We know how to do disgust, despair, dismal, dismay, disillusion, derision, desperate, diatribe, depressed, disturbed…but I think we've forgotten how to do plain ol' dandy.
We'll give it a shot, though. Bear with us, as it's going to take a little while to recall how this works.
Friday night, the Mets…won?…yes…won.
They won!
Did we spell “won” correctly?
The win came only after they nearly blew…no, wait…they didn't nearly blow anything.
Tarnishing the win, however was the sad…no, nothing sad to report.
Shea's breath was collectively held in the late innings when Billy Wagner…correction, we're getting a correction…Billy Wagner didn't pitch, no breath was held.
Oliver Perez got himself in his usual…checking on that…say, he didn't get himself in anything! Pitched real well, apparently.
Honest!
The Mets' nonexistent offense left runners…hold on…the offense apparently did exist and, from what we can gather…yes, it's true…produced runs.
Several, it seems.
One bad break after another…sorry, was looking at an old script…no bad breaks. None.
Willie Randolph's mishandling of both the pitching and the lineup…didn't exist? It didn't? Really? Just confirming…yeah, it was fine. He was fine. Team managed well.
The bullpen, however, was another story…uh…no, actually same story. It was fine.
Casting a further shadow on the proceedings was an injury that will keep…huh? No new injuries? Oh.
Still, the depleted roster…what's that? New outfielder joining the team? A real one? Wow.
As a Mets fan, one is left to complain about and criticize…nothing. Absolutely nothing. For one night, everything was excellent.
Ya don't say?
For once, we do.
I think I know what happened.
I took my 11-year-old son to his first game of the season back in May, and the Mets did the usual — jump out to an early lead, opponents start chipping away, bullpen can't close the door, Mets start to rally in the eighth but the middle of the order chokes with men on, nothing doing in the ninth, aggravating loss.
Before we left the stadium, though, we stopped at the souvenir stand because I had promised him a hat. He looks at the piles of blue ones with an orange logo (like mine), and black ones with a blue logo, and so on — and then points and says “that one” — the only tan Mets hat in the place, the only one I've ever seen, deep in a pile on one side of the stand. It fits, we pay, we leave. But up until last night, he had not yet worn it to a game.
Until last night.
Now we realize — it's not a tan hat, it's a golden hat!
I think last night's uncommon occurrence can be chalked up to the fact that it was Friday the 13th.
Indeed. The Mets were bad luck to bad luck, resulting in a periodic outbreak of good luck.