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Lost & Never Found

The game was lost when balls off the bats of Giants fell in and the balls off the bats of Mets didn’t.

The game was lost was when the Mets pitcher who’d previously given up almost nothing gave up a bunch.

The game was lost when the only Belt in the game delivered the only belt of the game.

The game was lost when the Mets’ resident speedster turned greedster and tried to steal a base that would have been better off left alone.

The game was lost when the visiting third baseman for whom this ballpark used to be home, and for whom the home infield was more useful as a stage for human emotions than as a showcase for elite defense, stabbed a potential momentum-turner out of the air.

The game was lost when the Met dugout revealed three temporary managers rather than the one usual manager, which is to say the Mets had zero managers.

The game was lost coming out of halftime when the Nets couldn’t stop the Celtics…sorry, that was the other [1] thrill of my winless Wednesday night.

The one you came here to join me in moping about was the 5-2 defeat [2] the Mets endured at the hands of the Giants, a game that wound up close on the scoreboard but failed to get there in feel. San Francisco pulled ahead early and never yielded its advantage (the Nets could take a lesson). Carlos Rodón went largely untouched. Chris Bassitt [3] didn’t, even if he lasted a long while because no manager anywhere any longer has to think about pinch-hitting for the pitcher — which was fine, because the Mets had no manager. Certified Leader of Men William Nathaniel “Buck” Showalter had to take care of something medical and left the store in the six nominally capable hands of three lieutenants: Eric “Chavy” Chavez, Dick “Dicky” Scott and Jeremy “Hef” Hefner. I would have preferred a single interim skipper, just on principle. Lot of first mates on Wednesday night, but not a single Jonas Grumby [4] to take charge.

The crowd around the helm didn’t matter. The Mets’ mini-rallies didn’t matter. Bloops working to one team’s advantage more than the other didn’t matter. The Mets’ inability to match Brandon Belt in the power department didn’t matter. Starling Marte [5] getting erased at second on a two-on, two-out stolen base try that probably shouldn’t have been attempted, given that DID I MENTION THERE WERE TWO OUT, could have mattered, but didn’t. The two-on, two-out line drive that never touched grass (via Dom Smith [6]’s sweet swing, bitterly thwarted by the glove of Wilmer Flores [7], to name an unlikely leaping defender) mattered in the moment, but didn’t matter ultimately. Even the last-second reprieve derived from Marte’s redemptive sprint down the first base line earning a reversed call with two out in the bottom of the ninth didn’t matter. There were always two out when something seemed ready to happen but didn’t.

It all mattered until none of it mattered. The Mets weren’t going to find a way to not lose this game. Some nights are just like that.