A Three-Run What?

The important thing: The Mets actually won.

The less important thing: The Mets barely won a thoroughly strange, confounding game against the Nationals, one that left you without much confidence that any kind of worm has turned in any direction one would want a worm to turn. (If you’ve ever wondered, that strange turn [ahem] of phrase turns out [ahem again] to be a modern version of a medieval expression popularized by Shakespeare.)

The first half of Friday night’s game looked a lot like the kind of dismal games the Mets have played too many of recently: Tylor Megill gave up a run in the first and was maddening to watch, throwing not enough strikes, unable to put hitters away and trudging around on the mound with the body language usually seen with guys standing in highway medians in August wearing sandwich boards touting party-supply stories. (See also: Megill’s little friend David Peterson.)

But Megill never broke, giving up just two runs and hanging around through five; meanwhile, the Mets were grinding out at-bats against MacKenzie Gore in a fashion that reminded you of their 2022 offensive approach. That was a welcome change; what was distressingly familiar was their inability to turn those ABs into anything. Starling Marte flied out with the bases loaded to end the first; Francisco Lindor fouled out with two on to end the second; and Mark Canha flied out with two on to end the third. Gore departed after four with an ungodly pitch count but also with a 2-0 lead, and that certainly felt like it would be enough to beat the Mets.

Hell, these days an enemy runner on first with two outs in the first feels like enough to beat the Mets. Even beyond that, though, it was a sloggy, frustrating game, the kind that felt more like waiting in line at a DMV than like anything a person would voluntarily choose to do with precious hours of their life.

And then, somehow, the thoroughly unexpected happened.

In the sixth the Mets greeted Andres Machado with a Marte single and a poke-job double by Canha to put runners on second and third with nobody out, which in better days would call for the licking of chops but these days was a warning to assume the fetal position. All looked like it would come to naught as Brett Baty slapped a little grounder to third that erased Marte (with Canha failing to take third) and Francisco Alvarez grounded to first. Exit Machado and enter Carl Edwards Jr., who always makes me think of Idiocracy‘s gag involving Carl’s Jr., to secure a third out from Brandon Nimmo. Edwards walked Nimmo and looked hell-bent on walking Lindor, who went into protect mode while I peered at the proceedings from between my fingers.

Lindor didn’t walk and also didn’t make an out — he rifled the ball over the second baseman’s head and into right-center. Here came Canha, then Baty with the tying run and then — whaaa? — Nimmo steaming along right behind him, courtesy of Joey Cora‘s habitually aggressive right arm. It wasn’t even close: The Mets led 3-2 with Lindor taking second on the back end of the play, proud owner of a three-run single.

A three-run single? I wasn’t immediately sure I’d seen one of those, though that’s probably wrong: Edgardo Alfonzo recorded one against the Giants in 1997, which I would almost certainly have seen, though the first one would have eluded me as it was delivered by Tug McGraw back in 1970. (Greg noted Pete Rose recording one off the Mets — and sure enough, it beat Dwight Gooden back in ’86.)

Now, a one-run lead in the sixth isn’t exactly a ticket to the promised land: The question remained of how, exactly, the Mets were going to secure 12 outs before something terrible happened. Jeff Brigham got the first three, Adam Ottavino notched the next three, and then Buck Showalter sent David Robertson out in search of the last six.

Many things have gone wrong this year, but absolutely none of them have been Robertson’s fault — he’s been a godsend, doing his business with the no-fuss efficiency that’s sustained a long, successful career. Robertson cruised through the eighth, but walked the leadoff hitter in the ninth. He secured the next two outs, but the fuel light was blinking red and the car was gasping and starting to seize. A wild pitch, a five-pitch walk to newcomer Jacob Alu, and here came Showalter with the tow truck: Drew Smith, proud owner of zero career saves, was going to get us home safe or be left standing on the mound in shock as Nats frolicked and bumped cherry blossoms. There’d be brave talk about better approaches and fighting back and sticking with the plan and guys doing everything asked of them, but there’d also be grim sets to mouths and faraway eyes and the unavoidable statistical fact that the Mets had now lost 32,948 of their last 32,950, or whatever the exact figure is, though that feels more or less correct.

Except Smith got an 0-2 count on Lane Thomas courtesy of two fouls, threw one up and away that didn’t tempt him but also didn’t escape Alvarez, and then came back to the top of the strike zone for one Thomas could neither resist nor hit. All’s well that ends well, but I felt like spending the next hour throwing up was what was called for.

At least this time it would be throwing up out of relief.