Escaping the Narrative

I was nervous for much of Thursday afternoon’s game, as the Mets refused to expand on a 2-0 lead that quickly got halved to 2-1. That was too close, with the Nats lurking around waiting to do Natty things (which used to be equally offensive Expo things) and the Mets still laboring beneath 2026’s dark cloud.

Nervous, but forgiving. For openers, I forgave the braintrust excusing David Peterson after 82 pitches: Peterson had endured stretches where his location essentially vanished, and given his 2026 struggles I saw the wisdom in having him exit with a lead, a job fairly well done and a selection of parting “attaboys” and “something to build ons.”

And I (mostly) forgave the Mets staying stubbornly peaceable: Cade Cavalli was pretty good for Washington, and a stiff wind was blowing in, a meteorological uh-uh waggling in the face of any hitter who tried to hit a ball in the air with authority. The Mets’ two runs came on single up the middle by Bo Bichette: clean, but earthbound and humble.

I even forgave Mark Vientos‘ frantic flailing at sliders low and away — yes, he needs to stop doing that, but he also preserved the Mets’ lead with a legitimately nifty tumbling snare of a hot shot by CJ Abrams that sure looked like a dispiriting double. I still wouldn’t call Vientos a good first baseman, but he’s improved dramatically over there, and the “Mark Vientos, pickin’ machine” jokes are heard a little more often in our house while landing with a bit of actual sincerity.

But despite forgiving these things, in the ninth everything seemed to have aligned for a narrative turned sour. First the Mets loaded the bases with nobody out, courtesy of two singles and a Nats error on a sacrifice bunt. But it all came to naught: MJ Melendez chased a high fastball to strike out, Luis Torrens lined out on a nice play by the annoyingly capable Nasim Nunez, and Carson Benge smoked a ball only to see the wind downgrade it from fan souvenir to out.

And the wind wasn’t done. The Mets sent Devin Williams out to secure the save, following superb relief from Huascar Brazoban, Brooks Raley and Luke Weaver. Daylen Lile (yes, that fucking guy) hit Williams’ second pitch, and you saw immediately that A.J. Ewing was in trouble: He broke back, realized the wind was hauling the ball back toward the infield, sprinted in and made what I tried to convince myself was a tumbling catch but was actually a near-miss. Lile wound up on second with an exceedingly windblown double; three pitches later Luis Garcia Jr. moved him to third with a groundout.

It was the Manfred Man strategy, just minus the extra innings part, and I could see the rest of the narrative unfolding with dreadful clarity: The Nats would tie it, then win in some excruciating fashion. Maybe they’d win it in the ninth, maybe it would take a little longer, but they’d win it and it would be ulcerous and vile and I wouldn’t like it at all. And it would all seem preordained: stupid wind, stupid not adding runs, stupid getting nothing from bases loaded and nobody out, stupid Mets, stupid me for liking baseball despite it not liking me back.

Except Williams broke out the airbender — interspersed with one synapses-scrambling fastball — to fan Jose Tena. (The Athletic has a good piece about a tweak Williams has made to his delivery, though it really amounts to Williams deciding he doesn’t give a fuck if he’s tipping.) He still had Keibert Ruiz to deal with, and Ruiz was on a hot streak, but hey, there was a path. Ruiz smacked a Williams changeup to Marcus Semien, who tossed it over to Vientos, and the Mets had won.

I exhaled, and — storytelling monkey that I am — immediately rearranged the facts at hand into a new story. The Mets had won, and their inability to do that on Tuesday or Wednesday no longer felt like a descent to familiar horrors but just like a blip, the kind of stumble that befalls all teams, even ones that are good or at least OK.

Just another narrative? Undoubtedly. But it’s one I like better.