“FUCK!” I screeched when Francisco Lindor [1] rolled over one to second in the seventh inning, and if I do say so myself, I was in midseason form. Dismay, frustration, pique — they were all audible and apparent. Then I whacked the couch just to underscore the point.
It was a night in which I had plenty of opportunities to work on my form, as the Mets frustrated us and were frustrated by the Twins on Jackie Robinson [2] Day, losing by a 6-3 deficit [3] that simultaneously felt narrower and wider than the numbers indicated. Narrower because they were in the game the entire time, with Lindor the tying run as he swung through 101 MPH from Jhoan Duran [4] to make it official (and elicit another fuck/whack combo from me); wider because once the Twins took a 3-2 lead it felt like the kind of game that was going to stay stubbornly out of reach.
Lindor’s already been mentioned twice in the frustration department; his third-inning muff of what looked like a routine grounder extended an inning and led to the first two Twins runs. Tylor Megill [5] looked good early but then started leaking oil, winding up on the short end of a duel between gigantic hurlers that also starred Bailey Ober [6]. Juan Soto [7] and Jesse Winker [8] both got hangers in key spots but missed their pitches, offering up the classic “oh I’d like that one back” face a second later. Even Max Kranick [9] looked mortal for the first time in his very young Mets career. At least old friend Harrison Bader [10] had fun, leading the Twins’ attack and looking typically colorful and cheerful in doing so.
Fuck. Whack. Repeat. It was that kind of night. Here’s to a different kind of day.