The Mets lost, and their season is over.
Sean Manaea didn’t have his putaway stuff, Phil Maton looked gassed, and Kodai Senga turned in one good inning but not a second. Meanwhile, the hitters worked solid ABs and kept creating traffic, but couldn’t get the big hit they needed: They were 2 for 9 with runners in scoring position, and left 13 men on base. And — because it’s not always about us — the Dodgers were relentless and effective, with a new fearsome hitter popping up for every formidable one a Mets pitcher dispatched. The Dodgers beat us; they earned their pennant and the opportunity to renew their ancient grudge match against the Yankees.
Emily and I are in Tacoma visiting the kid, a trip put on the calendar before anyone could imagine our rocket ride through Atlanta and Milwaukee and Philadelphia and L.A. The three of us wound up watching in a bar in our hotel, without sound (not a big deal as I’ve heard enough John Smoltz for a lifetime), while everyone else around us was fixated on Jets-Steelers.
It wasn’t the strangest arrangement of the series: I watched Game 5 on the plane from JFK to SEA, relying on my laptop, MLB.tv and Delta’s Wifi. (The seatback TV’s lineup of live channels didn’t include FS1.) Occasionally I was watching in full HD; most of the time the feed was blurry and blocky; multiple times it failed entirely, including with two outs in the ninth. Fortunately the Mets had a reasonably comfortable lead at that point, meaning I was only seriously agitated by having to wait 15 minutes for the Wifi to come back so I could find out what had happened. If the game had been in the balance, I suspect an air marshal would have wound up writing up an incident report.
Emily and I would have watched Game 7 the same way, probably with the same obstacles. There’s the tiniest of silver linings, I suppose. Well, that and the fact that I’ll fly back to New York wearing clean clothes — the lucky 7 Line jersey and Mookie shirt were getting a little suspect.
The Mets are done. We’ll have more to say about that in the days and weeks ahead. But right now I know this much: This team will be loved. Loved, and remembered fondly, and cherished years from now.
Playing October baseball doesn’t guarantee such fond remembrances: The chilly, vaguely misaligned ’88 Mets aren’t loved despite their many ’86 alumni; the ’22 Mets’ season-ending fizzle and quick exit ensured we’d rather not talk about them. And failing to secure a title doesn’t consign a team to also-ran status: The ’99 and ’15 Mets fell short but will be source of joy as long as there are Mets seasons to chronicle.
So it will be with this team, the Mets of Grimace and OMG and “My Girl” and Zesty Mets celebrations, the Mets of unlikely resurrections and unforeseen comebacks. They gave us a magical summer and a joyous fall. Did we want a little more than we got? Of course we did. But I will always think back on what we did get and smile.
Thank you, Mets, from the bottom of this fan’s orange and blue heart.
