Fuhstrating

That’s the way Keith says it, a remnant of his California roots that’s one of his more endearing quirks, and a label worth plastering all over Saturday’s matinee against the Marlins.

Jacob deGrom needed just nine pitches — all strikes — to take down the Marlins in the top of the first, blitzed through the first two Marlins who came to the plate in the second, and put Jazz Chisholm Jr. in an 0-2 hole with 99 and 100 MPH four-seamers. DeGrom threw Chisholm another four-seamer, hitting 100 at the top of the zone — a pitch that’s almost impossible to get around on. Chisholm got around on it and how, poleaxing it deep into whatever the Pepsi Porch is called these days. (After the game, by the way, he said he was looking for something off-speed, which makes the whole turn of events even more startling.) Within a couple of seconds, the Marlins had gone from looking like deGrom’s Washington Generals to having the lead, turning one of those “well maybe” days when you cross your fingers into a painful slog in which your shoulders never unslump.

The Mets did their part, to the extent they did anything Saturday, to ensure it was painful. They started off the bottom of the first with a Brandon Nimmo double and a Francisco Lindor bunt that turned into a second baserunner, giving them first and third with nobody out. But though we didn’t know it yet (and there’s a small mercy), that was the offensive high point of the game. Lindor was caught stealing and Trevor Rogers fanned Michael Conforto and then Pete Alonso, leaving the Mets with nothing.

And they’d get nothing the rest of the way. Rogers struck out 13 Mets in six innings, including Conforto once again with a runner on third and less than two out, and the Mets failed to scratch against a trio of Miami relievers. DeGrom struck out 14 over eight — tying a career high — and gave way to Edwin Diaz, who added fire to the dry tinder in the stands by giving up two thoroughly unnecessary insurance runs. (He’s probably aware that this is a storyline no Mets fan needs revived right now.)

The Mets might be rethinking that whole “we missed you fans and having your energy in the stands” thing — there was energy in the park, all right, but it was the kind borrowed from a pirate ship whose crew has decided a few members of their fraternity ought to step overboard with their pockets full of rocks and sharks waiting to greet them. Conforto was booed with increasing vigor — there was a very Beltran ’05 vibe to the whole thing — and while predictions of his demise are obviously exaggerated, it would be a good idea for him to spend a game as a spectator, thinking about as little as possible. Conforto has the look of a ballplayer who’s getting in his own way, and the game’s difficult enough even when that isn’t true.

Fortunately, the forecast suggests every Met is likely to get a day off Sunday, without the need for tampering with sprinklers. (Who’d channel Crash Davis if tampering were required? I’m thinking J.D. Davis — he’s halfway there already namewise and seems like a man who could engineer a natural disaster, perhaps not always on purpose.) If it rains as vigorously as expected, I’d suggest the Mets not spend Sunday thinking about the truly astonishing statistics that follow deGrom around. You probably saw this already (and you’ll be seeing it ad nauseum until the narrative changes), but deGrom has a 2.06 ERA since the start of 2018, a blaze of excellence that the Mets have somehow converted into a 36-42 record.

That’s just ludicrous. It’s the stuff of Greek tragedy, or perhaps of the fingers of the monkey’s paw curling up after a hasty wish. (If a lone simian digit got left outstretched, I think we can guess which one.) Why has it happened? There isn’t an explanation that’s any better than a Just So story, not with the ever-shifting cast of characters around deGrom — any more than there’s an explanation for a generation of Twins’ teams turning to ash with playoff bunting in the park, or than there was for a half a century’s worth of San Diego Padres starters taking the hill without throwing a no-hitter. (Congratulations on that no longer being a thing, at least.)

Baseball’s just strange and flukey and confounding. Fuhstrating, one might even say.