I hung in through six grisly innings from San Diego. I nodded off in the seventh. I awoke in the eighth. “Is there any point to staying up for the rest of this?” I asked my groggy self. The Mets were down, 6-0. They’d had one hit, not counting the one Paul Blackburn took off his pitching hand. I turned off the TV and shut my eyes, soon to be out like 27 lights versus Joe Musgrove & Co. When I came to life in the morning, I imagined how delightful it would be to check the score and discover that I missed a comeback for the ages.
The Padres had added another run and won [1], 7-0. Sleep got the save.