It's a Wilponful Life...

From the mercurial pen of HoraceClarke66:

George Bailey, Mets fan, awakes in his Seven Line Army seat and staggers out into Willets Point. To his astonishment, it’s Christmastime, the playoffs long missed. A sign reads, “WELCOME TO WILPONVILLE.”

“Wilponville?” George says, incredulous.

Down on Main Street, a crowd has gathered in front of the First National Bank of Bernie. Armed guards are hauling out the gold reserves.

“But that’s our future!” Mets fans beseech them.

“It’s all ticketed for Old Man Wilpon’s real estate developments!” a guard snaps, pushing them aside. Before they reached the armored car, though, a bold figure steps into their path and sticks his hand out.

“You know it’s Bobby Bonilla Day,” he tells them. “Hey, don’t make me have to show you the Bronx!”

George Bailey stumbles back down the street. All around him, ballplayers crash cars into trees, throw firecrackers at people, and spray people with bleach from their Super Soakers. He spots a furtive shape in the shadow of a closed comic book store.

“Who’s there?” A little boy dressed as Batman slinks out of the shadows.

“It’s Matt Harvey, the ace of the future!”

“I’m the Dark Knight, the Dark Knight!” the boy cries, then bursts into tears and runs away.

George Bailey walks over to Flushing Bay, where he considers throwing himself in. But a twinkly old man materializes at his elbow.

“Sandy Alderson!”

There is a horribly annoying sound, like a goose being strangled. But Sandy just smiles.

“Ah, the vuvuzela!” he says fondly. “You know, George, every time a vuvuzela sounds—”

“An angel gets his wings?”

“No, some #!&hole loses his hearing,” Sandy tells him. “George, let me show you something over here, in the Joan Payson Cemetery.”

“Ryan—Otis—Seaver—Koosman—Matlack—Mitchell—Dykstra,” George reads off the tombstone names. “Why, these were supposed to be the cornerstones of future dynasties!”

“That’s right, George.”

“M. Donald Grant?” he reads next. “Why, what’s he—”

A spectral hand in a very well-tailored suit reaches up from the grave and plucks George’s watch off his wrist.

“Damn you, Grant! That’s not even the right movie!” But all that is to be heard is a ghostly, Canadian chuckle.

They walk on down past the offices of Wilpon & Sons, where Old Man Wilpon is going over a list of names with Little Jeffie.

“Starlin Castro?” “Too much!” “Jason Kipnis?” “Too much!” “Ian Kinsler?”
“Too much!” “Adrian Gonzalez?”

“Hmm,” says Old Man Wilpon. “Three home runs last year, ya say? Why, that might be just the man for us!”

George Bailey lets Sandy guide him into Mex’s 86 Saloon. Three men push in behind them, each of them wearing an arm in a sling, as they blare out the kazoo version of “Get Mets Merized!” The bartender picks up a full bottle of seltzer and lets fly, soaking them.

“Don’t you know who they are?” George yells. “Why, that’s Wilson, Pulsipher, and Isringhausen! They were going to be the next Big Three!”

“Look, Mister, we show bad baseball to men who want to get drunk quick, and we don’t need characters giving the place atmosphere!”

“C’mon, George,” Sandy says. “Let’s go back down to the bay, and I’ll tell you about our plans to put Todd Frazier on third. Then you can decide if you want to jump in again.”

“But we’re a big market team!” George Bailey pleads desperately. “Why, we’ve GOT to have more money than this!”

“You have to temper your expectations here in Wilponville, George. I got mine. That plus the Swarzak money—what’s left?”

But George is standing up on Mex’s bar, waving his arms. Mets fans turn their whiskey-glazed eyes upon him.

“People, we don’t have to depend on Old Man Wilpon! The Mets team of the future is in your wallet—and yours—and yours!”

Somebody breaks out a hat, and they start stuffing it with dollars. Soon, everyone is singing a chorus of “Meet the Mets.” Little Jeffie Wilpon sneaks in and runs off with the hat full of money. Only Sandy Alderson notices him. He smiles benignly.

“To Fred Wilpon, the richest man in town!” he says with a wink.