Belated and Bemoaned

Somehow it took me until June 28 to get out to Citi Field to see a Mets game. What happened? Well, there was a rainout and my usual aversion to freezing my ass off in April, but mostly life got in the way.

With July rapidly approaching, it was Emily who put things right, engineering a Father’s Day outing for her, me, her dad and Joshua. Tasked with obtaining seats, I splurged a little for a view I’d never had — the front row in left field, just to one side of what used to be the M&M’s Party Deck. I say that because I assume it’s something else now, not that I care.

It was fun watching left fielders go about their business and looking straight down at the oddly maroon warning track. Just like it was fun finally being at the park getting an up-close look at the Tom Seaver statue and wandering around Citi Field in the company of other loons in Mets regalia. It was fun, and then the game started.

Carlos Carrasco didn’t have it, which has been true far too often recently. My unique vantage point was mostly good for watching Houston home runs sail into the seats, though occasionally I could make out Mets failing to advance on the infield, or being dispensed with by Astro starter Framber Valdez. In the fifth, Carrasco was excused further duty and left in favor of Chasen Shreve, who gave no indication that he belongs on a big-league roster any longer. After that the vaguely competitive portion of the game was over and the only questions were a) if Buck Showalter would get over his aversion to putting a position player on the mound (no) and b) if Ender Inciarte would make his Mets debut (yes).

Oh, James McCann was up with two outs in the ninth and somehow didn’t ground out. That counts for something, I suppose.

One of baseball’s less celebrated but nonetheless important qualities is that even a team that cakewalks its way to a World Series title will have three or four days a year in which it gets the snot beat out of it, quite possibly by a thoroughly inferior opponent. These beatdowns keep fans humble and philosophical — those games happen, and if you’re in the park when they do, well, there are worse things to do with a beautiful summer evening than sit under a big sky and watch a balletic game played on emerald grass.

There are also better things to do with such an evening, of course — such as watching your baseball team actually win, or at least look like a competitive outfit in failing to do so. But we don’t get to pick. Some nights, all we can do is smile tightly and bear witness and tell ourselves that next time things will be better.