Generally speaking, I’m not a big fan of sportswriters crowing over a prediction, because 99% of the time they’re educated guesses that came true.
For example, The Saints beat the Colts 31-17 in the Super Bowl, and a sportswriter bellows, “Was I right or was I right? I said the Saints would win 35-13!” Even when Stephen A. Smith rightly said LeBron, Bosh and Wade would all go to Miami, he couched it by saying things like “essentially” and “things can change.” Which means you sort of predicted it, but not fully. Or, as Derrick Coleman would say, “Whoop-de-damn-do”
That being said, I’m going to crow. Just a little.
Last December, when the Mets signed Jason Bay to a ludicrous four-year, $66 million deal, I wrote on SI.com that it was a terrible mistake; that Bay was destined to follow the path of George Foster and wind up a terrible bust. Why did I feel this way? A. Because Citi Field ain’t no Fenway. B. Because Bay doesn’t have a New York personality. C. Because the lineup surrounding him would offer only so-so protection.
He is, in every sense of the word, a bust. A huge one.
I suppose I’m writing this for a certain breed of Met fans. In the aftermath of my column I was pelted with one venemous letter after another—You don’t know shit; Bay’s gonna be huge; etc … etc. But anyone who looked closely at the situation could see the reality, that this was a marriage doomed to fail.
As it has.
PS: The Mets are done. Toast. Over.