I had a crappy day yesterday. It was certainly nothing tragic and nothing, in truth, that will even negatively impact today. I just suffered a steady stream of minor annoyances, starting with getting caught in a cloudburst at 9:15 a.m., ending with missing my train at 9:54 p.m. — first-world problems all, but in such a relentless onslaught that if the events of my day were condensed into the opening montage of a movie, you’d probably say, “this movie sucks, no one has days like that.” It was like a coin coming up tails 12 times in a row or something.

As a byproduct of some of that I missed a good portion of the Mets game, including what I understand were some pretty frustrating bunts. I tuned back in right after one of them, so I did see — in thrilling high definition — the part where Justin Turner ripped a ball that somehow redirected off Hanley Ramirez to Omar Infante to perfectly set up a double play. I also caught the part where Ryota Igarashi went to a full count on to Marlins reliever Burke Badenhop then yielded a go-ahead base hit to Marlins reliever Burke Badenhop.

And then, of course, I watched pinch-hitter Jon Niese smack a triple over Emilio Bonifacio’s head in center field, only to have Jose Reyes strike out to end the game with the mighty Chin-Lung Hu looming on deck.

Apparently Hu came in to pinch-hit — which should never happen — in part of the game I missed earlier. He was sent to Triple-A while I was asleep later. Hu grounded into a fielder’s choice in his lone at-bat, sparing himself the indignity of going to Buffalo with strikeouts in more than half of his plate appearances.

But he’s gone now, as is Igarashi, the Mets’ Far East contingent banished to Western New York. They are replaced on the roster by Ruben Tejada and Pedro Beato, with Nick Evans likely to join the team whenever David Wright goes kicking and screaming to the disabled list.

So really the only thing we’re left with to complain about in last night’s game is the bunting, and that’s nothing new. That’s bunting. Managers love bunting.

You have enough days, you’re bound to have some bad ones. Sometimes Burke Badenhop’ll beat you. You can’t win ’em all, like they say.

According to Sandy Alderson, doctors at the Hospital for Special Surgery diagnosed David Wright with a stress fracture in his lower back today. Wright is out of the lineup tonight while the Mets seek a second opinion, and Alderson stressed that the injury — if the diagnosis is accurate — would require no more than a couple of weeks of rest.

So that sucks.

But then the bright side, I suppose, is that the Mets have been hitting without getting much from Wright and that — if Alderson is correct that the injury is not one that will linger — they will benefit from the addition of a healthy Wright to the lineup in a few weeks. Obviously it doesn’t help that they’re already without Ike Davis, though.

You really don’t want Willie Harris playing third base — or anywhere — on an everyday basis. So someone has gotta figure something out. Is this how the suddenly Nick Evans winds up back in Flushing, out of options though he may be?

David Wright is not playing today, which seems like pretty bad news. Wright sat out Thursday’s game against the Rockies to rest his aching upper back, and if David Wright is missing two games within the course of a week that means something’s up. Apparently Sandy Alderson is addressing the press momentarily, so I’m sure we’ll find out what’s up via Twitter barrage soon.

Bob Ojeda is chatting live during the third inning of tonight’s game, which is better news. The chat is already open so you can start asking him stuff now.

I am, as if often the case, the moderator of said live chat — the one that will inevitably be accused of carrying out some grand Wilpon conspiracy when I don’t put through the question about why the Mets aren’t signing Manny. This means I’ll be at the studio pretty late tonight, which means I’m cutting out of the office pretty early today. You don’t care about any of that except in that in relates to you, of course, which is to say it’ll be pretty quiet here the rest of the day.

Over at Amazin’ Avenue, James Kannengieser points out at the N.Y. Post has presented as news the fact that the Mets owe Bobby Bonilla deferred salary through 2035 — something that has been public knowledge for years.

Here’s my conspiracy theory, based on nothing but anecdotal evidence: In these tough times for the newspaper industry, stories about the Mets owing Bobby Bonilla a ton of money are practically guaranteed to go viral, racking up pageviews as the few remaining souls that somehow didn’t know how the Mets owe Bobby Bonilla a ton of money giggle and forward them around to their friends and family with an “OMG LOL.”

I figure this because nearly every time this great revelation “breaks,” one of my friends or family members forwards me the article with an “OMG LOL.”

So probably some enterprising Post editor guessed that enough time had passed since the last paper got the big scoop on how the Mets still owe Bobby Bonilla a ton of money until long after the end of the Mayan calendar or peak oil or the Singularity or whatever doomsday scenario you espouse, and knew that with precious little effort his paper could reap the thousands of pageviews guaranteed by a tragically unoriginal news item on a bit of whimsy pertaining to the Mets’ financial woes.

This has been making its way around the Internet, but it came to me via Alex. Turns out, the Mets started wearing black uniforms due in part to their marketing department and in part to ousted and disgraced clubhouse manager Charlie Samuels, who seems to be quickly replacing Tony Bernazard as the bugaboo responsible for everything that went wrong in Flushing for the past 20 years.

The interview with black-uniform designer Bob Halfacre an entertaining read from Paul Lukas, and it’s been fun to follow the Samuels stuff if only because it provides a bit of insight into some of the things even credentialed reporters don’t see inside Major League Baseball operations. The problem is, since we don’t see similar reports on other organizations, we have few points of comparison for any of this.

B ut certainly, since Samuels was such a long-tenured Mets employee who undoubtedly had more responsibility than most clubhouse managers, he had more say in matters like uniform choices and, apparently, shady back-of-the-truck memorabilia sales than most in his position.

As for the black uniforms: I’m not a huge fan, but I’m such a contrarian by nature and there’s such fervent distaste for them among fellow Mets fans that it’s difficult for me to muster up the strength to rally against them. I guess I just care a lot more about the quality of the team on the field than the color of the jersey it is wearing.

Plus — and this is going to really bother some people — I’d honestly be all for the Mets slightly altering their primary colors. I like wearing baseball hats, but — and, I know, heresy! — the Mets’ royal blue is a little loud for my tastes. My fitteds of choice in recent years have been a Colt .45s throwback and a Detroit Tigers home hat, Magnum PI style.

Perhaps I’ll be tarred and feathered in Willets Point for writing this, but if the Mets muted their colors a bit, I’d be a lot more likely to support them at times when I’m not specifically going to a Mets game. Sorry.

Straight-up trolling.

UPDATE: I realize I didn’t suggest an alternative to the existing colors: Something like the Colt .45s’ navy and orange might be nice. Or maybe just like a slate blue, something grayer than the current bright royal, with a darker orange. Maybe something unlike anything that’s currently on a Major League uniform. Outside the box here.

I feel like a little kid, honestly. I was smiling. I never smile a lot, but I was smiling. I was happy. It was great.

– Carlos Beltran.

Carlos Beltran hit three home runs last night.

Here’s what I wrote the day before the season opened:

I want Carlos Beltran to hit 100 home runs this year.

I would gladly withstand the inevitable obnoxious cries of “contract year” to watch that unfold. Beltran is aging — has aged — before our eyes, and seeing him struggle to stay on the field and productive over the past couple of years strikes me as a terrifying reminder of our universal mortality. Carlos Beltran, despite what we may have once believed, is human. And the baseball lifespan of a baseball player is depressingly short. Beltran is 33 — just a few years older than me — and for him to even enjoy a season anything like the ones he put up in his “prime” years would amount to triumphing over the effects of time.

Can you imagine how frightening it must be to have the same body that made you an exceptional professional athlete begin to break down by the time you’re 32? And I know Carlos Beltran makes a gajillion dollars are year and we shouldn’t pity him. But do you really think it’s all about money for most Major Leaguers? Do you think only the allure of riches drives Beltran to endure surgeries and train tirelessly and shoulder the ridiculous never-ending cavalcade of nonsense?

I find that hard to believe.

So I want Carlos Beltran to hit 100 home runs this season. I want that because I’m a Mets fan who loves home runs and spectacle, and because I am also not immune to aging. It’d be nice to get a reminder that despite the odds, despite the pain, despite the awful things we all will inevitably withstand as part and parcel of being a human on planet Earth, we still have time to be great.

He’s not quite on the 100 home-run pace, even after the thin-air outburst last night. But on the season Beltran has a .295/.388/.590 line, almost identical to the one he posted in his best offensive season in 2006, his MVP caliber year, when he was but 29 years old, the season he helped carry the Mets to the NL East pennant before… well, you know.

Isn’t it just the most beautiful thing?

Not the aesthetics of it, though those are plenty awesome to behold — Beltran’s elegant, understated swing, absent of excess movements, just a turn of the hips and a bat through the zone.

I mean the big-picture beauty: This man, still young in real-life years but getting up there in baseball age, obviously proud, once transcendentally great, after surrendering his position to a younger and now more athletic protege, coming out of the gate crushing the ball like he did before the surgeries and arthritis and the he-said-they-said dramas wore thin his cartilage and reputation.

Someone will spring up now and say: Trade him! Trade him while he’s healthy! Get prospects before he goes into the tank!

Whatever. Maybe they should. Who cares?

This isn’t about that. Look at what’s happening: This is triumphant stuff. Celebrate this.

Indulge me for a moment: I have whined several times in the past weeks here and elsewhere about some back pain. You might not know this about me, but I am not prone to complain about my health. I actually once played two weeks of middle-school football with a broken rib.

But this nagging ache, just to the right of my spine spreading out over my shoulder blade and bleeding down my right arm into my fingers — it’s a symptom of some pretty heavy health issues. And the combination of the pain itself and the drugs I take to combat it make it difficult to focus on just about anything except an awful spiral of self-pity and fruitless existential nonsense. And I’m not looking for sympathy or trying to burden you; this isn’t about that.

This is the opposite of that. Maybe I’m overreacting to a single performance by my favorite player or maybe I’m delirious from a couple weeks of limited sleep, and the last thing I want to do is drift into the type of motivational-speaker you-can-do-it dreck I normally despise.

But Carlos Beltran reminds me to keep pushing. We’ve all got problems, but, like I said before the season, we’ve all still got time.