The Mets’ return to Mercury went about as well as the maiden voyage 25 years ago. On July 27, 1999, New York’s National League franchise garbed up as from the planet closest to the sun and got burned, competitively and aesthetically. They lost to the Pirates that night and looked like…let’s say not Mets. Not of this Earth, certainly. Orel Hershiser started and resented the get-up. Rickey Henderson didn’t dig being portrayed as an alien life form when he glanced at Shea Stadium’s prehistoric big screen. Mercury Mets jokes ensued for much of the next quarter-century. If you knew, you cringed.
But you live long enough, everything initially reviled turns fondly recalled. Thus, this second Mercurial trip, albeit one taken around the edges. The Mets gave out PIAZZA 31 shirts, not in orange and blue; or orange, blue and black; or even concrete gray and 7 train purple, but in the onyx and silver tones of Mercury. The players didn’t wear such tops, but their City Connects served futuristic enough. The EnormoVision and its handmaiden ribbon boards were all in on “Mercury” playing Atlanta. Three-eye and green-face imagery was everywhere.
I embrace the idea of the Mets embracing every silly aspect of their history, but some curios are purely of their time. Mercury Mets was a spectacular attempt to invent something evocative of 2021 in 1999. In 2024, you could rekindle only so much of that Mercury magic. Thinking about it the morning after, it hits me now on the level of the Mets redoing their scoreboard in 2019 to make it look like Shea’s in 1969 when they celebrated the fiftieth anniversary of our first championship. Good thought. Nice try. But some heavens you can only ascend toward once.
[1]The Met offense seemed stranded on Uranus.
Alas, the New York/NYC/Mercury Mets — whatever they wore, however they identify — never got off the launching pad on Saturday. Facing none of the big Brave starters of yesteryear or this year, they flailed helplessly against Spencer Schwellenbach. In space, nobody hears you swing and miss. The Mets K’d eleven times against the Braves righty, thrice more against their relievers. Tylor Megill [2], who’s orbited the lower end of our rotation since the universe was created, pitched lights out for three-and-two-thirds, then was sucked into a black hole of gopher balls. Expectations shouldn’t have been too high. Tylor was supposed to be no more than the sixth starter in a fresh alignment helmed by a fully recovered Kodai Senga as we defended our hard-earned spot atop the Wild Card standings. Ah, plans. We’ll see Senga no sooner than October [3], should we see October.
The Mets lost [4], 4-0, snapping a five-game winning streak and falling to a precarious though perfectly viable third place in the consolation prize stakes. On the sunny side, they were kind enough to not rudely interrupt my friend Kevin from Flushing and I as we sat in 520 and enjoyed a nine-inning tangent about most everything baseball-related except the game playing out in front of us. Our team couldn’t distract us with runs, and I kept referring to John Rocker as John Smoltz (someday I’ll call Spencer Schwellenbach Spencer Strider) . Not a lot of crispness in the air, but at least the air wasn’t terribly humid. Change is in the Metropolitan forecast, however. Reliever Ryne Stanek [5] has arrived [6] from Seattle, perhaps partially compensating for however many heretofore relied-upon bullpen arms are currently on the IL, and Jesse Winker [7] is winging his way from Washington, sent here by the Nationals Saturday night in exchange [8] for pitching prospect Tyler Stuart. Winker is quite familiar with the folks in Flushing.
Might as well make yourself at home, Jesse. It’s the year of Grimace; the year of Max the so-called Rally Pimp; the year of Glizzy Iggy, that sparkly dog who nibbles on hot dogs in the stands; the year of Jose Iglesias, that journeyman second baseman who produces hits that show up in box scores and Billboard; the year the Mercury Mets took another bow; the year the term “en suite [9]” infiltrated a baseball broadcast; the year we were absolutely dead and buried; the year we burst from six feed under to lead (for at least a day) the Wild Card race. And it’s not even August. Jesse Winker, the closest thing we have to a professional wrestling heel in the 2020s, is one of us for the duration of the playoff chase? Of course he is. Bizarreness always merits a place in our world.