Today, Crawford's gone Redsock, and nobody should act surprised. We knew they were lying, playing dead, talking that "bridge year" bullshit. It was Rope-a-Dope. It was Pearl Harbor. It was a Jimmy Johnson onside kick. One morning not long ago, we woke up with snow on the ground to find they Grinched Curt Schilling right out from under our tree, while we were dreaming visions of Nick Johnson's future batting titles.
Black Thursday. That's what this is. They're partying in Boston, laughing at our misfortune.
Today, our entire 2011 season sits on the brink. Even with Cliff Lee, we might finish out of the playoffs. And if the whispers are correct, and Lee prefers the cousin-on-cousin lifestyle of Texas, we will likely trade our future for a Kansas City pitcher with a Britney Spears mental history, after having spent $80 million for the final laps of Jete and Mo. If either falters -- in the end, both will -- we could be reliving 1968, the last days of Mickey Mantle, while the Mets rise into New York prominence.
Today, we have one hope and one hope only... and goddamm Brian Cashman to hell, if he pisses it away for a Glavin Floyd.
We must put our faith in Jesus.
Jesus Montero must become a major league catcher and hitter. It must happen this year.
Anything less, and we are screwed. There is no Plan B. There never was.
Today, the Redsocks not only picked us off first base, but they kicked us in the nuts as well. Carl Crawford style.
Sign Cliff Lee
There's no Plan B
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