The Rose on the thorny vine of Mets fanhood
I had sat at the hipster bar near Detroit for seven innings, and the Mets had only two hits. The season was over unless we could come up with a couple of runs in the final two frames against the Brewers. I couldn’t take it. I settled my tab and took the streets of Hamtramck, Michigan.
I needed the fresh air. I needed to move my legs. But mostly, I needed Howie’s voice in my ears.
