Like everybody else, I’m mortal. I have an expiration date, a timer that will ring, a final quarter that will yield GAME OVER. One day I’ll have a final moment and once it’s past, I’ll be dead.
I have no idea when that final moment will be — it could come a few minutes from now, or lie decades ahead of me. (I sure hope it’s the latter.) I have no idea what I’ll be doing ahead of that final moment, though if I get to choose it would be sleeping and dreaming about something gentle. (I won’t get to choose.)
What I do know is that every year, every month, every day, every hour and eventually every second will be precious — sips of time that will in the end be revealed as finite and insufficient.
I also know that I just wasted a whole bunch of those moments — two hours and change, which may not seem like much when expressed as hours but is a helluva lot of precious seconds — watching a team of pretend Mets play noncompetitive baseball [1]against the Braves.
The Mets played the role of Generic Opponent to a T. They put pressure on Charlie Morton [2] that felt convincing in the moment but amounted to nothing, as they didn’t hit when it mattered. Tylor Megill [3] was good early but bad late — i.e., when it mattered. The Mets’ defense was crummy when it mattered, with the normally reliable Brandon Nimmo [4] front and center in terms of crumminess.
I say “when it mattered,” but none of it mattered. The Mets were alternately frustrating and lifeless, infuriating and boring. I wasted a night on them, bringing my last moments closer with nothing to show for them.
I’ll want those moments back on my deathbed, of course. But hell, why wait that long? I want them back now.