A Different Kind of Fun

I can feel it coming. Maybe it’ll be this year, or in five or in 10, but it’s a when and not an if: My physician will settle himself or herself on a stool, make sure I’m paying attention, and say the inevitable words.

Mr. Fry, you need to stop watching baseball.

There will be alternatives offered: read all about it the next morning, watch archive versions of the games, experience them after the fact in full-body VR, or who knows what. But the gist will be clear: This is too much stress for you, and you have to make a choice.

The 2024 season transformed from a shrug-your-shoulders disaster to a giddy rocket ride, but now it’s taken another turn. It’s late September, the Mets are throwing haymakers to secure a postseason berth, and that means while the games are still fun, they leave you holding your breath and gritting your teeth. We know the rest of the schedule by heart: nine games, three opponents, one off-day, soaring hopes and spiking worry.

With our recent tormenters from Philadelphia striding back into town I could feel all this long ahead of game time. I knew my mother would be feeling it too — we’ve moved firmly into the territory of postgame texts from the Whew! or F$#@! buckets — so I went over to her apartment to watch with her. (If you’re thinking about physicians referenced above, never fear: Ma long ago proved she’s made of sterner stuff than me.)

What followed was satisfying though also at least mildly terrifying: Luis Severino wasn’t quite as sharp as he’s been in recent outings, though he was pretty good, but Taijuan Walker wasn’t able to duplicate his good work from a relief outing against us in returning to the rotation.

The Mets struck first, with a line-drive home run to left from Mark Vientos followed four pitches later by an impressive opposite-field drive from Pete Alonso. But the Phils struck back in the third, tying the game on a majestic shot from Trea Turner — 436 feet into the second deck, the farthest I can recall Turner ever hitting a ball.

That tied the game, at least for all of a few minutes: Jose Iglesias singled to lead off the bottom of the third and Brandon Nimmo connected for his second homer in as many days, restoring the Mets’ two-run lead. A Brandon Marsh single in the fourth brought the Phils back within a run, but the Mets answered again in their half, with Francisco Alvarez absolutely destroying a Walker non-sinker. Before the ball cleared the infield I was up and thrusting my arms skyward in triumph, while Alvarez lingered to admire his work before beginning his knees-up show-pony strut around the bases.

(Side note: It amuses me to think of Alvarez blundering into a time machine, finding himself in the mid-90s, and being hit by approximately 45 pitches in his first week of ABs. I think the game is more fun because of home-run celebrations and better now that said displays don’t spark blood feuds, but I do sometimes shake my head at how much has changed.)

The Mets now led 7-3; it was 9-3 after Jose Ruiz offered Walker a conspicuous lack of relief. Had the hammer been brought down? No, not with too many innings left and the Phillies lineup still to be contended with. Danny Young faltered in the seventh, giving up a run and leaving Reed Garrett to contend with first and third, one out and Turner and Bryce Harper due up.

Garrett struck out Turner, but there’s death, there’s taxes and there’s Bryce Harper facing the Mets: Harper sent a disobedient splitter to the right-field gap and the Phils were within three with seven outs left to secure.

But once again, the Mets answered back in their half: This time it was Jose Alvarado on the mound, with Luisangel Acuna (our recent mini-MVP) tripling in Alvarez, who relied on momentum to get himself home after the fuel indicator hit E about 45 feet past third.

Honestly, there’s no better baum for a jittery baseball soul than an answering run (or three, or six, or an infinite number). When Alvarez flopped across the plate and called for an oxygen tank, the Mets had scored 10 runs for the third straight game — the first time they’ve done so in their history, though that seems hard to believe.

A four-run lead wasn’t quite large enough for my tastes (why not 40???), not with the carousel clicking back toward Kyle Schwarber and Turner and Harper. But Ryne Stanek navigated around minimal trouble in the eighth and Carlos Mendoza called on Edwin Diaz. Diaz has sometimes lacked a certain focus when it isn’t a save chance, but this night he looked locked, erasing Knothole Clemens on three pitches, fanning Schwarber and coaxing a harmless fly from Turner. That left Harper in the on-deck circle, which is a wise idea: I’m pretty sure a game-tying grand slam isn’t possible with nobody on base (though give Rob Manfred’s detestable nest of MBAs a few years to reconsider), but if anyone could engineer one against us, it’s Harper.

He couldn’t and didn’t and so the Mets had won — won on a night when the Braves and Diamondbacks wound up on top, and taken another day of the calendar. My heart will endure, at least for another day.