As I was getting out of my uniform, Jerry Koosman, whose locker stood next to mine, was slipping into his street clothes. “Wrap it up tomorrow, Koos,” I said. “I don’t want to go back to Baltimore. That place makes Fresno look like Paris.”
“I’ll get ’em,” Jerry said. “I don’t want to go there either.”
—Tom Seaver, The Perfect Game
The whole of the 2024 Mets experience as it stands right now is equal to the sum of its parts, because the parts are so wholly terrific.
I liked the part where the pit of my stomach was added to the postseason roster. This was around 3:30 Tuesday afternoon, as SNY’s extensive pregame coverage kicked off with live shots of Citi Field, and at last, it seemed real that the Mets were going to play home playoff baseball [1]. With that realization that Game Three of the National League Division Series had landed in Queens, it got real real deep inside of me, where I usually feel it this time of year when we have this time of year. It was already very real, and I’d been alternately excited and anxious for more than a month, but this represented tangible emotional escalation. I not only had proverbial skin in the game as a Met fan. I had actual acids churning there, too.
I liked the part where Grimace boarded his specially branded [2] 7 train car and was immediately immersed in a Mets fan group hug. The Grimace thing has gone from eluding me [3] to tickling me. Think of all the purple trick-or-treaters you’re gong to see in a few weeks and how much candy they’ll earn for their costumes.
I liked the part where, on the Mets’ YouTube page, I was able to watch pregame introductions. We saw so many Mets who weren’t eligible to play in the postseason (unlike me and my stomach acids), but they were sanctified as a part of this, too. Jeff McNeil. Drew Smith. Brooks Raley. Brett Baty. Christian Scott in a cast. Alex Young. Pablo Reyes, who pinch-ran once; was designated for assignment; passed through waivers untouched; and now rides with the taxi squad. Hayden Senger, that catcher we called up to keep handy in case Francisco Alvarez didn’t recover from a bat to the facemask or whatever it was that left him a little more than stunned in Milwaukee or wherever it was. So much has happened so fast. So many people have come and gone. Getting this far has a team effort that can be hard to keep track of without notes. Let’s hear everybody’s name called at least once in October.
I liked the part where we forgot Pete Alonso was ever enduring a power drought, let alone the part where every next Pete Alonso at-bat at Citi Field was potentially Pete Alonso’s last at-bat as a Met at home. The Mets had been on the road when Pete the pending free agent regained his power stroke (and how). Now he was where he belonged, putting a baseball where it belonged, way the hell outta here off Aaron Nola for a second-inning 1-0 Mets lead.
I liked the part where Jesse Winker stood to make absolutely certain that his fly ball soaring somewhere toward the vicinity of College Point Blvd. stayed fair. He was just being careful not to expend extra energy taking several steps down the line before ascertaining it wasn’t foul. No, he wasn’t ostentatiously admiring his ostentatious surefire home run to make it Mets 2 Phillies 0 in the fourth inning. Not our Jesse, who can play it any way he wants as far as I’m concerned.
I liked the part where Winker didn’t wasn’t flummoxed by any frustration he might have carried from his previous at-bat, when he was robbed at the alcove wall by Nick Castellanos and rightfully confused by the umpire who called it a non-catch because Castellanos juggled and dropped the ball on the transfer. Jose Iglesias had been on first and had to hold up before dashing to second. Winker stood on first with the longest single in Citi Field history, until replay got it a) right and b) sensible. Winker was ruled out, but Iglesias was allowed to retreat to first despite not tagging up and all that implied once the ball returned to the infield, as right field ump Edwin Moscoso, who didn’t have the best angle on the play, had waved his arms in the “safe” motion. It didn’t lead to any runs, but it also didn’t cast a we can’t get a break pall on what was left of a sunny afternoon in Flushing.
I liked the part where defense came to play. Mark Vientos nailing Alec Bohm at first on a bounding ball that required a mighty fling from foul territory. Tyrone Taylor expertly playing a ball off the right-center field fence and firing a pea to Francisco Lindor to tag Bohm before he could slide into second. I guess I like Bohm being out repeatedly, but I could say the same for any phamiliar Phillie. We know all of them all too well at this point.
I liked the part where Sean Manaea faced little to no trouble most innings and emerged unscathed the inning he encountered just enough turbulence to make the stomach turn. He walks Kyle Schwarber to lead off the sixth after having him down oh-and-two. He walks Trea Turner to make it first and second with nobody out in a 2-0 game with Bryce Harper coming up, hoo boy. Harper, to be followed by Castellanos. This movie didn’t turn out well on Sunday in Philly [4]. But this was a new release in a different park. Our park. Sean struck out Harper and induced from Castellanos a double play liner to Iglesias. Another clean inning where it counted.
I liked the part where the tension of a tight ballgame began to dissipate once Starling Marte lined a bases-loaded single into center to score two with two out in the bottom of the sixth. It was an opportunity cashed in, the kind of thing a team determined to win makes happen. (For the record, I imagine all teams are determined to win, but some show themselves more skilled about manifesting their determination.)
I liked the part where Manaea threw seven pitches to retire three Phillies in the seventh, suggesting he might not be done before the eighth.
I liked the part with the other enormous bases-loaded two-run single, in the bottom of the seventh, this one from Iglesias, who, like Marte, didn’t waste the chance to add on. His big hit made it 6-0, and I noticed the pit of my stomach had been taken out for a pinch of relaxation.
I liked the part where although Manaea allowed a single to lead off the eighth, and Phil Maton and Ryne Stanek each gave up hits that led to runs, I didn’t have to scramble and get some worry up in the bullpen. It was gonna be fine, I told myself without needing to convince myself. Francisco Lindor doubled in the Mets’ seventh run in the bottom of the inning, Stanek settled in for the ninth, and the Mets won [5], 7-2, pushing themselves to within one victory of taking this series…at home.
I loved — LOVED — the part where Carlos Mendoza and his players calmly answered queries in the postgame presser with postseasoned veteran aplomb. I had the sense the reporters were in the same headspace their predecessors were that May night in 1969 when they rushed into the Mets clubhouse in Atlanta after New York reached .500. The Mets had never reached .500 after a season was three games old before, so of course they’d be celebrating. Instead, the players were changing clothes and looking forward to the next game. “You know when we’ll have champagne?” Tom Seaver asked. “When we win the pennant.”
The Mets are so much fun and have so much fun on the field. Yet they are the opposite of the old saw about colorful teams that are all business once they cross the white lines. It’s back in the clubhouse that they emerge out of a phone booth as 26 Clark Kents, mind-bogglingly mild-mannered about their exploits. Very appreciative of the attention they have stoked (they’re the ones who gave us OMG, to say nothing of Pete’s Playoff Pumpkin), very happy to be here, but not at all impressed that they are here. The clichés about just doing what they can, having another game to play, passing the baton, et al, sound so gosh dang genuine coming from them. It’s the “they got this [6]” ethos incarnate. I’ve come to believe it all stems from Mendoza, who has said on more than one occasion — including after Game Three — “we haven’t done anything,” as if he were taking cues from Stevie Wonder [7]. When they lose and he’s asked if it has to do with the stress of the schedule or the impact of injuries, the response usually includes “nobody feels sorry for us.” When they win, and the yearning among the media is for a quote that might pump up the narrative volume, it’s “we haven’t done anything.” Of course they’ve done plenty, but they plan on doing so much more. No (ahem) wonder every question they were thrown about how great it would be to clinch the NLDS at Citi Field in Game Four was purposefully fouled off in service to the grind. As Stevie also intoned [8], gotta keep on trying, ’til you reach your highest ground. A one-game lead after three games of a best-of-five is, for this team, a mere plateau.
I will confess to having had a few sips of champagne on the off night between the Wild Card Series clincher and the Division Series opener. A nice pizza as well, as is Prince family wont when the Mets make the postseason. Circumstances weren’t optimal for our traditional as-merited autumnal celebration [9] when the Mets assured themselves of a playoff presence after they beat the Braves two Mondays ago, so the sliver of respite bracketed by finishing off the Brewers and taking on the Phillies had to do — and it did just fine. Loved the champagne. Loved the pizza. Loved the feeling [10]. I’m for celebrating everything the Mets accomplish. Leave that to the fans. Today, albeit sans bubby, I celebrate that the Mets are respectfully declining the presentation of any participation trophies.