It's June 23rd, 2007: Bottom of the 9th, Beltran on first, Castro on second, and I'm on the edge of my couch. What happened next? As if you actually didn't know, David Wright hits a game winning single to right field and wins the game in dramatic fashion (something we were all too used to in 2006). As I pump my fist from the couch, I hear a faint voice coming from the other couch say, "eh... goodnight".

Huh!?.. Who!?.. What the!?

Ever since 1973, my family has been filled with a mixed sense of Mets pride. We've got your optimistic fans (that's me), your leisurely fans (my grandfather, the ex-Brooklyn Dodger fan), your constantly pissed off fans (some of you have been acquainted with Stanley), and your far too popular pessimistic fans. Who in the world could be the pessimistic fan in my family? It's none other than the one person who made sure that my veins were to bleed orange and blue for my entire life... my mother.

She's a curse, she's bad luck, and she's impatient (all according to her). We've never, to this day, been able to watch a game where she stays for the entire duration. Green's hat falls off, Julio slipps on his spilled morning drink, the logo on Wright's plane gets scratched off... even if any of those things actually happen, my mom is out of the living room after the 1st inning, but comes out for the final 3 outs, win or lose. And without fail, her final word of the day or night, "eh".

No matter what happens in the future or how many pennants and banners the Mets will raise, there's a Mets fan in Rego Park that will always find something bad about her favorite team no matter how good they are. Know what? I wouldn't have it any other way.

Question of the Day: Just how cool is Mr. Met?
Answer: This Cool!