Blobish, We Hardly Knew Ye
The knock at the door came just as David Wright struck out to end the top of the 6th. At first I thought it was just the throbbing of my daily Met induced headache, I only wish that was the case. No, it was knocking alright. Strong, steady, purposeful knocking.
"Who is it?" I growled as I headed toward the door. " I am looking for Mr. Blobish M. Blob. Is he at home?” It sounded like a young woman. Most likely, another crazed fan hoping to rub elbows with Mets Blob. I'll autograph one or two of her breasts and send her on her way. What's the harm?
I opened the door and stared in disbelief. One of her breasts was already autographed - with a big shiny ID that read County Department of Social Services - Child Protection Unit. She was backed by an angry mob of police and government hacks. It was the end of the road. They came for young Blobish Jr. This time they meant business.
“You are making him watch another Mets/Marlins game? Have you no shame sir? For god’s sake it’s 7-1 going to the bottom of the 6th”, said the spunky social worker. “Give me the boy.” I had no choice. I scooped up young Blobish and handed him over. Wow. He had just learned Wayne Garrett’s lifetime batting average too. What a waste. Sharpest four-year-old I ever knew.
As he was being carried out the door, he turned and uttered the most beautiful words I have ever heard. “Daddy…D.J. Carrasco sucks.” Somehow my boy - through all the chaos - could hear Carrasco pitching batting practice to the Marlins in the bottom of the 6th. Like father, like son. Godspeed, young Blobish. Godspeed.
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