A place I am so happy not to be

Am sitting on the couch, listening to the Mets press conference—starring Jeff and Fred Wilpon. I haven’t attended one of these press conferences in years, which is a wonderful blessing. Because were I at this press conference, I’d be:

A. Sitting near Marty Noble.

B. Having to say, “Jeff Pearlman, SI.com …” before asking a question into the mic. Which is such a dumb ritual, in that the main participants either know who you are and don’t care or don’t know who you are and don’t care.

C. Asking questions that would be answered with mind-numbing, deep-as-a-dime cliches from two rich men with obvious disdain for the very people tossing Qs their way.

Really, press conferences almost always suck. Almost. Best one I ever attended was after the Clemens-Piazza bat game in the 2000 World Series. Truly amazing moment, but only because it was so zany. Lupica standing up and blathering nonsense. Clemens acting as if he flicked a butterfly. Torre showing rare furor.

That was a press conference.

This? Blather.

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