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The Sellout

INT. JERRY’S APARTMENT – DAY

STEVE: (beaming) Well, well, well, guess who proved all the naysayers wrong? That’s right, good old Uncle Steve! The Mets sold out Opening Day!

Jerry raises an eyebrow, skeptical.

JERRY: (doubtful) Is that so? Because I happened to check Mets.com after the game started, and they were still peddling unsold inventory around 1:42.

Steve’s confident facade begins to crack as Elaine catches on.

ELAINE: (realizing) Wait a minute, Steve, did you buy those tickets?

Steve shifts uncomfortably, attempting to save face.

STEVE: (defensively) Well, you see, there were these needy schoolchildren who really wanted to go to the game but couldn’t afford tickets…

Jerry interrupts, not buying it for a second.

JERRY: (sarcastic) Yeah, because that’s a believable scenario. And what, pray tell, genius, was the pricing strategy that left tickets unsold?

Steve shoots Jerry a look, clearly not amused by his skepticism. Jerry quickly changes the subject, sensing Steve’s irritation.

JERRY: (changing topic) So, how about that loss to the Brewers? They really got the best of you.

Steve attempts to brush off the question with a dismissive wave.

STEVE: (nonchalantly) Ah, well, you know, Jerry, that’s baseball for you. The Brewers were just the better team on that day.

JERRY: (teasing) You know, Steve, they have a lot of smart executives over there. Maybe you ought to look into hiring one.

Steve’s expression turns sour as he realizes he’s walked right into Jerry’s trap.

INT. CITI FIELD HALLWAY – DAY

Steve briskly walks down the hallway of Citi Field, his mind preoccupied with the recent events and Jerry’s jabs echoing in his head. Suddenly, he spots Father Michael, who gives him a frosty look as he approaches.

STEVE: (awkwardly) Ah, Father Michael, good to see you.

Father Michael’s demeanor is chilly as he regards Steve with a hint of disapproval.

FATHER MICHAEL: (disapprovingly) What of these young ladies? The new dance team?

Steve follows Father Michael’s gaze and chuckles nervously.

STEVE: (attempting to lighten the mood) Ah, yes, the Queens Crew. Quite the addition, don’t you think?

Father Michael’s expression remains solemn as he shakes his head disapprovingly.

FATHER MICHAEL: (concerned) They are quite…salacious, aren’t they? Not the sort of thing children should have to look at when they’re trying to watch a baseball game.

FATHER MICHAEL: (changing subjects) I see you lost playing baseball on Good Friday. That’s a shame. I am sure the good Lord will look out for you on Easter.

Taken aback by the unexpected remark, his confusion evident on his face. Father Michael nods curtly before turning and walking away, leaving Steve to contemplate his words.

Steve shakes his head in bewilderment, unsure of what just transpired. With a shrug, he continues on his way, his thoughts drifting to the upcoming challenges he faces as the owner of the Mets.

INT. STEVE’S OFFICE – CITI FIELD – DAY

Steve sits at his desk, mulling over the recent loss to the Brewers, a cloud of frustration hanging over him. He spots David walking by and calls out to him, motioning for him to come into his office.

STEVE: (calling out) David, come in here for a moment.

David enters the office, a stack of papers in hand, and takes a seat across from Steve.

DAVID: (curious) What’s up, Steve?

STEVE: (exasperated) How did we lose to the Brewers, David? I thought we had everything under control. I mean, one hit? It’s embarassing.

David sighs, understanding the gravity of the situation.

DAVID: (matter-of-factly) I told you that would happen.

Steve’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

STEVE: (taken aback) You told me it would happen?

DAVID: (nodding) Yes, when you did the unnecessary rainout.

Steve’s confusion is evident as he tries to recall the events.

STEVE: (defensive) Unnecessary? But it was pouring out there!

DAVID: (calmly) Well, we could have waited it out and found a window.

Steve looks incredulous at the suggestion.

STEVE: (skeptical) A window?

DAVID: (nodding) Yes, a window. Steve, look, we spent the entire spring getting ready to play on March 28th. When you moved the opener to the 29th, you threw off all the rhythm. We’ll probably miss the playoffs now.

Steve’s eyes widen in disbelief.

STEVE: (disbelieving) Miss the playoffs? How can you say that? It’s not even April yet.

David shakes his head, a hint of resignation in his voice.

DAVID: (grimly) Steve, baseball is a game of probability and all, you probably screwed the whole season.

Steve slumps back in his chair, realizing the weight of his decisions and the potential consequences they may have on the team’s season.

DAVID: We had to use Smith, Lopez, and Tonkin yesterday. They should have all been on one day rest for today’s game.

Steve’s expression shifts from confusion to concern as David elaborates on the impact of the decision.

STEVE: (realizing the gravity of the situation) So, the entire plan was built around middle relief, and now we have a tired bullpen because I decided to play on Friday.

David nods, his tone heavy with disappointment.

DAVID: Exactly. We meticulously mapped out the bullpen strategy for the opening series, and now it’s all thrown off course.

Steve leans back in his chair, running a hand through his hair as he processes the information.

STEVE: (trying to act proud even though he is embarrased) I didn’t realize the ripple effect it would have. I was just trying to ensure a sold-out Opening Day.

 

 

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The Opening Day

INT. JERRY’S APARTMENT – DAY

Jerry, Steve, and Elaine are seated around the kitchen table, engaged in a light-hearted debate about the best breakfast cereal, when a knock at the door disrupts their conversation. Jerry gets up to answer it, revealing Newman, decked out in full Mets gear, looking unusually chipper.

JERRY: (dryly) Hello, Newman. What’s with the get-up?

NEWMAN: (smugly) It’s Opening Day, Jerry. The beginning of baseball’s symphony. And I, for one, plan to be there for the opening note.

Elaine, looking puzzled, turns the conversation towards practical matters.

ELAINE: Weren’t tickets over $100? That’s steep, even for a symphony.

NEWMAN: (laughing) Only fools pay full price, Elaine. With so many tickets available, the prices crashed. We got in for next to nothing. It’s almost criminal how good the deal was.

KRAMER: (curiously) And why aren’t you going, Jerry? Don’t want to join the festivities?

JERRY: (shrugging) Why would I go sit out in the rain? I have a perfectly fine TV right here. Plus, I won’t have to witness Steve’s dance team live.

STEVE: (defensively) Hey, they’re getting better…

KRAMER: (enthusiastically) And that’s not all, we also joined the 7 Line Army!

ELAINE: (confused) The 7 Line Army? What’s that?

KRAMER: (explaining) Oh, it’s this incredible group of Mets fans. We all wear the same shirts and cheer together from the outfield. It’s like being part of a big baseball family.

ELAINE: (raising an eyebrow) Matching shirts? What’s next, synchronized cheering routines?

NEWMAN: (correcting her)  Elaine. Every time someone strikes out, we do a synchronized”Heeeeee Struck Him Out!” It’s electric.

JERRY: (mockingly) Oh, that’s a strikeout, alright. A bunch of grown men, wearing matching t-shirts, cheering in unison. Welcome to the 7 Line Army, where every day is twin day. Don’t forget your buddy!”

NEWMAN: (proudly) It’s about solidarity, Elaine. When one of us cheers, we all cheer. When one of us groans, we all groan. It’s poetic.

ELAINE: (skeptical) Wait, so you watch games from 500 feet away, and backwards?

KRAMER: (earnestly) You know, Steve, you should sit with us in the outfield. It’d be good for publicity. Show the fans you’re one of them.

JERRY: (continuing to mock) Yeah, until Steve tries to catch a fly ball and ends up on the blooper reel.

ELAINE: (joining in) Or gets so into the spirit, he starts pitching marketing ideas to the fans. “So, how do you feel about black jerseys?”

INT. CITI FIELD – OUTFIELD SEATS WITH THE 7 LINE ARMY – DAY

Steve, taking Kramer’s advice to heart, finds himself amidst the sea of orange and blue, sitting with Darren and the enthusiastic members of the 7 Line Army. The atmosphere is electric with camaraderie until the new dance team takes the field for their performance.

As the dance team begins their routine, a dissenting voice cuts through the crowd’s chatter.

DISGRUNTLED FAN: (loudly) You suck!

Steve, ever the diplomat, turns around, trying to quell the negativity.

STEVE: (calmly) Hey, that’s not nice. They’re trying their best out here.

FAN: (pointing at Steve) You suck too! Why didn’t you sign Ohtani?

STEVE: (sighing) He didn’t call!

Before Steve can further explain, another fan jumps into the fray, airing another grievance.

ANOTHER FAN: (yelling) And what about the museum? You got rid of it!

STEVE: (trying to be heard over the noise) We scattered the memorabilia throughout the stadium, like they did in Atlanta. It’s all still here, just… different.

The tension momentarily subsides, only to be reignited when the opposing team hits a home run. The crowd’s frustration finds a convenient target, and boos start raining down, not just for the team’s performance but directed at Steve as well.

FAN #1: (booing) This is on you, Steve!

Caught in the crossfire of criticism, Steve realizes the depth of passion Mets fans hold, not just for the game but for the traditions and decisions that shape their experience.

DARREN: (leaning over) Tough crowd, huh?

The skies over Citi Field, previously holding back, finally open up, sending down a steady shower that has fans scrambling for cover. Amid the chaos of unfolding umbrellas and fans donning ponchos, Steve remains seated, a tangible reminder of his commitment to being ‘one with the fans.’

As the rain intensifies, a voice cuts through the sound of rainfall, targeting Steve with a mix of frustration and jest.

RAIN-SOAKED NEWMAN: (shouting over the rain) Hey, Steve! Why didn’t you build a dome? You could afford it!

STEVE: (shouting back, trying to maintain good humor) I thought we all liked a little bit of rain!

FAN #1: (yelling over the rain) Sure, and I thought we all liked winning seasons! Guess we can’t have everything!

FAN #2: : (shouting with a smirk) With all the money you saved not signing anyone, you could have at least bought us ponchos!

Before the banter can continue, the new dance team, undeterred by the weather, takes to the field for their performance. Their determination, however, is met with disdain rather than admiration. The rain has dampened more than just spirits; it’s seemingly washed away any patience the fans might have had.

As the dancers slip and slide, attempting to keep their routine alive in the downpour, the crowd’s restlessness turns to vocal displeasure. Boos and jeers echo around the stadium, a harsh critique not just of the performance but of the decision to proceed with it under such conditions.

The scene ends with the dance team finishing their soggy performance to a chorus of boos, leaving Steve to contemplate the complexities of managing entertainment in an unpredictable environment.

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The Postponement

INT. JERRY’S APARTMENT – DAY

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.

 

INT. CITI FIELD – STEVE’S OFFICE – LATER

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

INT. CITI FIELD – HALLWAY – MOMENTS LATER

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.

INT. JERRY’S APARTMENT – LATER

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.

INT. CITI FIELD – OPENING DAY

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.

INT. CITI FIELD – OWNERS BOX

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…

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Update on Mets museum

Looks like The T-Shirt Guy or one of his staff got to see what the Mets are passing off as a museum.  This looks CHEAP.  Like it’s actually cheaper than something the Wilpons had made!

I am seeing a lot of Mets Insiders being total shills for this museum fiasco (man I wish I had a time machine and could grab 1988 Howie Rose to take calls about this one) but fortunately there are a few free thinkers left in the world.