Fair warning that you’re not getting much of a recap. But then you didn’t get much of a game [1].
You’re not getting much of a recap because I want this game out of my brain as quickly as possible, and sulking about the outcome for an hour or three or six will neither help with that process nor make me feel any better.
The Mets? Luis Severino [2] looked a little flat, the defense was sloppy at the wrong time, and the hitters did nothing early against Spencer Schwellenbach [3] and then had not so much as an iota of luck against Schwellenbach, Joe Jimenez [4] or Raisel Iglesias [5] late. Meanwhile, the Braves took extra bases, made some eye-popping defensive plays and got some breaks. Seriously, Ramon Laureano [6] had a ball glance off the barrel of his bat toward the hands before making slightly better contact further down, a double-tap that gave it just enough kinetic energy to clear the infield for an RBI single. Not sure I’ve ever seen that before, or that I ever want to see it again.
When something like that happens you get the feeling it’s not your night — and there were other unwelcome portents, such as Jose Iglesias [7] starting off the game by getting hit by his own batted ball in fair territory. The Mets looked tight after months of playing loose and joyous ball — maybe the off-day wasn’t a good thing for them, though the fanbase certainly needed it after the emotional Ragnarok [8] of Sunday night.
Until the Mets play again — and more on that in a moment — we will now endure an extended remix of Horrible Things Happening to the Mets in Atlanta in September. SNY gave that ball of sticky suck a push by showing us (in gloriously grainy standard definition) Jay Payton [9] trying to advance to third against Andruw Jones [10] with Mike Piazza [11] on deck back in 1998, a reminder that the Mets’ unhappy history in Atlanta now covers two different millennia. You shouldn’t have, fellas — no really, you shouldn’t have.
I’m sad and annoyed and yes, I’m anxious — those are the Braves, after all, so hard to kill and now just a skinny game behind us. But for Chrissakes, let’s not human-centipede our ancient fan traumas into the players’ bloodstreams. Jay Payton is 51 years old; the majority of Tuesday night’s starting infield wasn’t even born when he slunk back to the dugout that night trying to think of a place to hide from Bobby Valentine [12].
2022 is a lot more recent, of course, and current Mets bear the scars of that one. But — and maybe this is just me bargaining with myself, the baseball gods and any other entity that’s listening — at the moment it feels different.
2022’s balloon got popped when Starling Marte [13] got hit in the hand in Pittsburgh, and the washout against the Braves felt like the last sad sigh of escaping air. This year’s incarnation of the Mets has already been through hell and somehow survived. They’ve taken plenty of punches but popped back up after every one, smiling imperturbably like one of those blow-up bop clowns.
And now we get the added complication of the weather: Barring some meteorological miracle, no one is going to be playing baseball in Atlanta on Thursday. And the most optimistic way to describe Wednesday’s forecast is “not as bad as Thursday’s.” Why MLB isn’t packing both these teams onto a charter plane for Dallas or Cincinnati or some neutral site is beyond me, but then a lot of things MLB does these days are beyond me.
Anyway, the Mets got punched. But I get the feeling they’ll pop back up.
Hey, ya gotta believe, right?