I can’t help but feel like Col. Kurtz, having journeyed these final 17 games into the dreadful jungle, the gnarled heart of darkness, only to find the inescapable truth that there is no prize, no joy, indeed nothing but horror in the end. Here, horror that a team filled with promise should implode so thoroughly; horror that a cadre of players in a superstitious sport would…not…shut…up; horror that the season is truly, completely, and chillingly over on October 1.

I don’t think I have anything particularly clever or meaningful to add to the conversation surrounding the 2007 Mets’ unseemly demise, but neither did the local tabloids. Nobody could, really, because this kind of collective numbed silence invites only further silence. Pictures of dejected fans, splashy oh-cruel-world headlines, and calls for the head of Willie Randolph are just so much noise in the ether. The silence is blistering.

The horror is all that remains.

Addendum :

Just received the official “Mea Culpa” from the front office. For those of you not on the shitheels’ mailing list, see below:

Dear Mets Fan:

All of us at the Mets are bitterly disappointed in failing to achieve our collective goal of building upon last year’s success. We did not meet our organization’s expectations — or yours. Everyone at Shea feels the same range of emotions as you — our loyal fans — and we know we have let you down. We wanted to thank you for your record-breaking support of our team this year.

Equally important, Ownership will continue its commitment in providing the resources necessary to field a championship team. Omar will be meeting with Ownership shortly to present his plan on addressing our shortcomings so that we can achieve our goal of winning championships in 2008 and beyond.

You deserve better results.

Many thanks again for your record-breaking support.

Mets

To which I say,

Saigon. Shit.

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