PicoBlog

Today we find ourselves on a very special anniversary in the history of the New York Mets: five years ago, an emotionally-impactful, yet seemingly-nonsensical exchange took place between manager Terry Collins and umpire Tom Hallion that made baseball fans everywhere ask the question: What is an “ass in the jackpot?”

Is it a bad thing? For those who may not recall, Terry argued about Noah Syndergaard getting ejected for allegedly throwing at Chase Utley, and Hallion defended the decision by screaming, “our ass is in the jackpot!” But what is a “jackpot” in this context? Is it a metaphor or a colloquialism, or could it even be good?  

As the quietest member of that viral video -- the Mets third baseman who was standing on the mound when it went down -- I’d like to break my silence, provide some context and confess the things I couldn’t say that fateful day.

I arrived in the Mets organization in November of 2015, just weeks after they’d lost to the Royals in the World Series — having just overcome the tragic injury of their shortstop Ruben Tejada from a dangerously-late Utley slide.  I hadn’t played much shortstop at that point in my career, but figured I could reasonably fill in for Ruben if necessary.  

I walked into the Mets’ Spring Training clubhouse, which was filled with anger and excitement — ready to get revenge on any and everyone who got in their way the year before. The team was tremendously confident in its seemingly-unstoppable starting rotation and returning stars like Michael Conforto, Yoenis Céspedes, and of course the Captain, David Wright. There was no reason we could not make a repeat appearance in the World Series. Also, I was now on the team, and though I had yet to play in the Majors, I was confident in my ability to be a jack-of-all-trades back-up in the infield or outfield. 

I finally got called up on May 23, 2016, five days before the fateful moment. I was in my 8th professional season and had played in 855 games. After being in the Minors that long, I was — needless to say — relieved, ecstatic, emotional, and broke. I was finally getting my shot to prove to myself, my family, my friends, and Mets fans that I could perform at the highest level (and certainly not only be needed to translate a folksy, possibly-made-up phrase five years later). 

I was told Lucas Duda would be going on the Injured List, so I’d likely be moving around the infield and possibly playing some first base. It would be tough to replace his power but I would do my best. My first game was at third, though — a quick fill-in for David Wright as his body was sore from hitting a homer and carrying us to victory the night before. I went 0-4 with 3 strikeouts my first game, but it was okay because David was able to come back the next two games and homer in each. 

The second of those was against the Dodgers, the first time Utley had come back to Citi Field since breaking Ruben’s leg. The crowd wanted blood, but instead got a base-clearing, game-tying double in the top of the 9th inning from Utley. Luckily, Curtis Granderson hit a walk-off homer in the bottom of the 9th.

When I got to the field the next day, I was informed that David needed to be scratched and I’d be starting at third. This was not good. Rumors floated around the clubhouse about his health and how serious a spine or neck injury actually might be. While I was happy to get some extra playing time, I’d planned on filling in for Tejada and Duda, not taking over for the most beloved Met of the last decade.  

All the 42,227 rage-filled Mets fans who came to Citi Field that day expected to see the Captain manning the left side of the infield. They expected to see the Captain sprint in and tackle Utley if he dared step on the field. Instead, they saw me sheepishly saunter out to third base with big zeroes next to my name in every offensive category except for strikeouts.  

In the third inning, Utley finally stepped to the plate. The booing from the crowd was easily the loudest noise I’d ever heard. Our fireballer Syndergaard just happened to be on the mound that day, and on his first pitch, threw a fastball to Utley that felt closer to the first base dugout than to Utley’s ribs. He was immediately ejected from the game, and I saw my short MLB career flash before my eyes.   

I realized that I was going to have to meekly meander to the mound and involve myself in a conversation I had no business being in. I didn’t realize it at the time, but Tom Hallion said “our ass is in the jackpot” to our players and no one thought to ask him if he had misspoken or if his head was feeling alright. Terry, meanwhile, was letting out the collective Mets’ rage on each umpire, causing Tom to leave the mound to try “ass in the jackpot” on him. I asked Neil Walker if Noah’s wild pitch was on purpose.  His response was more to the point of “if you’re gonna do it, you better hit him.”  

Logan Verrett came in the game for some seriously long relief to try and salvage the rest of the game. And, as he reminded me just a few days ago on our current team (we’re reunited), he proceeded to strike Utley out and get the loudest cheer of his career.  

Here’s the crazy part about all this: I didn’t find out about Terry’s epic rant or Tom’s questionably-colloquial response until the video was leaked two years later. People often ask what I was thinking while it was happening, and my answer always feels inadequate because I didn’t get to hear any of it in person.   

Believe it or not: I found out about it along with everyone else. And it immediately brought me back to the feeling of immense doubt in my ability to measure up in any way to the bar David Wright set, and the ability of our team to overcome all the crucial injuries we were incurring. But, getting to watch it along with the rest of the world, I was able to remove myself from where I was at in that moment and see the pride TC had for his team and the city, as well as the love he had for his players. 

Nothing was going to heal Ruben’s leg or match the pain and anger that had been caused, but TC and Mets fans everywhere only hoped for a little closure. There was a desperation in his voice that I think tells you everything you need to know. He just wanted a chance to let his players move on, and to be able to tell Ruben, “We’ve got you — we’ll stick up for you.”  He just wanted his players to know “everything is fine, we’re in the jackpot now. Or no — they’re in the jackpot? Either way, someone is in the jackpot and we’ll stick together as a team whether it’s good, bad, or not an actual thing.”  

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