Carlos Carrasco [1] was bad, inexplicable Mets punching bag Pablo Lopez [2] was good, the Marlins were pesky even by their loathsome standards and the Mets lost a game that had a queasy, out-of-sorts feeling to it from the get-go. And yes, down in D.C. the Braves smacked the crap out of the Nats, and so now we have a tie atop the National League East — one that feels like it’s for all the marbles even though it’s really just for the prettiest marbles and the right to a few idle days to play with them in peace and quiet, seeing how both New York (NL) and Atlanta are going to the playoffs.
The Marlins showing up at the tail end of a season and ruining everything? Wow, imagine that.
Which was your least favorite part of this game? Was it the wild pitch that brought in the Marlins’ second run while fans were still finding their seats? The little poke by someone with the ridiculous name JJ Bleday [3] that carried over Tyler Naquin [4]‘s head and tucked itself into Utleyville to give Miami a 4-0 lead? Or the third consecutive fastball called for by James McCann [5] on an 0-2 count with Jacob Stallings [6] at the plate, the one Trevor Williams [7] left middle-middle and Stalling lashed into right-center to turn the Marlins’ one-run lead back into a three-run lead?
Honestly, it was all pretty disgusting [8]. The Mets tried to fight back, but only got within two runs, with their last tally coming when Richard Bleier [9] was called for three balks in the same at-bat, something I’m pretty sure I’ve never seen before and honestly never want to see again, as baseball would be unwatchable instead of just occasionally turtle-paced. (And, really, it’s not like Jeff McNeil [10] was being pinned at first by Bleier’s trickery.)
Even a horrific baseball game has its pleasures, of course. There was Pete Alonso [11]‘s terrific AB against Lopez, the one that culminated in a change-up golfed into the left-field seats that briefly made us all believe. There was Jerry Blevins [12] filling in for Keith Hernandez [13] on SNY and doing a frankly sensational job, offering commentary that was warm, funny, generous and rich on insights — a terrific debut that I hope is a down payment on a larger role for him. There was the prime seat occupied AGAIN by the creepypasta woman doing viral marketing for a horror movie I refuse to name — an unwelcome sight transformed when Mr. Met was suddenly occupying the same seat and of course wearing a fixed, suddenly deadpan expression of his own. And though you didn’t see it on SNY, there was my kid playing charades with Mr. and Mrs. Met after a chance encounter in one of the tunnels, with Mr. Met pantomiming admiration for my kid’s massive nimbus of teenaged hair and my kid pantomiming his thanks. (His mother and I learned of this encounter via our phones, as we were on the couch at home — Emily because she’d had late-afternoon plans, and me because I’ve been banned from Citi Field on suspicion of being a jinx.)
But would I have traded those nice moments for a different distribution of runs? Of course I would have. The Mets and Braves are all tied up with seven to play and a hurricane about to have its say about when and where they’ll meet, as if this showdown needed an additional jolt of tension. Dread is loose in the land, in far too many guises, and let’s all link arms and assure each other that we’ll make it through this dim, anxious valley to whatever precinct of the autumnal promised land is reserved for us.