The good part is that Citi Field still knows how to bring the noise for a postseason game. I was there Friday night for Game 1 of the Wild Card Series (or whatever it’s called, I don’t really care), and the stadium was loud bordering on deafening — not just the A/V system, though that was certainly supercharged, but also 40,000-odd fired-up rooters. We roared out “Let’s Go Mets,” we shouted accolades for the Mets assembled on the first-base line whether assistant trainers or batting champs, we carried on as you’d hope a big October crowd would.
One thing I quickly remembered from my last playoff game, now somehow seven years removed, was that few individuals who make up the crowd realize that they cannot, in fact, scream for three straight hours. That typically sinks in around the second or third inning — the pandemonium becomes dotted with pauses, which grow longer and longer, until the crowd, having tired itself out, finally sounds more like what you find at a regular game.
Game 1 was extra-pandemoniac (this is possibly not a word but oh well) because the first inning was action-packed, and unfortunately not in a good way. Max Scherzer [1] gave up a leadoff hit to the annoying Jurickson Profar [2], looked like he’d get out of the inning, but then surrendered a two-run shot to former teammate Josh Bell [3] to put the Mets in an early hole. Up in section 528, right under Willie Mays [4]‘s 24, my neighbors were vocal about their unhappiness. The Mets made some noise in the bottom of the first against Yu Darvish [5], he of the lankily hesitant delivery and loaded arsenal of pitches, but the sound and fury signified nothing, as Pete Alonso [6] struck out with a runner on third and one out (don’t do that) and Daniel Vogelbach [7] hit a ball down the right-field line that briefly looked like it would sneak into Utleyville but came up short.
Scherzer gave up a solo homer in the second and the Mets again showed signs of life in response, as the blissfully returned Starling Marte [8] snuck a leadoff single through the infield and then stole second and third. But his teammates once again failed to convert a one-out runner on third — this time it was Eduardo Escobar [9] who struck out — and another promising inning yielded nothing. Up in 528 the roaring had turned into muttering and a sour mood had crept over the proceedings as everyone got the feeling that this might not be our night [10].
The crowd would achieve full liftoff again, but unfortunately, that was after the roof caved in on Scherzer in a horrific fifth. As he trudged off the mound, the boos that had slowly accumulated during the inning became an avalanche. I was surprised, which I suppose is on me given what I’ve had to admit about human nature over the last few years. Really? Of course we’re all shocked and frustrated, but are you seriously booing Max Scherzer? After what you’ve seen him bring to this team? Do you think he isn’t trying? Do you think he isn’t angrier than you are about what’s happened?
It was shameful. I’ll leave it at that.
The mildest of silver linings was that a lot of the trash then took itself out, leaving mostly diehards who had more measured reactions to the proceedings — and an appreciation for the little things. Some of which were little indeed: Luis Guillorme [11] got cheered just for showing up, Mark Canha [12] for grinding out a long at-bat, and Francisco Alvarez [13] for being part of the presumed future. (Lest things get too treacly around here, none of those episodes actually resulted in a Met hit.)
I heard something else in the diehards’ applause, though — the unhappy but unavoidable knowledge that the end may be near. The postseason is a funny thing — a small slice of the baseball year whose significance distorts the normal ebb and flow of games. A Hall of Fame pitcher shows up missing the “ride” on his fastball and gets strafed. That happens. Not surprisingly, his team loses because of it. But because the game is part of this particular slice of the year, Saturday’s game is suddenly everything. A two-game losing streak against the Padres means the Mets’ season is over. A Mets win Saturday doesn’t set up a rubber game as we think about one from April through September, but a showdown after which 100-odd people get to continue doing what they do while another 100-odd people go home for the winter.
Whatever happens, for at least one more day it’ll be loud. Here’s hoping it’s the better kind of noise — the kind that barely got to be heard on Friday night.