Metsie, Metsie, Metsie!
The amazin’, amazin’, amazin’ Mets capped a 9-1 homestand with yet another dismantling  of the surprisingly hapless Dodgers, with good signs blooming all over the ballpark despite a chilly day. There was John Maine, throwing almost all fastballs and racking up swings and misses with them. There was Jason Bay, as hot as he once was cold. There were balls banging off the Great Wall of Flushing (I officially love that nickname) and plumbing the depths out by the Mo Zone and sailing past crestfallen Dodgers. There was an effusive post-home-plate greeting between David Wright and Jose Reyes, all pumping elbows and flying fingers. And there were people cheering in the stands and back here on couches and proud and happy — no, make that giddy — to be Mets fans. Including me. I’d missed that. My God how I’d missed that.
I spent most of the matinee listening on the radio and zipping two rooms over to the TV when something good happened. (Which, happily, meant a lot of zipping around.) But afterwards, the giddiness ebbed and I found myself poor-mouthing my team.
Maine was still really inefficient, and his fastball was stuck in the high 80s. How of much of that was Maine, and how much was a whipping wind and general Dodger suckiness?
Opposing hitters’ BABIP against Pelfrey is .249, which is a textbook example of the concept of unsustainability. Ollie’s still a textbook example of the concept of Ollie. Niese is still a rookie.
We all love Ike Davis — I’m amazed at how he consistently reaches across the plate, catches balls on the end of the bat and proves strong enough to serve them to the outfield — but he’s not a .355 hitter. (Over on Amazin’ Avenue, someone noted that Davis has more hits than Mark Teixeira.) And let’s recall that we all once loved Daniel Murphy with similar fervor.
But then I stopped myself. What was all this? Forget Pelfrey and his BABIP — why was I behaving like a textbook example of a pathologically unhappy Mets fan?
Once in a while, your baseball team gets on a roll and starts leading a charmed life. The Mets right now could drop the toast every morning and have it land not only butter-side up, but neat as a pin on a clean plate the opposing team unaccountably left in the middle of the living-room carpet. Most of the time this lasts for a week or a week and a half — two if you’re really lucky. But while it does, there’s really no point in trying to take its measure through statistics or psychology. It simply is, and the wisest thing to do as a fan is to soak up every single blissful second of it. Don’t poke and prod it, don’t try to outguess it, don’t duck it, don’t poor-mouth it, don’t apologize for it. Just let it be. And until it comes to an end — as it surely will — let yourself strut and dream and say foolish things. Yeah, the baseball gods know hubris, but they also know false modesty. You’re not going to fool them by refusing to gambol in the sunshine because your own forecast called for rain.
Mets/Phillies on Friday. Friday? That’s entirely too far away. I say the Mets bring the bus to Citizens Bank Park first thing in the morning and demand the Phillies play on the off-day. You were flying back from the Coast and you’re tired? Pffft, crybabies. For a bunch of guys wearing maroon, you sure are yellow.
First place is on the line. Bring it!