The Representative from New York

An All-Star Game devoid of highlights offered its most satisfying moment before its first pitch Tuesday night when each starter from both leagues came out to sign, with a feathered quill, an oversized lineup card that looked like it had been printed 250 years ago. It was a bit that couldn’t have more Philadelphia-coded had onions and Cheez Whiz dripped on it. Playing his part in the festivities, which was to say responding with a big smile when it was announced at Citizens Bank Park he’d be batting second and playing left field for the NL — and he was booed because it was mentioned he was from the New York Mets, was Juan Soto. Juan grinned. Juan signed in. Juan took his spot on the foul line.

That’s our guy, I thought. That’s our Met, Juan Soto. He’s all alone here, Metwise, but he’s representing well. I didn’t have to worry about missing the introduction of National League reserves and therefore my only chance to hear a Met’s name called, because Juan was voted onto the team by fans everywhere. He’s that good and he’s that famous. Considering the team for which he plays has avoided being anything close to stellar in 2026, his popular election to a game emphasizing stardom was quite a feat. New York does not have to abstain (courteously) when it comes to rolling out baseball’s best.

Juan Soto doing with less fuss in 2026 what Lewis Morris eventually did in ‘1776’.

I was tempted to move along from All-Star viewing right then and there, because the way last year’s so-called Midsummer Classic ended sapped from me the last vestiges of my rooting interest vis-à-vis how the actual game turns out. But Juan seemed to be having an uncommonly good time in a Mets uniform, so I stuck around and kept an eye on him. I watched Juan get the National League’s very first hit, in the fourth inning. I saw Juan record two putouts sans incident. I saw Juan look comfortable among his fellow designated elites, which didn’t necessarily surprise me. Juan was very loose and unfailingly upbeat in all the interviews MLB encourages its stars to conduct. Juan was relaxed hanging around the fringes of the Home Run Derby on Monday night. Juan was free and easy walking the silly pregame red carpet with his family. Juan always seems the most happy fella whenever I catch him in any circumstance that isn’t a New York Mets game.

Maybe we oughta be the most happy fans that Juan comes off as all business when the Mets are involved in non-exhibitions. He’ll put on the Spider-Man mask or the construction vest or whatever costuming his teammates have adopted for home run celebrations. He’ll share in youthful bonhomie as he makes contact with A.J. Ewing and Carson Benge when the three trot in from the outfield after a rare Mets triumph. He’ll be just one of the guys as mood and momentum dictate. Mostly, from first out to last, he’s glaring at pitchers when they don’t give him something he can make a meal of; rolling his eyes at umpires when they have called an obvious ball a strike; or betraying sudden panic when he realizes something has flown over his head and is rolling toward the wall behind him. He’s visibly bothered by popping out and doesn’t see the point in running when he grounds out, but otherwise emits a steady vibe. Not having a great time. Not having a bad time. Simply having a time.

The Mets who’ve served as de facto media spokesmen these last few years gave or give the studious viewer a feast of inference. You could sense when something was bothering Brandon. You could tell when Pete was overcompensating with nonchalance. Francisco is smooth as a Temptations harmony when things are going well, projects practiced stoicism when they are not, and wears the tragedy of an E-6 on his sleeve like it’s his heart. Juan gives solid non-answers to the content-free questions he is asked regarding why the Mets lost or, infrequently, won. He accepts that questions need to be asked and he is more or less required to respond to them. He may or may not understand the purpose of the ritualized postgame give-and-take, but he cooperates, never acknowledging that anything is wrong the ballclub, confirming that everybody plans to keep grinding. His most revealing takes remain those of sweepers a tenth-of-an-inch outside the strike zone.

All told, I’d mark the first season-and-a-half of The Juan Soto Experience a positive one. The numbers are certainly there. The sensation that oh my goodness, that’s Juan Soto playing for the New York Mets comes and goes a bit, but more and more, I find myself focusing hard on his at-bats, because I understand they are big deals, whether or not they occur in a competitive vacuum. I thought when he became a Met he’d make an already splendid team better. It now appears the Mets will have to construct a good team around him to benefit most optimally from his production. Many are his plate appearances when I would swear Juan Soto has been beamed into the batter’s box from a holodeck. He’ll get a hit, he’ll walk, he’ll make an out. Then he’s beamed back from whence he came, presumably returning to his home planet for the next two or three innings. He’s almost the embodiment of that goofy Golden At-Bat idea Rob Manfred floated a while back. Things a little slow? Just send up Juan Soto, and something might very well happen.

Things were very slow at the All-Star Game, but Juan Soto happened by in his Mets uniform, and it was a lovely sight. It didn’t make the game any better. It’s unlikely his continued presence will make his team much better when the season’s second act gets underway Thursday night. Nonetheless, I’d hate to imagine this team or what’s left of this season without him.