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The Sunday of 14-2

They hit ’em out of Anaheim. They hit ’em into Los Angeles. They hit ’em until geographic borders were obliterated.

They scored 14 times. They were Ram-tough in Orange County as if they still had a team there that takes the field in blue and yellow. It was such a thorough thumping of New Yorkers that I’m pretty sure I saw Flipper Anderson trot into a tunnel [1].

They left the visitors part grumbly, part speechless. A substitute umpire named Toby Basner created a strike zone that was more impressionistic than actual. Two visiting victims were ejected for noticing [2], or as many who crossed the same home plate whose width seemed to baffle Basner.

They treated the starter like a piñata [3]. Oh, the offensive treats that spilled out of him as soon as they began whacking him around! And the bullpen produced no less in the way of delicious offensive goodies for the home team’s bake sale.

The manager said, “We got through it.” The captain said something about knowing you’re going to get no more than a minimum of runs. It was certainly said as a compliment to the home team’s pitcher, but it was also quite accurate in hindsight. The visitors understood in advance they’d score maybe twice. Given how many arms it took to push through 23 innings over the previous two evenings, it wasn’t surprising the staff would surrender seven times as many tallies as were generated on its behalf.

Add it up, and it was Sunday carnage [4]. I suppose it was embarrassment, too, but it felt suspiciously routine, or no worse than routine gone awry. Sometimes these Mets win. A little more often they lose. This time they lost by a margin of 14-2.

You tell yourself it’s just one game. A defeat by a dozen isn’t materially different from a loss by a lot less. It’s still a loss. The Mets were pounded but it only counts against them once.

Yet another moral victory is secured.