so i hope we know each other well enough that i can confide in you a weird, reoccurring dream I have every year around the end of July/start of August.
I’m standing on the infield grass at Citi Field and I’m crying. Sobbing, uncontrollably. I’ve been told I’ve been traded and I don’t want to go. And I’m wailing away out there for the entire world to see.
I get back to the dugout and it turns out there’s been a big mistake. I’ve not been traded, I’ve been DFA’d. And they’re all like, see you later north american scum, all of my stuff’s in a cardboard box in the parking lot.
To make matters worse, my ride home is former Queens borough president Donald Manes and there’s blood all over the upholstery of the car.
Sometimes the dream changes a little from year to year. For instance, this year all of my stuff was in a garbage bag. Last year, Manes didn’t show up and sent Pete Franklin instead (whom truth be told, handled himself pretty well on the Grand Central Parkway for a 94 year old).