It feels like a big deal, the Mets winning  one of the 162 baseball games they’ll play this year.
It shouldn’t but it does. Why, the Mets got great pitching from Dillon Gee, who looks like he’s shaken off whatever was ailing him to return to being a quietly effective pitcher, one of those guys who leaves enemy batters wondering exactly how an unprepossessing hurler can be so confounding. Hey, they got home runs from Lucas Duda, David Wright and Marlon Byrd. They even played the field without incident.
On Tuesday the Mets were a carefully walled-off distraction on a pleasant night at Citi Field. Tonight they were good company as Emily and I went through the lengthy checklist of things that need to go into our son’s mammoth duffel bag for summer camp. When I looked up, the Mets were doing something I approved of.
True, they only managed six hits. But they won handily — if your team’s winning even slightly more often than they’re losing, you don’t nitpick wins based on how they fall short of savage domination. You enjoy them, in whatever form, and hope for more.
I remember that kind of baseball. So do you. It’s nice — a lot nicer than being enraged or despairing or indifferent.
I wish I could see it more often.