So. Did we have fun?
Let's see. There was Jose Reyes getting scratched before things even started, leading to the somewhat odd sight of Chris Woodward at the top of the lineup. There was Cliff Floyd turning over on an ankle and having to be helped off the field, leading to the somewhat odd sight of Endy Chavez in the middle of the lineup. Then there was Carlos Beltran showing the trainers what he'd hurt after landing hard on the warning track, at which point I may actually have blacked out for holding my breath.
I didn't think any of that was fun.
Oh, the non-injury part of the game? There was Pedro realizing he'd come out of the bullpen weaponless and trying to make it up as he went, only to have even his legendary improv skills desert him. (I tried to convince myself that having been lights-out in May with nothing to show for it, Pedro would logically get a win when he didn't deserve one. Guess not.) There was Heath Bell, doing very little to indicate he's about to reward the faith statheads and stathead wannabes keep putting in him. (Imprison Heath Bell!) And worst of all, there was Jose Valentin trying to figure out what to do with a glove that had suddenly turned to stone.
That wasn't any fun either.
Our 7th-inning insurrection? OK, that was fun — I dared to hope after Saito came in and promptly walked Wright, bringing the tying run to the plate. But is it a crime to have wished for more fun? When Valentin came up, I was thinking redemption, atonement, and all those good qualities baseball can provide to the patient and the pure of heart. And then … Martin set up on the outside corner … and Saito threw a fastball that missed. In fact, it had a good chunk of plate … and Valentin popped it up.
That was particularly no fun.
After Valentin's pop-up came down, I was thinking that tomorrow's the rubber game. Because much as I like Milledge, and much as I believe in our team's heart and moxie and can-do spirit, the baseball gods had spoken.