Here in New York, the stage has been ideally set.
Come season's end (and for Mets fans, that day arrived two months ago), the Mets will fire manager
First, there is
Second, there is
Third, there is
So who will the Mets hire? The legendary Torre? The cocksure Bobby V? Good ol' Wally?
Robert Paul Melvin
Really, Bob Melvin
Do I have an inside source on this one? No.
Did a scout tip me off? No.
The reason I am convinced the Mets will tap the he-who-makes-vanilla-pudding-seem-exciting Melvin is because, quite frankly, this is what the modern Metropolitans do. Over and over and over and over again. They tempt their fans with
Melvin is so perfectly suited for the Mets, the team might as well start peddling his (inevitably overpriced) jersey at the Manhattan-based team store. His playing career (a .233 average over 10 wayward seasons) oozes mediocrity. His managerial career (a 493-508 mark over 6 ½ seasons with the Mariners and Diamondbacks) oozes mediocrity. He is a perfectly nice man (a la Manuel) with a perfectly mellow disposition (a la Howe) who is -- to no real fault of his own -- as inspiring to New York fans as a cold plate of spaghetti.
Which is great, because just two years after nearly winning the NL East, that's what the Mets have become: A stale dish of plain noodles, desperately trying to remain on the table alongside the beef Wellington that is the Yankees.
Count on Melvin becoming the latest chef.
Count on diners staying home to eat TV dinners.