Pulling into our parking lot from running pre-hurricane errands, around 2 o’clock, I remembered the Mets would be playing at four.
“Damn,” I thought.
By 4 o’clock, I was nonetheless excited when the game came on. It’s Pavlovian. Or Pavlickian [1], perhaps.
[2]Hurricane prep is underway.
By 7 o’clock, with Brandon Nimmo [3] having garnered three hits of three different varieties (a triple shy of the cycle, just like me, except I also lack the single, double and homer) and Pete Alonso [4] having flexed at the plate for a two-run dinger (and flexed in the dugout because, well, Pete), I was convinced we might not lose. Not convinced we’d win, but absolutely certain I couldn’t be sure. It had been one of those games when the opponent should have buried us early, yet failed to. Rich Hill [5] bent but only frayed. He didn’t altogether break. Max Scherzer was less invincible than usual. We made inroads. We seemed more alert than usual. Our bullpen was mostly made of stern stuff. I know it was the Dodgers. I know they have too many Turners. I know Unfrozen Caveman Pujols went deep. I know we were never ahead or even tied. But I had one of those feelings like I had in May, June and July when we trailed and trailed and trailed only to take a late-inning lead and win.
We’re not as spunky in months that begin with an ‘A,’ however. The conviction that we might not lose was a false positive. It can still be said we were never ahead or even tied [6].
Out in Los Angeles, the Mets rest up to attempt to not get swept. Here on Long Island, it’s back to battening down hatches. I sure hope Hugh Quattlebaum is coaching Hurricane Henri, in which case it won’t hit at all.