Carlos at the Crossroads

Carlos Beltran isn’t exactly a new entity for this blog — heck, we opened our doors more than two decades ago largely because his arrival seemed to mark a new era for the Mets, and we decided our near-daily emails about the team should be turned into something more public. Greg just wrote extensively about the man; I chose him as one of my entries in A Met for All Seasons, and doubt I could improve on that assessment.

Beltran’s speech mostly stuck to the tried-and-true template for such things, aside from some nice grace notes about his family and an acknowledgment that his relationship with the fans had its ups and downs. On the latter, Beltran told the fans that they’d been hard on him but he’d come to learn that was wanting more from him; it would have been less gracious but more accurate to say, “You were assholes who didn’t deserve me — but, hey, we got through it.”

Indeed we did, and I found myself smiling when I reflected on the rough patches of Beltran’s tenure. More than once back then, I thought it would be hilarious if Beltran went into the Hall of Fame as a Met; now that’s happened, and his number will be up above Citi Field forever more. Well, unless it returns to his back because he’s the next Mets manager, a possibility about which he was diplomatic and equivocal. That would just underline an already satisfying so there: The people who took Los Mets as a personal affront 20 years ago are still out there, and Saturday marked the day they could officially die mad about it.

Beltran’s 15 adorned the caps of the Mets when they took the field to play the Phillies, with former high-school teammates Christian Scott and Andrew Painter facing off. Scott was good but faltered the third time through the order and got pulled after 4 2/3; I might have pushed him through the rest of the inning, but by now I trust Andy Green‘s feel for his young pitchers and won’t offer a formal second-guess.

The day’s most heartening sight was Francisco Alvarez hitting a game-flipping homer to the opposite field, which might convince him that he’s strong enough not to constantly sell out to pull. Ronny Mauricio somehow drew two walks if you count an HBP, which why wouldn’t you? Carson Benge tied and then broke Pete Alonso‘s record for hits by a rookie, with the record-setting hit a little excuse me dribbler up the third-base line that maybe went 82 feet when all was said and done; Benge has certainly had a season-long lesson in the ironies and inherent ridiculousness of baseball. All that was enough for a win; the Mets tacked on more when the Phillies bullpen arrived in full arsonist mode, with poor Brooks Raley among the offenders.

Steve Cohen’s visit to the booth was mostly the usual ownership platitudes and non-committals, which was as it should be. The exception was Cohen musing that the season had been disappointing but also promising. I found myself nodding at that, and wondering how this season will later be assessed in Mets lore. Maybe 2026 will still be a cautionary tale about front-office overreach and setting fire to money, but maybe that will have faded (while still being true) and 2026 will be primarily assessed as a crossroads campaign that saw the Mets’ next core came together.

I was still thinking about that as various Phillies relievers walked the ballpark and the maroon-clad fans in the park grew more morose. If you had to pick one of these two teams for October 2026, you’d obviously go with the Phils — they’re flawed and struggling right now but nonetheless headed for the playoffs, which means flipping coins for a title. But if you were picking for October 2029? I’d choose us.