What Summer's Made For

I decided it was time to reintroduce myself to my baseball team.

The Mets entered the All-Star break by losing an annoying game to the Royals, which isn’t exactly a new occurrence in 2025. I didn’t bother with the ASG beyond shrugging at the swing-off, and was relieved to have a few days’ break from this maddening Mets squad, which is seemingly hell-bent on being less than the sum of its parts.

Then a few days turned into a few more. When the schedule resumed I was in Atlanta at a sci-fi convention; I registered that the Mets were losing to the Reds, not doing anything particularly well in the process, and hearing boos from the fans. I wasn’t sad to miss that either. (I did regret not seeing David Wright going into the team Hall of Fame, of course, but that’s something I can catch up with at my leisure.)

The Mets salvaged the final game against the Reds, to my mild surprise given what had come before; I was on a plane without Wi-Fi when they commenced hostilities against the Angels on Monday night. Once the plane landed, Howie Rose caught me up in a hurry: They’d gone down 4-0, clawed back to 4-2, but seemed determine to dig the hole deeper.

More of the same; I groused about their suckiness on Bluesky as I waited for a Lyft to take me home.

But I kept an earbud in, and by the time I got home the Mets had a genuine threat going — one they cashed in with a little help from the hapless Angels. (OK, maybe a lot of help from the hapless Angels.) Edwin Diaz started off the ninth by missing to his arm side, but quickly corrected the issue and punched out three Angels, ending the game by freezing Taylor Ward on a perfect slider a pitch after nearly decapitating him with a fastball, which was honestly kind of mean.

I was mollified, and maybe even felt a little bad — my team had been annoying me, I’d lashed out at them, and they’d righted the ship. So on Tuesday, when I saw it was a gorgeous summer day blissfully free of the humidity that’s gripped the city of late, I had an idea: Let’s go see the Mets.

I mean, why not? Isn’t that the whole point of living near the team you love? Why waste a picture-perfect night sitting on the couch?

Emily liked my thinking, so I secured two StubHub tickets and met her at the apple.

Tuesday’s game began strangely, with a flurry of odd plays. Juan Soto threw out Nolan Schanuel at the plate, taking an RBI away from Mike Trout. Frankie Montas ended the first by fielding a ball off his body. Yoan Moncada hit a screaming line drive that Pete Alonso leapt and speared; Alonso saw a long drive to center tracked down by Jo Adell. There were bleeders up the line and parachutes over the infield and plenty of frustration for Montas.

Kyle Hendricks, meanwhile, took a 2-0 lead into the fifth, having surrendered nothing except a Mark Vientos single that should have been caught. The Mets were being peaceable at the plate again, with Francisco Lindor‘s struggles particularly glaring, and the big boisterous crowd at Citi Field was getting restless.

And then everything changed. Brett Baty lashed a double to center, bringing up Francisco Alvarez, and I nudged Emily and made the circle in the air sign: Alvarez was going deep.

That didn’t look like the savviest prediction when Alvarez started off the AB by taking a huge swing through a change-up from Hendricks. But he hung in there, fouling away off-speed offerings and refusing to be lured by an inside fastball he wouldn’t have been able to get around on. Hendricks tried that pitch again, left it in the middle of the plate, and Alvarez tattooed it into the left-field stands, careening happily around the bases while I nodded sagely, as if my predictions always come true.

The game was tied; Ronny Mauricio then singled, stole second and came home on a single by Brandon Nimmo to give the Mets the lead. Which they then stubbornly refused to expand, leaning on relief efforts from newest Recidivist Met Rico Garcia and Reed Garrett, with Baty contributing a marvelous grab at third.

No, they just had to do it the hard way, summoning Ryne Stanek to protect a one-run lead. That looked tenuous after Stanek immediately allowed a single to West Islip’s own Logan O’Hoppe, who sounds like a 70s pitchman for Irish Spring. Stanek struck out Luis Rengifo, coaxed a fly ball from Zach Neto, but then gave up a single to Schanuel. That brought Trout up with a chance to tie the game on a single or possibly do far worse, what with being Mike Trout and all.

But of course Trout hasn’t been that Mike Trout in a while, his rocket-ride trajectory redirected earthward by years of injuries. On Monday night Diaz erased Trout on three fastballs that had a lot of plate; with the Angels threatening to expand their lead on Tuesday, Montas overpowered him with fastballs that were frankly middle-middle. Then Garcia got him with a slider that sat in the middle of the plate.

Stanek got Trout to pop up harmlessly to Alonso, ending the game. There’s a matinee left to play, but so far in this series Trout has looked like Just a Guy. And while I’m glad the Mets won, that part has been quietly heartbreaking.