The oft-scapegoated World Baseball Classic has a slaughter rule that would have been valuable to invoke last night, as first Pat Misch and then Lance Broadway proved they have excellent career prospects should teams need someone to throw BP. But alas, this wasn't a WBC game (there's something I never thought I'd type) and so on and on we went, while Gary, Keith and Ron grew increasingly strange (in an entertaining way) and I succumbed to early-evening weariness. “Did they lose?” I managed to ask Emily when the TV going dark briefly awakened me. Her amusement was evident. (Other potential indicators a slaughter rule should be invoked: Keith is talking about the proper role of government; Wilson Valdez is visible; it's 2009 and you're a Mets fan.)
If you want to grasp at straws, the Mets no-hit the Braves for the final six innings as home-plate ump Brian Knight's strike zone expanded until it kissed La Guardia and the Unisphere. Daniel Murphy, looking downright confident at bat even as his fielding ability seems to erode, has more extra-base hits in September than Albert Pujols. Nick Evans got to play for a moment. (What did he do to you, Jerry?) Granted, continuing to watch a game like last night's beyond 8 p.m. counts as administering a death grip to whatever unfortunate straws are at hand.
Yet you know what? As this awful season dwindles to under a dozen games, I find myself sad. And not ironically sad, either — little-kid sad. The most amazingly horrible thing about the 2009 Mets? It's that in defiance of all logic and mental health, I'll miss them when they're gone.
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