On Tuesday night you had to give the Mets a mulligan, however many they've asked for already this year — they've played like the manager got fired at 3 a.m. on more than a few nights already, but on Tuesday night it was actually true. As various Mets botched grounders and failed to cover bases, we were left to hope that Jerry Manuel's unhappy first minute of on-field managerial duties might be a blessing in disguise, that his showdown with Jose Reyes and Jose Reyes's Petulance might get the attention of Jose and set an example for his teammates.
It was a faint, forlorn hope — but maybe, based on a sample size of one night, not so far-fetched.
Reyes said the right things last night and played like his hair was on fire tonight, lashing balls around Anaheim, swiping bases, playing mostly heads-up defense, and getting a key read on a K-Rod slider in the dirt when he didn't feel confident enough to get a big lead against the Angels closer and his hellacious arsenal. Fernando Tatis was shredded by K-Rod, and with two outs up stepped David Wright — the same David Wright who's been grinding his bat to sawdust of late. Now, if K-Rod threw that identical slider — low and away — to Wright 100 times, he'd probably miss it or tap it to the infield 95 times. This, though, was the time Wright somehow pulled it into left field for a run-scoring hit, causing K-Rod to have a mini-tantrum of his own and leading to that strangest of Met-related emotions: confidence.
Somehow, in the bottom of the 10th, after Damion Easley's bolt off once-upon-a-time Paper Met Justin Speier, I wasn't worried. Not when Howie Kendrick hit an evil spinner to lead off against Billy Wagner — Wright somehow stopped the spin dead with his bare hand and gunned Kendrick out at first. Somehow I wasn't worried when Vlad the Impaler stared out at Billy. Between the beard creeping up his cheeks, his liberal coating of pine tar and his dull, dangerous stare, Vlad looks even scarier than he did when he was an Expo — has he been living under a bridge for the last few years? But no matter — Billy got him to hit a harmless flyball. Somehow I wasn't worried when Torii Hunter stepped in, even though he'd done a number on old pal Johan Santana last night. Billy struck him out, and for a moment all was … not well, exactly, but certainly better [1].
Let this be the first day of the rest of 2008, boys. Let baseball be fun. Let it be.