Even by the Mets’ standard of absurdity, the first game of Saturday’s doubleheader was something: A stately chug out to a 9-0 lead, unbelievably blowing that 9-0 lead, then somehow winning anyway [1]. (Followed by the seemingly inevitable hangover loss [2].)
For me the game was a blogger’s version of the tortoise and the hare: A couple of minutes after Michael Conforto [3]‘s two-run homer ran the lead to nine runs, I turned off my in-laws’ car and Emily and I trundled down to a lake in Connecticut that’s become a favored weekend/holiday getaway. I swam and kayaked and did healthy outdoor stuff; Emily read and snoozed; both of us were blissfully unaware of the disaster unfolding in Met Land.
When I picked up my phone again it was double-take time: 9-7? C’mon, really?
Yeah, really. And I had an unhappy feeling that things were about to get worse, as indeed they did: No sooner did I walk back into my in-laws’ house than Andrew Stevenson connected off Seth Lugo [4] to complete the disaster. Insult to injury: The radio feed on my phone was a couple of pitches behind the TV, meaning I watched Stevenson’s ball plop down over the outfield fence while Lugo was still dueling him on my phone.
My reaction wasn’t the calmest one I’ve had as a fan:
Release the entire roster. Disband the affiliates. Fire all the staff. Expunge all the stats since ‘62. Ban all the fans from new allegiances. This fucking team. #mets [5]
— Jason Fry (@jasoncfry) September 4, 2021 [6]
So of course the Mets somehow won, escaping an eighth-inning execution by the skin of Trevor May [7]‘s teeth and riding the highly traditional leadoff two-run homer from Francisco Lindor [8] to a victory secured by Heath Hembree [9], of all people. Lindor homered off Kyle Finnegan [10], who was celebrating his birthday and just back from paternity leave. That seemed mean; on the other hand, the disaster came two years and a day [11] after Kurt Suzuki [12]‘s soul-killing, season-destroying homer off Edwin Diaz [13], one of the Mets’ regular-season moments I still find myself muttering about at random 3 ams. That game was no fault of Kyle Finnegan’s (let alone his wife), but the fact that it happened absolves any Met from any meanness inflicted on any National until the day several billion years from now when the sun finally gutters out.
Anyway, Game 1 was the Mets in a thoroughly confounding nutshell: They did something impressive, did something mind-numbingly horrifying, and stubbornly zigged each and every time a zag was obvious. Oh, and someone got injured, which is also a daily occurrence with this team. Unfortunately, Saturday’s victim was Brandon Nimmo [14], who makes the team immeasurably better with his play in center, jeweler’s eye at the plate and reliably high tempo on a team that has bouts of being logy. Hamstrings being hamstrings, Nimmo is probably done for the year.
His absence was certainly felt in the second game, dropped 4-3 by the Mets to Tommy John [15] returnee Josh Rogers [16]. The nightcap was low on absurdity but high on discouragement: The Mets scored a run in the first but shrank from adding on, scuffled along with a depleted lineup to no particular effect, and lost when Pete Alonso [17] was caught looking with the tying run on second.
What did it all mean, beyond the obvious fact that baseball is cruel, exhausting and bad for one’s health? Damned if I know. On the one hand, the Mets have taken the first two of three from the Nats, blew a nine-run lead but didn’t lose, and actually made up half a game on the Phillies and the Braves. On the other hand, the Nats are hapless and yet against this mighty competition the Mets have blown a two-run lead in the ninth, given back a nine-run lead, and lost a game more conventionally.
It’s all absurd. But we’ve covered that [18].