And It’s Only April

“No way we were losing that game!” I exclaimed the instant after we won that game, “that game” being Wednesday afternoon’s ten-inning thriller at Citi Field and “we” being the New York Mets, with me implicit in the first-person plural. Of course there were many ways we could have lost that game, as most games offer inflection points where things can go right or go wrong, depending on your perspective of right and wrong. From our perspective, it would have been wrong for the Mets to lose that game, therefore everything turned out right.

That’s been going on a lot lately, and who outside of Philadelphia is to complain?

There were two calls within the 4-3 Mets win that in just about every other season of Mets baseball I’m convinced would have been adjudicated differently. Neither of them directly impacted the outcome, but each had that “when you’re going horse[bleep], horse[bleep] things happen to you” feel to it. That bit of baseball wisdom would seem to apply to the Phillies these days.

One was Rob Thomson not being granted a replay review when Juan Soto threw out Nick Castellanos at the plate on Hayden Senger’s effective block and tag in the eighth inning. Video indicated there was no way Castellanos got his hand in, so unless there was a secret angle we weren’t seeing, no harm, no foul with no second look. Still, a manager being told, nope, you can’t have a review because you were a few seconds too late making your request felt like the kind of thing a Terry Collins or a Luis Rojas or any manager skippering on our behalf would have heard. Instead, it was told to the manager from the other dugout.

Thomson also didn’t get satisfaction after Castellanos was unbalked from second to first in the tenth. This was really an inning when the wrong way was in sight. Edwin Diaz, after a strong ninth, is pitching with the Ghost of Bryce Harper on second. Edwin strikes out Kyle Schwarber, but Ghost of Bryce steals third, because Edwin learned to hold runners on from Adam Ottavino. The infield comes in, which doesn’t make a difference when Castellanos shoots a single past a diving Mark Vientos. The Phillies take a 3-2 lead, which, honestly, felt a long time coming.

Brett Baty had hit a two-run homer in the second, but Zack Wheeler put the hammer down thereafter. Meanwhile, David Peterson had one inning in his five-and-third that involved a little more breaking than bending, when two Phillie runs crossed in the fourth. It was two-two forever, and the longer Wheeler goes giving up nothing, the more impregnable he seems to become. Fortunately, he went only six. The Phillies came oh-so-close to going ahead in the eighth, but there was Castellanos’s hand scraping dirt. The Mets came kinda close to winning in the ninth, with all the pieces in place for a cuckoo celebration when, with two out, Luisangel Acuña singled (I’d been thinking, “not the worst thing in the world here if he’s the final out because then he’s the ghost runner in the tenth”; shame on me) and late-inning magician Luis Torrens singled off the bench. Up came Francisco Lindor, and of course Lindor’s gonna get it done. Except, somehow, Lindor doesn’t get it done, and we have extras, and we have Diaz getting stolen on, and Vientos not nabbing the Castellanos single, and the Phillies breaking that tie.

Which brings us back around to Rob Thomson’s lack of satisfaction, for Diaz is on the mound disengaging from the rubber one too many times and has a balk called on him, which is technically what an umpire has to do. Except Diaz isn’t remotely trying to deceive the runner. The runner is Castellanos. He’ll figure out how to deceive himself. Edwin’s problem, we would learn, is a hip cramp. These guys do all kinds of stretching and take in (if we are to judge by the supplies on the bench) all kinds of fluids, but I guess it happens. Carlos Mendoza, Jeremy Hefner, and a trainer with a towel — always with a towel, I notice — come out and Diaz exits due to injury. We don’t know that it’s apparently not a big deal at the moment; in my mind, I’m thinking, “We had that great start in 1972 that was short-circuited by injuries, and here we are again.” I’m not even worried that we’re facing a runner on second with one out and, with Huascar Brazoban, Danny Young, and Jose Butto having already been used (and done well), Max Kranick coming in cold. Of course the game is about to be lost. I just hope the season isn’t going with it.

If conclusion-jumping were an Olympic event, I’d own at least a bronze medal.

The umpires decided in their wisdom that since Diaz wasn’t doing any serious balking versus Castellanos, he didn’t really balk. The man was in physical distress and trying to get loose or let the dugout know he required attention. So never mind the balk. Castellanos, you’re back on first. Thomson was upset again. I’m not sure I’d ever seen a balk overturned, and maybe the Phillies manager hadn’t. I have seen balks called for less egregious movements. No matter, for when Kranick finally declares himself warm, he walks the next batter and Castellanos lands on second with nobody out, anyway. Plus the batter, JT Realmuto, is now a baserunner, too, so don’t pout, Phillies. Sure, maybe Kranick would have grooved one to Realmuto if he was burdened by knowing a runner was on second rather than first when he came in. It’s unknowable, except for sensing that this is the sort of thing we can picture having happened to Mickey Callaway or Jerry Manuel or, despite his Talmudic knowledge of the rulebook, Buck Showalter. The Mets and their managers inevitably get screwed. That’s gospel.

Got some newer testament for us. Kranick, coming in under dire circumstances two days after throwing 36 pitches — and after allowing a single too short to score Castellanos from second — escapes. With the bases loaded, Bryson Stott flies to shallow center. Not gonna send Castellanos here, either. Max Kepler flies to right. Not gonna score anybody. The Phillies lead, 3-2, yet linger on the precipice of doom.

The Ghost of Francisco Lindor gives us more than a ghost of chance standing on second to start the bottom of the tenth. Soto, renowned thus far for everything but his power (it’ll come, I swear it will), produces the most productive weak grounder to the right side we could have asked for, placing Ghost of Francisco on third. All we need from Pete Alonso is a deep fly ball to ensure this game keeps going. We got more than we needed on a double into the right-center gap. It’s 3-3 now. Spiritually, this is a 16-inning game minimum, but we have spirits as runners so as to avoid true marathons. We might as well win this in ten.

Thomson orders Jordan Romano to walk Brandon Nimmo, meaning we have runners on first and second for Vientos. It would have been a good spot for Vientos to pull an NLCS Game Two and take personally the notion that an opposing manager would rather face him than a veteran. Maybe he did take it personally, but he couldn’t manifest that into anything useful. Mark struck out. But Starling Marte, who still very much exists despite his reduced role, comes up and singles to a patch of center field that facilitates Alonso’s trip home from second. Pete runs like a stocking in that you hope nobody stares and notices that it’s not quite something you’d intentionally show off in public, but he covers the area he needs to. The Polar Bear belly flops across the plate, and the Mets win, 4-3.

Let the cuckoo celebration commence! The first-place Mets at 18-7 are up by five game over last year’s division champs, who weren’t getting the calls or any wins during their three-day stay in Flushing. Pity for them. Hooray for us. Seven consecutive victories, best record in baseball, our cramping closer in one piece per his and his manager’s postgame briefings, and two key players we’ve done everything to this point without — Francisco Alvarez and Jeff McNeil — due back this weekend in Washington when the Mets don their updated road jerseys with the cheerful orange and blue accents and endeavor to keep the good times rolling.

“It’s only April” is usually what you say to tamp down enthusiasm. I’d add an “and” at the front of that sentiment to best reflect the Metsian mood of the month. We’re playing beautifully with not every single cylinder yet firing to its fullest extent, we’re pitching better than our lack of name-brand ace would have foretold, we’re clutch on both sides of the ball, we’ve been winning literally every day for the past week…and it’s only April.

Five or so more months of this? Maybe six? We’ll take it if we can have it.