The beach? Lovely.
The Mets? Did I mention the beach was lovely?
We're staying for the week on Long Beach Island, one of our favorite places in the world between the beach, the general atmosphere of non-New York Cityness, the best beach burger place a body could ask for (Woodies [1]) and, oh yeah, the fact that LBI has SNY on its cable system and is comfortably within WFAN range.
This is the first time we've been here in June -– normally we arrive after Labor Day (and will do so this year for an encore). Our first time here we stayed in a motel and heard the newborn Jose Reyes beat the then-mighty Braves with two home runs and some sterling defensive play. Other years haven't been as Met-friendly: 2005's LBI trip saw the end of the Mets as playoff contenders, including the still-harrowing game in which Braden Looper blew two saves in the same game. Last September the Mets were quietly jogging to a division title.
This year we're staying with a gang of friends in a huge house, one whose owners have outfitted it with multiple HDTVs and an audio system that I'm pretty sure could land the space shuttle if I could just find the right button combination on the right remote, which I can't. (Oddly, for all its A/V wizardry the house doesn't have high-speed Net access, which is why this post is link-free.)
I also need to find the remote that makes the team play better. Because Jeez Louise do the Mets suck right now.
It's been a while since we've had to endure this -– the nauseous certainty that something and in fact everything will go wrong. 3-0 lead? It won't last. Starting pitcher looks sharp early? The bullpen will blow it. There's evidence of clutch hitting? It'll be lost in the property room by the mid-innings.
Watching the Tigers, I wasn't sure what would happen first: Would we be pummeled into submission by the likes of Placido Polanco and Gary Sheffield, or would our wounded outfielders would be finished off by birds? Is it too late to do away with interleague play? When you win, it's a novelty. When you lose, it's an injustice. And we won one of those games.
And now L.A. — back in the National League, albeit in the middle of the night. Sour anger kept me awake until the eighth inning of the first game; I woke up hours later staring at some middle-of-the-night SNY nonsense and knew, without having to check, that there hadn't been a rally. Last night I resolved to make a better showing, but my eyelids were drooping by the time Maine took on the bottom part of the order. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! That woke me up briefly, even as it put the Mets to sleep.
I knew they'd lose. You knew they'd lose. If they'd been told what had just happened, those seagulls on the field in Detroit would have known they'd lose. I turned the game off in disgust and was asleep within seconds, and this morning when Joshua asked me if the Mets had won, I said for the first time in a long time that I didn't know.
But I did know. To confirm, I negotiated with the A/V system until SNY appeared. The highlights were starting. I saw Delgado drive in Wright again, and then heard that that was just about all the offense of the night. Fantastic.
One more in L.A. Then the Yankees, now out of the coffin and dangerous again. Then all the other 2006 AL playoff teams and the rest of this nightmare month. Before Hell Month started, I'd steeled myself to remember that a .500 month would be just fine, that going 3-2 and 4-3 in the postseason is the road to victory.
A .500 month? We should be so lucky.