This [1] should bother me. It doesn’t.
This should be terrible. It isn’t.
This should feel…not like it does.
I’m at peace tonight. There is nothing more I can do, nothing more I can say, nothing more I can even think.
It’s over. I knew it would be over eventually. I didn’t know how it would end but if I had to guess, this is how I would’ve figured.
The Mets would go to Atlanta desperately needing to win one game. And they would lead. At the same time, the top team they were chasing would have to lose. And they would trail.
Then both games would reverse themselves. Billy Wagner, with nobody on and two out in the ninth, would allow two infield singles and a three-run homer to Craig Biggio. Done. And Braden Looper would find a way to let the Braves win a game they had trailed for 8-1/2 innings.
I have to admit Loop surprised me by only allowing Atlanta to tie the game. His teammates also heartened me with their insistence on taking a tenth-inning lead.
But I wasn’t fooled, not really. There were just too many Braves and too many Mets on that field for this to Turn out any different than it did.
Blame Looper? Takatsu? Randolph? Wright for getting doubled off? Beltran for getting thrown out stealing? Cameron for playing right like it was center? Piazza for aging? Ishii for taking unnecessary starts from Seo? Bill Shea for not convincing the Reds to move to New York in 1958?
Whoever. Whatever. This was going to happen at some point, this not winning the Wild Card, not making the playoffs. If it was going to happen anywhere, it might as well happen where it did. It was a dependable outcome if nothing else.
The Braves swept the Mets at Turner Field when the Mets could not afford to lose there.
My watch is set to within a nanosecond of dead-on balls accuracy.
Twenty-three games to go. I’ll watch. I’ll write. I’ll care. But I’ll no longer believe. Not this year.
Peace, man.