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 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.