Not by the Mets — I was at least a reasonably well-behaved guest up in section 339 with my work colleagues, a long way from home plate and the pitches David Peterson [1] didn’t throw in sufficient proximity to it. Rather, I’ve been banned by my kid on suspicion of being a jinx.
I’m 0-for-4 in outings to see the Mets this year, but it’s more the nature of the season-long oh-fer that’s generated concern. When I go, the Mets don’t just lose — they play like they guzzled a gallon of cough syrup in the clubhouse. They walk guys, give up big hits, play sloppy defense, fail to hit when it’s desperately needed, run the bases in a shoddy matter, and walk around muttering under their own little black cloud of crumminess.
That was front and center in Tuesday night’s loss [2] to the Cubs, which started out unlucky and turned alternately boring and frustrating. And then Wednesday night was worse [3], as Peterson endured a Charlie Brown-style undressing at the hands of the Cubs and the Mets were stymied in their sputtering attempts to come back. It was endless and perplexing and tooth-grinding and frustrating and a lot of other words you don’t want attached to your ballgame experience.
My kid issued the warning Tuesday night, and that crooked number in the first made me think he had a point. As did something that happened a little later: I checked my phone at around 10, expecting to see the Braves had put up a run or three in the first in San Francisco, and discovered to my surprise that the game had already concluded. (The Giants won; we’re grateful to them and to old friend J.D. Davis [4].)
My God, I thought. If I’d known I would have checked … and that would have gone badly too.
I know this is nonsense. I can’t affect the outcome of a game from 500 feet away. You may as well blame the Mets’ recent run of ineptitude on the spotted lanternfly or the restless shade of Queen Elizabeth II. (Not that you asked, but I mostly blame bad luck — plus the absence of Starling Marte [5], who lengthens the lineup and brings a certain swagger to the proceedings.)
But as I do fairly often in trying to make sense of baseball, I’ll rely on the counsel of Crash Davis. As Crash told Nuke Laloosh and then Annie Savoy, you respect a streak. And OK, that means I’m banned. I have a ticket for the Oct. 5 finale, and I’ll only go if the Mets’ fate has already been determined. Otherwise, it’s the couch for me — and if these games keep going the way they have, by Oct. 5 I’ll be watching what happens while peeking out from behind it.