I'm not adoring my job lately. Like Walter in The Bread of Those Early Years, I "hate it the way a boxer hates boxing." Then again, I do have survivors guilt - I am grateful to be employed. Still, it is hard to walk away from the day I had today, a day that put on its steel-toed boots, backed up ten feet and then kicked me in square the balls. I'll retire in 31 years.
When I got home, I put on my Mets jersey. I got this jersey from my friend Donnie. He got married last September, giving all his groomsmen baseball jerseys from their favorite teams. I pulled this out of my closet tonight and it made me feel marginally better.
My wife and the kids had already eaten by the time I made it home. I ate by myself at the kitchen table. When I was a kid I saw my dad do this most nights - eating by himself, exhausted, fried, defeated. Sometimes all you can do is suck down a beer and shove some grub down your gullet. Sustain, survive, repeat.
My son and I are watching the Mets play the Braves right now. I let him watch for a half hour before he goes to bed. This has become a nightly ritual we've started and I wish it could continue until the end of time. Those faithful readers recalling my Bob Horner post know what a crisis a Mets-Braves game can be for my psyche. We're losing 3-2 going into the bottom of the ninth.
I'm still wearing the jersey that Donnie gave me. He's an amazing guy - a jet-setting senior VP at a major advertising firm down in the city. Thanks to Donnie, I'll be going to my first game at the Mets' new home, Citi Field next month to see the Mets play the Yankees.