the roll, but this time with his left hand.
The light seemed to fade from Duda’s eyes and he heaved a mighty sigh, the breath rolling out of his lungs like a great wave. He slipped a bill from his jean pocket, slid it across the sticky counter and took his ticket, mumbling a thanks as he did. As made his way back towards the bodega’s portal, he threw the ticket in a nearby trash bin, barely giving it a look, utterly defeated. — Bryan Grosnick (@bgrosnick)
Yoenis Cespedes
Upon arrival at JFK, Yoenis Cespedes is greeted by an assistant bearing his Maserati. With a wave of the hand, said assistant is dismissed, and, turning his cap backward as he jumps into the driver’s seat, Cespedes speeds down Queens Boulevard with the top down, adoring fans lining the streets, his neon arm pad kerfuffled by the breeze. He stops by his favorite breakfast joint for some mangu, then presses onward to Citi Field, where he turns his cap forward again (for Collins’ sake—he knows he’s been on the edge since getting ejected). On Tuesday night he hits a grand slam, knocking the Nationals out of first place and parting the clouds for a brief pause in the eternal rains of New York City. — Sara Novice (@NovicSara)
Photo credit: Adam Hunger – USA Today Sports