Hate to break it to those who see irreparable cracks in the plaster with each occasional pockmark (which is like all of us), but the Mets are fine. Some nights indeed beg the question, “What, exactly, was that bullshit?” and demand the manager deliver an early-morning tongue-lashing. But those nights, when they're followed by these days, tend to be more infrequent than they seem.
Good teams win games like today's. They occasionally lose games like last night's, but they put them behind them more often than not. More often than not, they win all kinds of games. Since the Interleague hiccup, cresting when our erstwhile fifth starter was grilled up like Filet of Alay, the Mets have played 14 games.
They took three of four from Pittsburgh.
They split four with Florida.
They took two of three in Chicago.
They took two of three in Cincinnati.
That's 9-5, a .642 clip. Even if they're not necessarily playing up to their national magazine cover notices, that's a pace that wins you 104 games over 162. That's winning most series and losing none. That's against a cross-section of the undermanned, the feisty, the crummy and the dangerous. That's who's available to be beaten and they've been beaten 9 of 14. That's good stuff.
I wouldn't necessarily have the foam finger I've had surgically attached to my right hand removed if we had lost the getaway game to Cincinnati, but the resilience and stubbornness on display at Great American is a prime example of what separates us from the Reds-raff. We're the team that found ways to head off leadoff rallies inning after inning. We're the team that threw balls to the right bases and made convincing enough tags to sway flighty umps. We're the team whose fourth and fifth relievers could be at least set-up men for many others. We're the team that salvages Chavezes and destroys opponents' dreams with them.
Feels good to be on the right side of these things as often as we are.