The Only Thing We Have to Fear…

Your co-bloggers, they had a long time to talk tonight.

First there was the game, which was a delight. Welcome to New York, Shawn Green! We believe we see light at the end of the tunnel, David Wright! Nicely done, Dave Williams! We're glad you're on our side, Jose Reyes and Carlos Delgado! Following that, there was an ill-fated right turn out of Gate A, which let us into the parking lot and a near-circumnavigation of the construction fence behind which New Shea will soon rise. You'd think you could slip through the test drillings or whatever it is they're doing back there, but nope — a right turn out of Gate A leaves you ultimately playing some demented blue and orange version of Frogger with the crush of SUVs trying to exit onto Chop Shop Lane. Trying to exit through a lake. Evading the lake means a second trip through the vaguely lined-up SUVs. Fun. After that, the tender mercies of the 7 train.

Anyway, between our various navigational mishaps and the long rumble into Manhattan, we had a long while to discuss our baseball team. And we remarked on something: the utter lack of fear we have about what's to come, the strange sensation of six weeks of baseball that aren't weighed down by anxiety and superstition.

Ah, superstition. It's a time-honored tenet of responsible fandom that you don't ask the baseball gods to script things just so: Don't say you hope they lose a few on the road so you can see them wrap it up at home, on your anniversary, or whatever date would make you even happier. Don't hope that Hated Team X hangs around long enough for your team to administer the coup de grace. Don't look past Team Y, the baseball-fan equivalent of flipping ahead in the book to see if the killer's brought to justice. Don't say you want Potential Opponent Team Z because they seem beatable, or because you have a grudge, or whatever it is. Take what you're given.

Following this rule isn't like taking a vow of silence, though. It's OK to talk about scenarios that have particular appeal, as long as you do it at a respectable remove, and as long as not you're just pretending that you're asking for a certain script. (The baseball gods are not so easily tricked!) Digressionary example: I love the Earth Wind and Fire song “September,” one of the sunniest tunes ever written, and have long thought that A) it would be great to hear it played after September victories that mean something; and B) it would be great if something wonderful happened for the Mets on the 21st night of September, as mentioned in the lyrics. It's OK to talk about that wistfully. It's not OK to hope that the Mets slow down the magic-number pace so as not to clinch before 9/21. That's asking for trouble. (Digression within a digression: It doesn't matter anyway, because if we clinch at home the Mets will blast “The Best,” four minutes of Tina Turner hacking up a hairball as deservedly faceless sessioneers rawk out. Something tells me I'll still be a very happy man.)

The baseball gods don't frown at respectful talk. Nor do they require you to hunker down in superstitious dread until the last possible moment. Up 14.5 with a magic number of 22? Go ahead and discuss the playoffs — as my co-blogger noted some time ago, they're not gonna get us.

I'm not going to say we want the Cardinals or the Reds or the Dodgers or the Padres or some Central or West team that emerges from the ranks of those who are below .500 but in contention. I'm certainly not going to start scouting the NLCS or, God forbid, American League teams. We just covered that.

But we can say this: We just swept the Cardinals, generally considered the second-best team in the NL. We've seen all the teams on the list of possible first-round opponents, and none of them exactly make you gulp. This isn't to say we're guaranteed to beat them — anybody can beat anybody in a postseason series. It's not even really about them at all. It's about us. It's about a balanced lineup that can beat you with speed, power and patience. It's about smothering defense. It's about a bullpen that's rounding into form after a scare. And about a starting rotation that…um, well, there's time to get everybody healthy, and in the meantime how about those fill-ins! (Tonight we had a good laugh over this scenario: Back in March we peer into the Faith and Fear crystal ball and see an August stretch in which our pitchers could be Dave Williams, Brian Bannister, Oliver Perez/Darren Oliver, John Maine and Steve Trachsel — and yet for some reason the late-summer Greg and Jace don't look worried. In fact, they look…happy?)

That's part of the point. This year there isn't an Atlanta Braves lurking out there between us and a pennant — a team that's in our heads, that haunts our dreams, that we've good reason to fear. Sure, there are lots of things that can go wrong even in this Braveless New World. We could go cold at the absolute worst time. Whatever team we draw in the first round could get obscenely hot. We could be undone by injuries. We could come out on the short end of some plain old-fashioned bad luck. If you want to be anxious about any or all of that, go ahead — it's only sensible. But this year that anxiety isn't attached to any of our potential NL opponents. Wanna see the 2006 National League Bogeyman? Look in the mirror, because the team that makes managers mutter and scouts toss and turn at night is us.

That's not a guarantee of anything, except this: The only thing we have to fear is baseball itself.