News flash: you’re not, in fact, required to watch the 2017 Mets’ death throes.
I don’t know if that’s fair — maybe there are some among us who in fact must do so. Those paid by the Mets, for instance. You’re off the hook. Or those granted parole under really odd conditions. That might violate the ban on cruel and unusual punishments, so consult an attorney.
The rest of us are free to go. Though good luck with that.
I tried last night. I really did. With the Mets getting their brains beat in — the details will be recorded in no great detail, as they no longer even remotely matter — I decided to flip over and see if the Indians could come back from a one-run deficit against the Royals and win their 22nd in a row.
I tuned in to see Jay Bruce [1] stride to the plate with the bases loaded in the bottom of the eighth. There was some faint solace, at least — I could watch a former Met do something heroic for his new team.
Bruce popped the ball up, getting Mets all over his Indians. The next guy made an out. The Indians were in trouble.
The Mets, meanwhile, were posting some kind of pathetic semi-rally. Online the remnants of #MetsTwitter were roused to watchfulness with a heaping side of ironic distance.
I flipped back over a second before a Met hit into a double play.
Yeah.
Emily came home, there were various things that needed doing and somehow the ballgame turned really frightful (as opposed to merely awful) while I wasn’t paying a whole lot of attention. The score was now 13-5 or 133-5 or something even more ghastly than that.
I quit to see if the Indians might somehow persevere despite having Mets on their roster. And they did! They tied it up in the ninth, and then Jay Bruce — that same Jay Bruce! — delivered victory with a walk-off double. Bedlam in Cleveland! And kudos to the Indians’ announcers, who were wise enough to hush and let the moment speak for itself.
Buoyed a little, I flipped back to the Mets game. It was, mercifully, almost over. Except good things were happening! Tomas Nido [2] was at the plate, and he got a hit! His first big-league hit! And it wasn’t even an error masquerading as a hit, like the initial knock recorded a few innings earlier by Cubs rookie catcher Taylor Davis [3]. (Last big-league game where two opposing catchers each got their first hit?)
A lot of bad things had happened in this game. The Mets were poised to be eliminated from postseason possibility, though I do hope nobody out there was still keeping their calendar open. They’d given up the most runs in a three-game series, 39 — 39! — in their history. Their starters’ ERA was threatening that of the ’62 Mets.
Despite that, I was happy for Nido and felt my scorn and disgust recede slightly. As I’d known would happen if you gave me the slightest bit of good news. Because I am incorrigible. Because despite it all, I bleed orange and blue — in fact, I hemorrhage it and really desperately need a tourniquet.
A minute later, Nido reached third on a bunt that left Alex Avila [4] stumbling backwards. So he tried to score. This was not a good idea. Nido looked like a little kid who’d run out to play tag with the big kids but hadn’t figured out the rules. He was tagged out by an apologetic-looking Felix Pena [5] and the ballgame was over [6].
The ballgame was over. The season groans along. You don’t have to watch. You’d be advised not to. You will anyway.