Sure, it was horrible and painful like it was horrible and painful some 66 hours before, but at least it didn’t happen at one in the morning. So we had that going for us.
Otherwise, Thursday’s West Coast matinee beamed east with something approximating the atrocious ending that marred Tuesday’s late-night implosion [1]. The revised edition encompassed some new wrinkles — Starling Marte getting picked off third; Brett Baty picking up a ball near third but not knowing quite what do with it once he did; Michael Conforto rising from the depths to luxuriate in a moment in the sun at the expense of his former employer — and some old standards. The Dodger bullpen (featuring spurned Unicorn shepherd Jose Ureña [2]) went into shutdown mode. Met runners were stranded as if they’d chartered the S.S. Minnow. A steady lead became a sudden deficit became a loss that stuck deep in the craw [3].
[4]From the Department of Small Favors.
Dodgers 6 Mets 5 twice in three games takes some of the shine off splitting four in L.A., even if it doesn’t reverse the season series result that finished Mets 4 Dodgers 3. A once trivial note is now considered an essential edge. We saw last year what a tiebreaker can do for a team after 162 games. First, of course, there’s the matter of the 162 games. All caveats and superstitions implied, the portion the Mets have played of their full slate indicates the Mets will wind up in the same tournament for which the Dodgers maintain a standing reservation. This early-summer set-to felt more like a showdown between National League titans than a proving ground for us upstarts. We’ve made strides since the Sunday three Junes ago when we crossed our fingers tight and invested our faith within the intestinal fortitude of Adonis Medina [5]. We’ve made strides since October of 2024 when their talent smothered our vibes.
We’ll take our chances most days/nights with a late lead in Los Angeles. We’ll take our chances with a torrent of hits and the likelihood they’ll turn into a sufficient quantity of runs. We’ll take a lump or two while a pinky toe (Lindor’s) or not as bad as it looked hamstring strain (Vientos’s) heals. We’ll move on and hope the craw specialists in Colorado can get our fleeting discontent from California removed without incident. The Rockies, however, just won three in a row in Florida, reminding us anything can happen amid 162 games.
We simply prefer only good happen. When such a state of perfection feels within reach, it’s jarring to remember the impossibility inherent in achieving that ideal. Coulda swept. Shoulda taken no fewer than three of four. High-caliber expectations resume despite two episodes of being brought temporarily low. As a baseball lifestyle, it’s the one to which you aspire.
Winning most of ’em is fantastic. Not winning ’em all will never not suck.