The Mets won … it just feels kind of like they didn’t.
Not only did they win, they also did some things pretty impressively. They ground out lengthy ABs. Most everybody pitched well, with Jonah Tong [1] emerging from the scrum of openers and serial relievers with a win and Luke Weaver [2] pantsing Sal Stewart [3] to shut down an eighth-inning threat. Carson Benge [4] had two key hits, giving you hope he’s come through his rookie hazing ready to take the next step forward. Benge and A.J. Ewing [5] made some nifty plays in the outfield. Juan Soto [6] hit a home run and so did Eric Wagaman [7], who recently escaped Met Ghost status and now has proof he’s fully corporeal, if not necessarily for real.
They won. So why does it feel like they didn’t?
The most obvious reason was Devin Williams [8] recording what might be the worst no-runs-allowed save I’ve ever seen. Williams somehow emerged unscathed, but he left no nerve among the fanbase ungnawed, pitching like the love child of Armando Benitez [9] and John Franco [10]. Williams has a problem with tipping pitches, which we’ve known ever since Pete Alonso [11] famously ambushed him, but he also has a problem with affect: He’s about the most hangdog closer I’ve ever seen, moping around on the mound like he’s being dripped on by a bespoke little back cloud.
There was also the fact that Reds kept jumping out of closets and springing up from under the bed and carrying on like Citi Field had become the world’s most overstuffed haunted house. The Mets didn’t record a single 1-2-3 inning, which is kind of amazing. This was one of those games where disaster always seemed imminent and yet never arrived, which is the better outcome but still leaves those spared twitchy and haunted and incapable of trust.
Oh, and there’s the Reds’ bizarre love of drop shadows, about a decade after everyone else figured out they were a bit much and banished them from the design playbook. But then the Reds have always been eager to screw up a perfectly sound uniform with a bad idea: unnecessary pinstripes, white hats, sleeveless tops, the version of Mr. Redlegs where he looks dead-eyed and psychotic, black accents where none are needed. Given the Reds’ sartorial track record, clinging to a pointless drop shadow is as Cincy as that repulsive chili.
(OK, that last bit didn’t really have anything to do with the game, but my God do I hate those dumb drop shadows.)
And of course there’s the fact that the Mets are godawful, and everything they do is either a reminder that they’re godawful or an fakeout that sets you up to be sucker-punched by their godawfulness yet again. (Haha! You keep falling for it, Mets fans!) That’s what’s really going on here: a season where the absence of disaster feels like a mistake.
But hey, for one night let’s not talk about that part. Because the Mets really did win. You could look it up [12].