We know how to do disgust, despair, dismal, dismay, disillusion, derision, desperate, diatribe, depressed, disturbed…but I think we've forgotten how to do plain ol' dandy.
We'll give it a shot, though. Bear with us, as it's going to take a little while to recall how this works.
Friday night, the Mets…won?…yes…won.
Did we spell “won” correctly?
The win came only after they nearly blew…no, wait…they didn't nearly blow anything.
Tarnishing the win, however was the sad…no, nothing sad to report.
Shea's breath was collectively held in the late innings when Billy Wagner…correction, we're getting a correction…Billy Wagner didn't pitch, no breath was held.
Oliver Perez got himself in his usual…checking on that…say, he didn't get himself in anything! Pitched real well, apparently.
The Mets' nonexistent offense left runners…hold on…the offense apparently did exist and, from what we can gather…yes, it's true…produced runs.
Several, it seems.
One bad break after another…sorry, was looking at an old script…no bad breaks. None.
Willie Randolph's mishandling of both the pitching and the lineup…didn't exist? It didn't? Really? Just confirming…yeah, it was fine. He was fine. Team managed well.
The bullpen, however, was another story…uh…no, actually same story. It was fine.
Casting a further shadow on the proceedings was an injury that will keep…huh? No new injuries? Oh.
Still, the depleted roster…what's that? New outfielder joining the team? A real one? Wow.
As a Mets fan, one is left to complain about and criticize…nothing. Absolutely nothing. For one night, everything was excellent.
Ya don't say?
For once, we do.