The Second Day of the Rest of Whatever This Is

It’s not quite Max Flack and Cliff Heathcote switching teams between games of a doubleheader, but spare a moment of consideration for David Robertson, who was a Met when it started raining and a Marlin when it stopped.

That’s a strange one.

A strange one, but probably not the only oddity heading our way: There was a palpable hum around the Mets as they squared off against the Nationals Friday night at Citi Field, with any player so much as going down the dugout tunnel drawing a curious look. Has Tommy Pham been traded to … oh wait, he just went to the can. Carry on!

At least the Mets played like they were more or less unruffled. OK, maybe an emphasis on the “less,” as Max Scherzer said he needs to have a conversation with ownership about the team’s direction and his future — a reminder, as if you needed one, that $43 million employees are not like most employees. Scherzer will get a friendlier hearing if he keeps pitching the way he did Friday: He was nicked for a homer when he tired in his final inning of work but otherwise superb, with his oft-disobedient slider mostly sliding as directed.

On the other side of the ball, Pete Alonso certainly looks to have shaken off his summer doldrums, connecting for a majestic three-run shot off MacKenzie Gore in the fifth that might have saved the Marlins some money had Robertson waited a night and hopped aboard, then following that with a merely impressive two-run homer to seal the game in his next AB.

With Robertson gone, the Mets are on to Plan C as far as closers are concerned; by Tuesday new possibilities may have unfolded as far as outfielders, middle relievers, starting pitchers and backup catchers are concerned. (Robertson’s replacement is someone named Reed Garrett, whom I confess never having heard of, though rest assured I’ve already secured a card of him for The Holy Books.) Where this will leave the team is of course unknowable; my own quiet hope is that having seen the white flag waved we’ll all be able to let go of this sour, dissatisfying season and simply enjoy the games for themselves. Y’know the drill: One day at a time and the good Lord willing it’ll work out.

Speaking of transitions, we’re on our way to Maine with a weekend pit stop at my in-laws in Connecticut, which meant the game unfolded on the radio via the MLB app. Which, to be clear, is fine: Howie Rose and Keith Raad are good company, though we rolled our eyes at Howie’s extended product placement for some kind of chicken wrap and were mystified at what Keith could have gotten up to in a Nathan’s that couldn’t be shared on radio.

No, the problem is that MLB has pretty much two ads that it runs every half-inning. First you get Spectrum One, advertised via an actually not bad rap, though Emily insists I’m wrong that its lyrics mention “ass down low speeds,” about which I’ll have no comment because I know what I heard. Next you get a radio couple subjecting listeners to an unfunny “you talk in your sleep” bit involving an HGTV lottery and meeting someone named David Bromstad. I have no idea who David Bromstad is but I’m pretty sure if I met him I would punch him in the nose, because I have to hear his name 16 or 17 times if I listen to a ballgame.

There’s a long list of things I think MLB could do better at, and I know most of those things aren’t going to change and are simply the way the world now works. But surely they could sell ads to more outlets than I can count on one hand? Failing that, perhaps they could pay for the straitjacket in which I’ll spend the rest of my days, ass down, moving at low speeds and waiting for David Bromstad to tell me I’ve won whatever the fuck his lottery is.