The Postponement


Steve is frantically pacing back and forth in Jerry’s apartment, his stress palpable in the air. Jerry, seated comfortably on the couch with a bowl of cereal, watches his friend’s meltdown with a mixture of amusement and concern.

STEVE: (wringing his hands) It’s a disaster, Jerry! If this game isn’t sold out, it’ll be the talk of the town. “Uncle Steve ‘s Empty Stadium” they’ll call it!

JERRY: (calmly) You’re overreacting. It’s not like the seats get up and dance during the seventh-inning stretch. Although, that might actually sell tickets.

STEVE: (stopping in his tracks) This is serious, Jerry! My reputation is on the line here.

JERRY: (suggesting) Why don’t you fill the seats with cardboard cutouts like during the pandemic? You could have a whole section of celebrity fans. I hear the Dalai Lama’s a big Mets fan.

STEVE: (flatly) I’m not sure cardboard enlightenment is the answer to our problems.

JERRY: (shrugging) Well, you could always postpone the game. It’s supposed to rain.  That way when the seats are empty you can blame it on people not being able to come on Friday.

STEVE: (considering) Postpone the game, huh? That’s not the worst idea you’ve had.

JERRY: (smirking) Give it time. I can do worse.



Intrigued by Jerry’s suggestion, Steve heads to Citi Field to discuss the plan with David, his statistics and logistics guru.

STEVE: (hopeful) So, what do you think about moving the game to Friday?

DAVID:  I don’t like it. I had mapped out the bullpen usage down to the last detail. Now the guys won’t be as rested, and that will reduce our win probability by 17.38%.

STEVE:  17.38%?

DAVID: (pointing to a chart) Baseball is a game of probability, Steve. If we postpone this game, our analysis shows we will not make the playoffs. The disruption in the rotation, the bullpen rest days—it all adds up.

STEVE: (skeptical) Come on, David. You’re telling me moving one game can derail our entire season? That’s a bit dramatic, even for you.

DAVID: (not amused) Steve, I’m serious. This could impact player performance, morale, and ultimately, our standing.

STEVE: (pausing, then decisively) David, I appreciate your dedication to the numbers. But sometimes, we have to take risks. It’s not just about the probability; it’s about the fans, the experience, and making tough calls.

DAVID: (sighing) I just hope this decision doesn’t come back to haunt us in September.

STEVE: (standing up, determined) If it does, I’ll take full responsibility


As Steve walks down the hallway, still digesting David’s analysis, he encounters Father Michael, a very stereotypical Irish priest, in the midst of a peculiar tradition.

FATHER MICHAEL: (cheerfully) Ah, Steve! Just here getting ready to bless the horseshoe that’s presented to the manager every year.

STEVE: (confused but bluffing) That’s right, the uh, horseshoe, like we do every year.

FATHER MICHAEL: (nodding) Anyway, see you tomorrow.

STEVE: (hesitatingly) Actually, the game’s been moved to Friday.

FATHER MICHAEL: (taken aback) Friday? But that’s Good Friday.

STEVE: (optimistically) Yes, a good Friday to start the season.

FATHER MICHAEL: (shaking his head) I can’t do a horseshoe blessing on Good Friday. It wouldn’t be right.

Caught off guard by the unexpected religious and superstitious implications of his decision, Steve realizes that rescheduling a game involves more than just logistics and empty seats. The scene closes with Steve, now second-guessing his plan, pondering the complexities of baseball traditions, fan expectations, and the unforeseen consequences of seemingly simple decisions.


STEVE: (sighing) And now Father Michael won’t bless the horseshoe because it’s Good Friday.

JERRY: (shaking his head) Oh, that’s not good. It’s literally in the name, “Good Friday.” You’d think that would bring some luck.

ELAINE: (confused) Wait, they bless horseshoes now? I thought that was for… horses.

KRAMER: (suddenly enthusiastic) I can do it!

STEVE: (perplexed) You? You can bless a horseshoe?

KRAMER: (nodding proudly) Sure, I’m an ordained minister. Got certified online last year. I can bless anything—horseshoes, baseball bats, you name it.

ELAINE: (trying to catch up) So, is this horseshoe thing a baseball tradition or a Kramer tradition?

KRAMER: (grandly) It’s a Mets tradition, Elaine. This horseshoe will carry the blessings of the cosmos. You’ll see, we’ll start the season on a high note.

STEVE: (half-joking, half-desperate) At this point, I’m willing to try anything. Kramer, you’re up.


The camera pans over Citi Field, capturing the excitement of Opening Day. In the broadcast booth, Gary Cohen provides commentary on an unexpected turn of events during the game.

GARY COHEN: (with a hint of confusion in his voice) An odd choice by the manager here. Alonso, McNeil and Lindor, three of the team’s top players, are all coming out of the game. Let’s check in with our sideline reporter, Steve Gelbs, for more on this. Steve?

STEVE GELBS: (looking concerned) Thanks, Gary. I’ve just been informed that the players have developed sudden blistering rashes on their hands.


JERRY: (curious) Kramer, where did you get the horseshoe from?

KRAMER: (proudly) I made it.

ELAINE: (intrigued) Made it? From what kind of plant?

KRAMER: (nonchalantly) Smodingium argutum. In some cultures its considered the luckiest of all flora.

The room falls silent as they all try to wrap their heads around the name.

STEVE: (confused) Smodingium argutum?

ELAINE: (skeptical) Let me look that up.

She quickly pulls out her phone, types in the search, and starts reading aloud from the screen.

ELAINE: (reading) “Smodingium argutum, native to southern Africa, is a shrub or small tree that exudes a creamy sap laden with chemicals known as heptadecyl catechols. Contact with the sap, which turns black when dried, causes a livid swollen rash with blisters, though some lucky people are immune. The symptoms usually subside after a few days.”

JERRY: (connecting the dots) So, you’re telling us you made a horseshoe out of a plant that causes blisters? And let me guess, our star players weren’t among the lucky immune ones?

KRAMER: (sheepishly) Well, when you put it that way…