The Mets, having played interminable games wrecked by terrible relief pitching, at least found a new formula for a loss [1] Saturday night — bad starting pitching coupled with a lack of offense when desperately needed.
Michael Wacha [2] gave up a two-run homer to the increasingly unbearable Marcell Ozuna [3] in the first, then surrendered three straight two-out hits in the second, further hindered by yet another play not quite made in the Mets outfield. That made it 5-0 Braves, more than they would need on a frustrating night for Met hitters in general and Pete Alonso [4] in particular.
In the third, the Mets had runners on first and second with one out; Alonso grounded into a double play. In the fourth, the Mets put runners on first and second with nobody out; Yoenis Cespedes [5] struck out. Dominic Smith [6] walked, potentially reviving the inning; Wilson Ramos [7] struck out and Amed Rosario [8] grounded out. In the fifth, the Mets put the first two runners on again; Alonso struck out, again. Michael Conforto [9] singled to load the bases and bring up Robinson Cano [10], the only potent bat in the lineup so far this year. He hit a sharp liner, but that was good only for a sacrifice fly that proved the sum total of the offense. (I could go on, as there were other episodes of, well, bat-teasing, but honestly that’s enough to recall.)
The bright spot, if you squint, was that Franklyn Kilome logged four innings in his debut and looked pretty good, particularly once he settled in a bit and the nerves stopped jangling. Kilome came over from Philadelphia when the Mets traded away Asdrubal Cabrera [11] and pretty much immediately needed Tommy John [12] surgery, but on Saturday night his arm looked live and his motion easy. The Mets could certainly use someone like that, given that even the reliable members of the bullpen have turned arsonist.
But I dislike squinting. The Mets could also use better starting pitching, hitters shaking off the rust and guys who can actually play defense. It’s a long list.
The Mets have lost four in a row, which Twitter’s mathletes would like you to know is the equivalent of a 11-game losing streak in this compressed sprint of a season. That neither true nor helpful, but the reality is bad enough: It’s August 2, the Mets are a mess, and so far their only victory of note has come in COVID testing, which isn’t the kind of win to crow about given how quickly and dramatically things can change.
The author Don DeLillo once wrote that “nostalgia is a product of dissatisfaction and rage,” a line I love and think is a useful corrective for baseball, where syrupy sepia always threatens to drown the pleasures of the present day.
But if you’re a Met fan who isn’t dissatisfied and at least rage-adjacent, I’m not sure what you’ve been watching for the last few days. So go ahead and get nostalgic. Back when we weren’t sure there’d be a season at all, Greg and I started penning A Met for All Seasons [13], in which we picked a player for each year of Mets baseball, sifted through our memories of that player, maybe even did a little research, and started typing.
We’re now halfway through that journey, having just chronicled 2001 and Mike Piazza [14]. Before Big Mike, the year and player in the spotlight was 1983 and Darryl Strawberry [15]. We’ve discussed Hall of Famers and 25th men, guys whose uniform numbers will never be worn by a Met again and guys whose uniform numbers are recalled only by the hardest of hardcore fans. So if another key strikeout or another act of bullpen malpractice leaves you fuming — or if an unfortunate test should push the Mets into baseball’s increasingly crowded PPD column — put aside DeLillo’s warning and join us for a stroll through Mets history.
DeLillo followed his line puncturing of nostalgia with another pretty good one: “It’s a settling of grievances between the present and the past.” Fair enough, but I’ve got grievances a-plenty with this particular present, and if current Mets are incapable of settling them, I’ll look to their forebears to soothe me, at least a little.