First, our closer throws 98 MPH fastballs, collects two easy outs, fires up the crowd and then he loses the strike zone [1], never to regain it in any meaningful fashion.
Fucking Armando.
Then, our closer induces a pathetic little half-swing squib and, wouldn'tcha know it, that defensive excuse-me whoopsy! cut rolls less than 90 feet to exactly the wrong place [2] to load the bases.
Fucking Franco.
Finally, just when it appears our closer is going to retire this one particular pesky thorn-in-our-side, having gotten him to oh-and-two — oh-and-two! — he throws a fastball that just sits over the outer edge of the plate and it's served into center for a two-run single, the lead and, ultimately, the game [3].
Fucking Looper.
Games like this [4], in which we waste dramatic offensive heroics, are nothing new in the annals of Mets givebacks. Hell, games like this [5] are nothing new in the annals of Mets history when we're in first place a wide margin and we're on the verge of vanquishing the Cincinnati Reds.
But aren't we supposed to have bought our way out of them? Isn't this why we signed a fireman deluxe to a king-sized contract? Wasn't that, among all other fragments, the missing piece to our pennant puzzle? And do you feel particularly confident come the ninth inning and we hold a slim lead?
Fucking Wagner.