It is that time of year. We cover our faces with masks to mock our tormentors while hiding ourselves so as not to reveal our true hopes and fears. Perhaps a hitherto unknown hero will be revealed to strike down our oppressors and lead us on paths home – where it seems we haven’t been for so long.
We long for the possibility of salvation and redemption knowing that even it comes, the path will be long and hard, filled with dangers, lurking with those who would seek to strike us down.
We have been enslaved, feeling helpless and unredeemed for so long. But as the new sprouts emerge from the earth and warm breezed begin to blow, we begin to hope anew for redemption. And even though salvation rarely comes we can always hope of a brighter future.
This is the lot of a Met fan.
For us, it is fitting that the baseball season begins in the spring as we finish off those last humantashen and begin the proud Jewish communal tradition of Kosher for Passover extortion where great and wise sages bilk us for all we are worth for small jars of apple sauce and ersatz ketchup. We think of the week before Passover known in the Jewish communities of Lithuania as “the days of eating dangerously” when we cleanse our cupboards and ice boxes and nourish ourselves with peanut butter and sardine sandwiches on hot dog buns washed down with the sad remainders of grape juice from Passovers long ago.
At this time of need and hunger; when we are destined to be disappointed by Passover cookies and remain unfulfilled even after consuming sixteen pounds of maztah brei, the Mets return, once again, to remind us that, in fact, life is unfulfilling and we should stop kvetching and get over it.
The Wise Son asks: “Will the Mets complete lack of pitching ultimately lead to this year’s downfall”?
The Wicked Son Asks: “Why not root for the Yankees?”
The Simple Son Asks: “Can’t we turn off the Mets and watch something fun on television – like Schindler’s List?”
As for the Son Who Does Not Know How to Ask: You should tell him to keep quiet and drink his beer.
And this Maror – this Bitter Herb – why do we eat it? Because we are from New York and we don’t know any better. Why else would we root for the Mets?
We were slaves in Egypt for 400 years. We wandered in the desert for 40 years. All of this is but a flicker of an eye – a glinting moment – relative to the unrelenting torment of being a Met fan.
But once again we will sing songs of redemption and pray for a better world. We open our doors to the possibility that a savior will come; perhaps someone with a 95 mile an hour fast ball and a terrific change up. Perhaps a batter who won’t turn to salt as the umpire calls the third strike. He will uplift our eyes to the heavens with a towering home run and we will rise as one. But alas, Met fans – close the door and drink some more wine. There’s no one out there but the cat.
This year we are slaves in the cellar. Given bloated contracts of underperforming players and the Mets’ owners’ misplaced devotion to Madoff as a modern day monetary Moses, next year will probably not be much better. Had Gadya .. just one kid…a kid who can hit or pitch.
