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A Lousy Rule

You can’t win them all? Seriously? That’s a thing?

That’s a thing. It may be an unwritten rule, but it appears inviolable. Despite five consecutive days during which it felt as if the Mets would never lose again, they lost on Friday night [1]. The defeat unleashed a sensation previously experienced less than a week before, yet I had forgotten how much it sucks.

It sucks a lot. Not just losing, but losing by one run in a low-scoring game in which your ace of aces is going and a tie is in effect until there are two outs in the bottom of the ninth and your least-desired relief pitcher (though that’s a close call) appears ever so close to pushing the night toward morning, which you wouldn’t mind, considering how well it worked the night and morning before [2].

But nah. Noah Syndergaard [3] was effective instead of overwhelming; Josh Edgin [4] was Edgin instead of anybody else; and the Stupid Marlins, as they are referred to in the league charter, pushed across the tiebreaking run to win, 3-2, and end our heretofore presumably endless winning streak.

Rats.

You know a loss is coming eventually, but you’d prefer it plop itself down with a dose of “oh well” Them 11 Us 3 fatalism as Montero, Gilmartin and (of course) Edgin sacrificially lamb it so the likes of the shall we say real pitchers can get an extra day of rest en route to starting a new and longer winning streak tomorrow. In the loss we got, Noah was fine for his six innings, fine being a modest disappointment in Thorworld. He was undermined early by an infield fling gone wild and taken down ultimately by a couple of rogue fingernails. Between nails and blisters, you wonder if Syndergaard can just have his undefeated hair do his throwing for him or just dominate by force of personality.

Difficult to not notice the two-run ration with which Thor and his successors had to operate. The Mets placed runners on base by the multitude but the timely hits needed to convert them to runs were confiscated by security. Bright spots — a Duda bomb, a Conforto peg, Edgin fanning Ichiro — dim when the final montage consists of some Stupid Marlin doubling and another Stupid Marlin dashing home and all the Stupid Marlins embracing as Stupid Marlins will when given a reason.

Stupid Marlins. Furshlugginer Mets. Not the most optimal of matchups.

Yours truly visited with the crew of acclaimed [5] Queens-based podcast Live From The Barrage, an episode on which hosts and guest spent an hour being rabid about the Mets. I was on, ostensibly, to talk about Piazza: Catcher, Slugger, Icon, Star [6], but we meandered merrily all about Metsopotamia, starting at the 1:11 mark. I encourage you to listen [7]. Chalk up the part where I look forward to writing up the game in progress as a Mets win to the intoxication of highly engaging conversation.