Magic in the Night (Eventually)

“Show a little faith! There’s magic in the night!”

That’s one of Bruce Springsteen’s best-known exhortations, a commandment for wavering lovers, teetering dreamers and yes, fans of oddly underwhelming baseball fans. But until Tuesday night, it had largely fallen flat where the 2025 Mets were concerned.

Until Tuesday night, but not forever.

Game two of the seven-game, two-city Ragnarok starring this year’s Mets and the Phillies started off borrowing narrative pieces of recent vintage.

For openers (a tactic the Mets have tried, mostly to little effect), there was a Met starter looking good early and then winding up on the side of the road awaiting a tow: In this case it was Sean Manaea, who looked better than he had all year pitching aggressively and mixing in his mostly absent change to excellent effect, only to falter in the fifth, chased from the game by a two-out Trea Turner single. Enter Gregory Soto, whom one may damn with faint praise as the best of the Mets’ deadline acquisitions so far; Soto threw a wild pitch, walked Kyle Schwarber and then watched helplessly as Bryce Harper served a sinker over the infield for a 2-0 Phillies lead.

The Mets then borrowed a page from Monday night’s book. Jesus Luzardo had bent a little in the early innings but not broken, holding the Mets at bay while making no secret of his pique at perceived enemies including Juan Soto and young home-plate umpire Willie Traynor. The bottom of the fifth, though, started off in a way that demanded the pique be self-directed: Ahead 0-2 on Luis Torrens, Luzardo gave the Mets a gift by hitting their catcher in the foot.

Luzardo then imploded, surrendering a single to Francisco Lindor, an RBI single to Soto (with Lindor scampering to third and Soto to second on an ill-advised throw in the vague vicinity of home by old friend Harrison Bader), and walking Starling Marte — or, as Luzardo saw it, striking out Marte on two consecutive four-seamers that ticked the strike zone to the satisfaction of everyone except Traynor.

Exit Luzardo, with some parting words that earned him a post-removal ejection from Traynor and a mildly hilarious double unavailability for the rest of the game, enter Orion Kerkering, AKA the Ryan Helsley of the Phillies. When the Mets first saw Kerkering a couple of years ago, I appraised his fearsome fastball and evil slider and thought, “My God, this guy is going to torture us for years.” But something has gone amiss with Kerkering since then, or at least it has when he faces the Mets. He had no feel for the sweeper, and was undone by a ringing double from Pete Alonso, an RBI single following a long AB from Mark Vientos, and a sac fly from Brandon Nimmo.

Just like that it was 5-2 Mets, and the only problem was the Mets had to figure out how to secure 12 outs.

Maybe they’d keep following Monday night’s script, getting perfect relief while pouring on the runs? Nope, guess again: Huascar Brazoban couldn’t command any of his pitches and surrendered a run to bring the Phillies within two; meanwhile, the Mets offense browned out. Tyler Rogers worked a fuss-free seventh (a good sign) but when the eighth rolled around Carlos Mendoza turned, to my horror, to Helsley.

What, exactly, is wrong with Helsley? The Mets think he’s tipping his pitches; amateur observers who watch closely have noted that his fastball, while intimidating, is pretty much wrinkle-free. All I know is that he’s arrived and looked like the bastard child of Rich Rodriguez and Mike Maddux, and that Mendoza continues to stubbornly follow David Stearns’ blueprint by insisting Helsley is the bridge to Edwin Diaz and not a collapsed span lying in a river full of upside-down cars. Helsley actually fanned Alec Bohm, to the delight of Mets fans who tormented Monday night’s crybaby with signs about parabolic mikes and even some ingenious ginned-up lookalikes. (Bohm was 2 for 4, though, so doesn’t seem to have been particularly bothered.) But Helsley then walked Nick Castellanos (mysteriously replaced with an annoying clone who could actually play defense) and offered Bader a middle-middle four-seamer which the former Met lashed into the left-field stands to tie the game.

Helsley was left in to walk Bryson Stott before Mendoza finally decided the experiment had failed again and removed him in favor of Edwin Diaz. Such situations haven’t always showcased Diaz’s strengths, to put it diplomatically, but this time out he turned in his best performance of the year. He studiously ignored Stott as he stole second and then third (yikes), but fanned Brandon Marsh and Turner to keep the game tied, then kept Schwarber, Harper and J.T. Realmuto at bay in an electric ninth.

That led to the Mets digging in against Jhoan Duran, he of the 100+ MPH heater and deadly 98 MPH splitter. But it wasn’t a night for hulking relievers with intimidating arsenals, apparently: The bottom of the ninth was fast and furious, thoroughly unexpected and utterly wonderful.

Marte spanked Duran’s second pitch to center for a single. Alonso hooked his third pitch past Turner for another single. Up came Brett Baty, with Duran putting aside the splitter and trying to get Baty out on 100+ at the top of the strike zone. In his postgame interview, Nimmo showed both a discerning eye and admirable leadership by reminding the jubilant crowd how that’s a spot where a young guy can try to do too much and praising Baty for resisting the urge and just trying to make contact.

Which Baty did … barely. He dropped a little parachute over the infield, a nightmare for both the Philadelphia defenders and New York base runners. Marte and Alonso arrived safely at the next bases, Baty took first, and Nimmo rifled a 2-0 fastball through the infield for a Mets win. As it turned out, Duran never so much as recorded an out.

Show a little faith indeed — but remember that magic follows its own stubborn timetable.