The following is not to be construed as an endorsement of playing a regular-season baseball game on a Sunday night, particularly when that game was originally scheduled to be played on a Sunday afternoon, and it’s definitely not an endorsement of any television network that has purchased the contractual right to move this baseball game to a Sunday night for the right to air it, but in the hours and hours and hours leading up to first pitch Sunday, I found myself thinking the finale of the Mets-Phillies series in which we’d been engrossed since Thursday truly fit the bill of prime time fare. It deserved to be under the lights. It deserved to be offered to a national audience. It deserved vintage Al Michaels and Tim McCarver, too, but you can’t have everything.

Me, I couldn’t have the traditional communing-with-my-team experience that I derive annually from Closing Day at Citi Field, that last trip to the ballpark where I can sit back and take in the last home baseball of the year with wistfulness and reflection and the sense of hard-earned closure that comes with easing into what we think of as winter now that the season is behind us. It’s a big deal for me, and ESPN and the Mets conspired to take it away from me, each in their own way.

ESPN wanted programming. Eff them.

The Mets decided they wanted to keep playing baseball beyond late September and went about it in the most effective manner imaginable.

Bless them.

Thus, off I went on Sunday evening to Citi Field for the Mets’ final regularly scheduled home game of 2024, doing essentially the same thing I have done — usually on a Sunday afternoon — every non-pandemic year since 1995, thirty-one times in all since 1985. This certainly wasn’t the first instance Home Game 81 coincided with a given season’s TBD nature where its finality was concerned. I’ve been to Closing Days and Nights when playoff spots were still up for grabs, and Closing Days and Nights when playoff spots were already secure and we knew we’d see more of Flushing in the fall. This year’s version, however, felt so of its moment that it seemed superfluous to let my mind drift toward how all of this is on the verge of ending, if not today, then soon.

No, that was for other years. This year on this Closing Night was all about the now. All about the Mets continuing to win. All about the Mets improbably striding toward a postseason qualification that eluded the critical mass of predictions and projects as recently as, I swear, ten minutes before. All about the Mets attempting to not only beat the Phillies, but prevent the Phillies from congratulating one another heartily on the clinching of our division in our ballpark. I once left Shea Stadium an inning before the end of a Mets-Braves game in late September because the Braves were about to clinch the NL East in front of me. No thank you to that finality. But that wasn’t a Closing Night. I never leave early when Closing is in the game’s title. Honestly, though, the possibility of the Phillies’ reaping their spoils was a sidebar. The Mets had to win on Sunday night for their own purposes. If they didn’t, it didn’t really matter how happy whoever else was.

The Braves of 2024, who I keep hearing aren’t quite the Braves of years past, did a very vintage Braves thing Sunday afternoon and held off the Marlins. The Diamondbacks blew an enormous lead to the Brewers. Arizona’s standing concerned us very much. Milwaukee is a part of our immediate future and maybe a little more. The Padres were trailing the White Sox, but does anybody ever keep trailing the White Sox? Not this year. Shake all that up and roll it on the table and it meant the Mets would mathematically survive a loss to the Phillies with six games to go. They’d be no worse than one game ahead of Atlanta as three at Truist Park awaited, and they’d be a game behind Arizona, with whom they hold a tiebreaker. San Diego would be four up, but they seem peripheral to the conversation at this point…though “this point” this year has had a habit of giving way to whole new points.

The point here is Closing Night 2024 wasn’t as Must Win as some other Closing affairs for which I’ve sat on seat edges, but it needed to be won. The 2024 Mets hadn’t come as far as they had to lose a game like this.

I sure hoped somebody told Zack Wheeler that.

Having embodied the spirit of Carrie Underwood by waiting all day for Sunday night, Stephanie and I boarded a westbound 5:19, changed at Jamaica, got off at Woodside, and made the skip-stop 7 to Mets-Willets Point that was just pulling in upstairs. Final Sunday with my wife is a tradition that often overlaps with Closing Day. I warned her ESPN was getting its grubby hands on the start time and we’d be out late. She said fine. I also told her somebody was doing me a great favor and passing along admission for us, but because demand for the last regularly scheduled home game was higher than anticipated — Brandon Nimmo’s exhortations worked wonders — we wouldn’t be sitting where we usually sit at the end of the schedule, so no cover in case of rain (none in the forecast) and no retreating into club space for whatever reason (none materialized). She said fine again. She’s very fine that way.

So there we were, same old park, another Sunday. We tapped our toes on our brick outside, walked through security twice apiece and were welcomed to Citi Field for Fan Appreciation Weekend. The second walk through security was presumably our premium. Lines were everywhere, but we were early enough to take on a steadily snaking Shake Shack queue. I took great pleasure in appointing myself “NEXT!” monitor when those in front of me didn’t respond to the first open ordering slot. I tried the Chicken Shack. It took me back to Wendy’s on Fowler Avenue my freshman year at USF. Make of that what you will.

Our tickets were in 508, Row 8. The person who provided them was apologetic that a better spot wasn’t available. I couldn’t think of a place I’d rather have been than 508 Sunday night. Promenade has evolved into my jam over the years. As long as you’re not way up, the climb isn’t a chore. As long as you’re not way off to the sides, you can see almost everything you need to see (and there’s nowhere at Citi Field where you can see everything). Sunday night versus the first-place Phillies with our own playoff berth in sight meant the vast majority of our neighbors were focused on what was happening down below. That’s not always the case at any baseball game. Baseball took center stage Sunday night for every Mets fan around us, save maybe those trying to get in on the discounted hot dogs and pretzels that kept lines snaking on the concourse.

The venue’s A/V squad made sure we’d stay hyped up for nine innings. We didn’t need the help. A warning was posted pregame about flashing lights and strobes in case you’re sensitive. You know, you could just have a baseball game and not worry about bringing on seizures, but I suppose we’re past that as a sporting society. We didn’t need the hype, but here it came. Very loud. Very bright, except when it was very dark as prelude to it getting very bright. Even louder. If any of this made life more difficult for the Phillies, perhaps it was done for a good cause. People seemed to know to chant Let’s Go Mets on their own. We’re very practiced in our folkways.

We see Kyle Schwarber, we boo. We see Trea Turner, we boo just as much. We see Bryce Harper, we answer calls from pollsters to register our disapproval as soon as we’re done booing. Tylor Megill couldn’t have been in favor of facing this top of the order and the Phillies who followed, though, hey, look, Tylor Megill is pitching as big a game as the Mets have that isn’t in Atlanta in late September. To quote Lenny from That Thing You Do!, Skitch, how did we get here?

Megill got to the rotation because our Mets, for all their chronic coming through from June on, have four healthy, dependable starting pitchers, plus Tylor Megill, who’s healthy…and dependable? Yeah, pretty much. Still, the only statlike item available for obsessing on prior to a game is the pitching matchup. Tylor Megill versus Zack Wheeler. We showed up, anyway.

So did Megill. He shut down the Nationals with relative ease this past Tuesday. The Nationals wear uniforms trimmed in red, thus ending their resemblance to the Phillies. Megill struck out Schwarber to begin the proceedings Sunday night. It was an admirable achievement, never mind that Schwarber, when not homering, strikes out roughly once per plate appearance. Then Turner singles and advances to second on a wild pitch. Harper strikes out, which is as fun as it sounds. Alec Bohm, less fun, singles home Turner. Fun takes a breather. Megill gives up a single to Nick Castellanos and walks Alec Bohm. Fun excuses itself to exhale into a paper bag. With the bases loaded, J.T. Realmuto lines out deep to center, where Tyrone Taylor ends the top of the first with minimal damage done.

Then it’s time to encounter an Old Friend™, and we couldn’t be less pleased to renew acquaintances. Prior to Sunday night, the Mets in 2024 had pitched or hit against 38 former Mets. They saved the best/worst for last. Is there a better ex-Met active than Zack Wheeler? Could you think of a worse opponent to encounter en route to Atlanta? We somehow missed Zack in all the other Phillie series until now. Thanks for waiting for us.

Had Steve Cohen bought the Mets a year before he did, Zack Wheeler would still be a Met. Had everything else about this season played out as it had, everything about planning for the Braves series would have hinged on making sure Zack pitched against them for the Mets. Except everything else about this season would have played out differently, because we would have had Wheeler all year and we’d probably have been the ones on the verge of clinching a division title and yet another playoff berth. That’s how good Zack Wheeler has been for the Phillies since leaving the Mets. That’s how good Zack Wheeler has been in 2024. That’s how daunting it was to look down from 508 and watch Zack Wheeler work, throwing almost nothing but strikes and watching the Mets put up almost nothing but zeroes.

But enough spilled milk over the pitcher who got away just as he was getting the hang of pitching at an elite level. Zack Wheeler is a Phillie and he must be held in contempt. I know I held his ability to overcome a leadoff single to Jose Iglesias — 16-game hitting streak — in contempt. Wheeler didn’t even have the decency to feed Pete Alonso a gopher ball after we stood and applauded the Polar Bear in case he makes like Wheeler and moves on to other habitats once his contract is up. Pete knew a home run in that situation would have been beautiful. I wish he didn’t know that, that instead he’d just make some contact with Iglesias on first. Still, I joined in standing and saluting Pete’s six years as a Met and hope there will be a whole lot more. Obvious flaws at the plate notwithstanding, Pete inhabits his role as The Man on this team well. I don’t have the wherewithal to break in another The Man.

A bulletin arrived during the bottom of the second inning: Zack Wheeler is not infallible. I repeat, Zack Wheeler is not infallible. As if life was found on other planets, we were shocked to be presented evidence in the form of a two-out Mark Vientos double that was succeeded by a Tyrone Taylor RBI single to tie the score at one. Somewhere, Karl Ehrhardt brandished a sign reading TYRONE POWER. Luisangel Acuña then singled to continue the rally.

Then Zack Wheeler regained his infallibility to end it. But it was 1-1 after two. Bob Murphy usually saved “fasten your seat belts” for the ninth, but it was good advice for the many innings ahead. Tylor Megill was still on the mound, still working deep counts, but in the most resonant manifestation of OMG imaginable, he didn’t give up anything else. Six pitches to Turner before flying him out in the third, then seven pitches needed to strike out Harper and six more to get Bohm looking. If anybody could be said to have gotten out of a jam in a 1-2-3 inning, it was Tylor Megill.

The top of the fourth was messier: a single; a wild pitch; a walk…but no runs, either. It stayed 1-1 long enough for Megill to have thrown 83 pitches and give up only the one run. Carlos Mendoza, who loves to reference “traffic” on the bases, noticed the pileup of baserunners Tylor had somehow swerved and avoided and figured the rabbit’s foot in his pocket had generated its last ounce of luck. It was bullpen time at Citi Field in September in the fifth.

That’s lucky? It was good luck that Phil Maton was out there and super rested, having last pitched four days earlier. I’d kind of forgotten he existed. Mendy knew from Phil, and Phil knew how to get out Phillies. Six up and six down in the fifth and sixth, assisted by a diving Polar Bear who treated a would-be base hit like it was a salmon trying to escape upstream. Maton was a lifesaver versus a lineup with no hole in its middle. Meanwhile, Wheeler was breezing along, just like the breeze blowing in from right, a wind you definitely didn’t want to get your one long fly ball up in, because you’d really like your one long fly ball to suss out a path over a fence. Even great pitchers give up gophers unintentionally, I vaguely recall. It had been so long since I’d seen a pitcher like modern-day Zack Wheeler that I couldn’t remember if there was any solving them.

Brandon Nimmo has solutions. The Mets weren’t selling enough tickets despite every game being so vital and the team being so captivating? He shouted into Steve Gelbs’s mic the other night that we had to come out, and consecutive sellouts materialized Saturday and Sunday. This guy could move virtual paper. But he could move the mountain represented by his former teammate on the hill?

Brandon, the rare Met who we’ve watched come of age gradually and therefore not necessarily wondered where the time went, connected for a long and high fly to right. Would it be so long and so high to negotiate the wind and avert the grasp of a leaping Castellanos?

It would. Just barely. But it counted. Mets 2 Phillies 1 after six. In language the visiting fans would understand, it turned out Ivan Drago was human after all. Wheeler had been bloodied just enough. Just as the Mets have their destiny in their hands if they want to make the playoffs (though you instinctively wish they could hire somebody to ferry it for them), this game was now in their control. They had the lead. Never mind Wheeler. Just don’t give up any more runs, and you’ve got this.

Because that always works.

Jose Butto, another solid Met reliever I swear I’d forgotten about, pitched a perfect seventh. In the middle of the inning, we stood for “God Bless America” (still?), “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” and “Lazy Mary”. We were told then, and in the eighth when we sang along to Earth Wind & Fire in praise of the Twenty-First Night of September, and throughout the evening what great fans we are, that we’re the best in the world — even if we need a torrent of sound, an explosion of lights and an exhortation from Brandon Nimmo to hype us to capacity. And how about that Grimace, huh? In those moments of congratulations for being us, I felt like a bit of a fraud. In 2024, eight was the new ten for me. This was the first year since 1996 that I hadn’t been to double-digit Met games, so I was trying to get to only 4-4 in The Log, a far cry from those years when I was writing down the details of personal records like 23-21 (last year of Shea) and 26-10 (first year of Citi). I can’t say I missed the chronic going. I like my couch. I like my TV. I love my GKR and endure the ESPNs and such when so deprived. There’s something about the game-going experience that has passed me by ever so slightly. I want to watch the game and think about the game and connect with the game either in my head or via softly spoken running commentary that my wife nods at while on her iPad. You can thank me for being among the best fans in the world, but just know we’re not all the same.

The bottom of the seventh brought more Wheeler. Of course it did. I’d look up at the scoreboard intermittently to learn he’d thrown something like 82 pitches, 72 of them for strikes. I always wish there was no DH, but Sunday night I really wanted to see Zack Wheeler stand in the on-deck circle so we could confirm, uh-huh, yeah, they’re leaving him in to bat for himself. Those days are gone forever. Like good, old-fashioned National League baseball, I should just let them go. Zack actually walked Francisco Alvarez to lead off the seventh, but proceeded to chill our next three boys of summer to keep the game 2-1.

Those prone to seizures were about to be on their own. Lights and strobes and sounds. Edwin Diaz was entering. It’s a show they’ve honed to an audio/visual tee. Even I’m not curmudgeon enough to begrudge our closer his grand entrance on the cusp of the ninth inning.

But this was the eighth. Carlos was bringing in Edwin here. Made perfect sense. The top of the order was up. If you’re not going to keep Butto on the job (I wasn’t sure why you wouldn’t), you don’t save your saver for the usual saving slot. You get the game saved when you’re facing Schwarber, Turner and Harper.

Schwarber struck out several hours in advance of the sun rising in the east. One out. But pesky Turner singled and stole second, the latter predictable as Edwin Diaz isn’t about holding runners on. He was concentrating on Harper, and good thing he was. Harper struck out. Then Turner stole third. Sure, whatever. Just get the next guy, Bohm. Bohm was gotten on a grounder to Cool Hand Luisangel.

Diaz had done what he needed to do after retiring four batters to end Saturday’s game. I didn’t know who was going to pitch the ninth, but one inning at a time. And maybe with Wheeler out of there…Wheeler’s still in there? He went away after 2019. Why can’t he go away now? Fortunately, the closest thing Zack apparently has to Kryptonite, Iglesias, singled to lead off and that was it for the ex-Met. As he left, many of us stood to jeer. I stood to applaud a bit because my memory is not that of a goldfish, and then I waved my cap in his direction as if to say, go, keep going, get into the dugout.

Against Matt Strahm, Brandon Nimmo struck out, Pete Alonso (still getting applauded) grounded out, and slumping J.D. Martinez pinch-hit for Jesse Winker and finally answered what the “D” in his name stands for.

Darin Ruf. J.D. struck out.

OK, ninth inning. Um, who’s gonna pitch? Diaz? Really? I mean, yeah, you don’t remove your closer in the ninth inning of a one-run game with virtually everything on the line versus your first-place rival, et al, but four outs yesterday and you want six today? I know we have an off day Monday. So does Mendoza, I guess. What the hell, we already paid for trumpets.

The ninth does not go as smoothly as the eighth. One out is recorded quickly, but then Bryson Stott walks and steals second. Realmuto, who has a penchant for killing us in ninth innings I’m pretty sure, is about to strike out, but Stott is going to take third. Alvarez is going to throw. It’s going to be futile. Stott’s going to be safe. And the ball is going…where? Vientos isn’t quite there to catch it, so it hits the bag. And the ball is going…where? It bounces in such a way that Vientos can grab it before total disaster erupts. Stott can advance no further. From 508, it appears pretty lucky. On replay, I can see it was a fricking miracle.

Which is swell and on brand all that, but there’s still Stott on third and there’s about to be Brandon Marsh on first via four-pitch walk and the spawn of Roger Clemens is coming up. Oh, for crissake, have I really lived this long?

Yes, I have, and good thing I did. Edwin Diaz strikes out Kody Clemens, and the Mets have hung on, 2-1, and the Mets have returned to two games ahead of the Braves and into a tiebreaker-holding tie with the Diamondbacks and within five games of the Phillies, who have the tiebreaker for the division, and that’s just being silly at this point, but those em-ephers didn’t clinch, and that’s not nothin’. We have won this incredibly big game that also happened to be Closing Night, and I realize in the final moments after rising from my seat edge to cheer Diaz to his final strike that I’m just hitting my stride in 2024. I’m not a fraud. I am a fan. I do belong here. I’ve caught up to the game.

I’m in no rush to leave, which is fortunate, because the Promenade concourse is jammed like it was after Game Four of the 2015 World Series, which didn’t have a great result, but you like how I just slipped the idea of the Mets getting to the World Series in there? Without the scoreboard prompting us, we started up chants of Let’s Go Mets, we let them peter out, and we started them again. We peppered our LGMs with reminders to the minority in our midst that the Phillies suck, and there was no response that definitively countered our assertion. We got down the stairs eventually. We got onto the 7 Somewhat Express eventually. We stood at Woodside for a while. I kept hearing Let’s Go Mets, not only in my head, but a lot there, for sure. It continues to resonate the day after.