Restorative Justice, or At Least Close Enough

The City Connects were the perfect uniform for Saturday night’s Mets game, played in murky gray conditions with an inescapable wet chill, cascades of mist wafting through the air, and any ball that touched outfield grass leaving a spray of droplets to mark its progress.

A surprisingly big crowd showed up despite the obvious attractions of watching from a warm couch (my choice) or a friendly barstool instead. Now, no one who follows baseball makes it to their late teens without realizing that the sport is a lousy vehicle for restorative justice. Baseball doesn’t care that you’re one of the hearties sitting in the misty Promenade, that your commute to the ballpark was taxing and unpleasant, or that you’ve been having a rough go of it and would greatly appreciate a ringside seat for a win.

But sometimes you get a win, even when it looks like you won’t.

Former Met Chris Bassitt escaped harm from leadoff doubles in the first and second and then went to work, eviscerating the Mets with selections from his deep arsenal. I always liked Bassitt, who goes about his business looking vaguely pissed off and determined to blame hitters for it, and mourned his rather obvious lack of interest in further duty with the Mets after his lone season with us.

Griffin Canning wasn’t quite as good as Bassitt in his second Mets start, though he was still perfectly fine; he and Jose Butto were undone by an irritating fourth inning that saw Toronto find infield holes with three ground balls in sequence, good for a 1-0 Blue Jay lead. That lead became 2-0 in the sixth, as Butto surrendered back-to-back two-out doubles before Huascar Brazoban — pitching this year with better control and what looks like more conviction — calmed things down.

The Mets then arguably caught a break in the bottom of the seventh, when Toronto manager John Schneider removed Bassitt, who’d thrown 92 pitches and looked, at least to me, like he had plenty left. Yimi Garcia surrendered a single to Brett Baty and walked Jose Siri, but escaped when Starling Marte had a desultory at-bat as a pinch-hitter.

Brendon Little wasn’t so lucky in the eighth, however; with two on and two out Jesse Winker lashed a knuckle-curve that got too much plate to right-center. Winker thought it was out, and if hadn’t been a cold soggy night in April he would have been correct; as it was the ball just eluded George Springer, who was hurt on the play, and Winker wound up with his second triple of the chilly night and a tie game.

Edwin Diaz navigated a somewhat bumpy top of the ninth and the Mets went to work against Nick Sandlin, whom I remember carving them up as a Guardian last summer. With one out Siri walked for the second time, which is both admirable and a little startling. Luis Torrens, a late scratch called upon after Carlos Mendoza pinch-hit for Hayden Senger, spanked a single over the infield to bring in Jays closer Jeff Hoffman with Francisco Lindor at the plate.

Lindor wasted no time, a kind gesture as not even the Citi Field hearties had much stomach for free baseball on this night. Hoffman’s first pitch turned out to be the only one he’d throw: a slider that sat in the middle of the plate and which Lindor whacked to center field. It was one of those plays where you put your hands up instantly because everything is going to be just fine unless the runner leaving from third pulls a hamstring, there’s an earthquake, or the Rapture occurs.

None of those things came to pass: Siri trotted home unmolested, Lindor got showered in water and bored-ballplayer snacks, and all involved got to go home and warm up. It made for a grinding yet ultimately interesting game and a Mets win. Restorative justice? Nah — as we’ve covered, baseball doesn’t do that. But on a chilly April night it felt close enough.