A Shift: From October Dreams to Enjoying the Journey
When I turned 40 a few years ago, I started to question if I would ever see my beloved New York Mets win the World Series. At the time, I figured I had about 40 years left on this glorious planet and with the richest owner in the sport, it wasn’t a matter of if, just when.
As we entered this 2026 campaign, my perspective changed due to my recent health challenges. With the likelihood of a lockout looming for 2027 (and possibly 2028), I put an incredible amount of pressure on this Mets team to win it all. While I still anticipate giving the Mets 40-or-so more chances, a Cancer diagnosis tends to knock your hourglass on its side.
This past Memorial Day weekend, the first checkpoint in a long baseball season, I find my Mets in the cellar of the National League East, with a 22-32 record. They are 14 games out of the division lead, and 7.5 games out of the final Wild Card spot with many teams in front of them. The Mets are a bad baseball team, despite all my false optimism up to this point.
Now, could the Mets turn it around? Only two-years ago, they were 24-35, before they went on an incredible run that ended in Game 6 of the National League Championship Series. In 2019, when Mets star Juan Soto was on the Washington Nationals, they started 19-31 before transforming into baseball’s best. Five months later, they were World Champions.
Despite my endless hope for October glory, I had a revelation watching Sunday’s dreadful 4-0 loss to the hapless Miami Marlins. As the Mets could barely find their way on base, I found my perspective shifting. I wasn’t giving up hope, I just started to accept a different experience..
I started to ask myself:
Maybe winning a World Series isn’t the only goal?
Maybe the daily gift of 9 innings is enough for more than half a year?
In a championship-or-bust town, might we be missing the gift of each game, no matter the outcome?
In my book, Batter Up: Answering the Call of Faith & Fatherhood, I write about many of the blessings of the game I love. I recall the importance of October heroics as often as I highlight the way the game connects us to generations before and after, and how it relates to the spirituality of being a dad.
Can I find peace in the game itself, despite the final score and record?
Might I be able to chuckle when the big hit never comes, or when a simple defensive play is not executed effectively? Is the real treasure of the baseball season the gift of a short escape, the memories made with loved ones, and a hope that, despite the odds, keeps us wondering, “what if?”
Much has changed since my cancer diagnosis. My relationships, from family to friends to the birds outside my window, are deeper and more meaningful. I find myself stopping in my tracks to notice God’s divinity that dwells in all of creation. I feel connected to so many others who are struggling while holding on to hope for a better tomorrow.
It makes sense that my approach to the game I love would also shift. I will still hold the first week of November on my calendar for a potential parade, but I will no longer allow that to be the litmus test on the value of the team and sport I cherish.
Last night, I was watching the Knicks secure their spot in the NBA Finals. I teared up as this is the best team since the 1994 Knicks who fell short but captured my 12-year-old imagination. As the Knicks ran away with the game, I told myself to enjoy this moment as my life as a Knicks fan has never seen a team perform at this highest of levels.
I started to wonder what is will be like if the Knicks can complete the task and bring home a title. I wondered what it would feel like to see a season end in flowing champagne instead of flowing tears.
While the Knicks are my third favorite team, (Bills second and the Mets first), I will cherish this special team and still hope to see my other teams find similar glory.
But, maybe, as my life and soul continues to shift, I will be better in appreciating the journey of the season and of life, the small heroic moments that draw out a cheer and a smile, and a hope that always remains, even if it means waiting until next year.
