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Greg Prince and Jason Fry
Faith and Fear in Flushing made its debut on Feb. 16, 2005, the brainchild of two longtime friends and lifelong Met fans.

Greg Prince discovered the Mets when he was 6, during the magical summer of 1969. He is a Long Island-based writer, editor and communications consultant. Contact him here.

Jason Fry is a Brooklyn writer whose first memories include his mom leaping up and down cheering for Rusty Staub. Check out his other writing here.

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Get Outta Town

Go Mets. Better yet, go away Mets. And stay away.

For about a week. Then come back.

Clear your heads. Fill your bats. Get hits. Several per inning. Find your inner line drive in Philadelphia. Keep your ropes frozen in St. Louis.

Anybody who boos you at your next two stops means it. Anybody who booed you at Citi Field as you dropped your second consecutive pulseless offensive outing to Boston, this one by an arid score of 1-0, was just clearing throats, hearts, minds and maybe the rust off a year-plus away from the ballpark.

How do you greet the team you’ve been away from for more than a year? With unconditional love? With caveats that affection must be earned again and again? By brooking no nonsense whatsoever? It’s an individual’s call under any circumstance. I’d lean to vocal encouragement for my players to do well and soto voce grumbling when they don’t.

Wednesday night, they didn’t do well. Most of the Mets, that is. Jacob deGrom did superbly, albeit not quite up to last Friday’s incomparable snuff, but superb should get it done most nights — with the support of most professional lineups. The Mets have a professional lineup. Well, they’re paid to line up, so I guess it’s professional. Jake (6 IP, 3 H, 1 BB, 9 SO) gave up a run in the second and it killed all chances of winning. Bad, Jake! Very bad, Jake!

No, obviously. Jake was very good, as were the similarly uniformed fellows who followed him to the mound. They were certainly a match for Nick Pivetta and his Beantown bullpen pals. Maybe everybody in sight, home and away, chose Wednesday night to be simultaneously deGrominant. It’s hard to tell who’s excelling and who’s far from it when Met hitters fail to generate as much as a whisper of a genuine threat.

I can’t fathom the professionals at Metropolitan Baseball Club of New York being hopelessly rattled by the toughlove practitioners among the intimate gatherings assembled to witness their wan attempts at run production. Citi Field sounded very fond of the Mets last Friday and Sunday. Twice over the weekend, the Mets gave the facility’s socially distanced denizens reason to express affection rather than animus. Tuesday and Wednesday, not so much. I don’t boo when I’m in attendance, but I understand it’s difficult to sit by and imply tacit approval for what your favorite batters do in the bottom of every gosh darn inning when they don’t do a blessed thing.

Except make outs. That the Mets (with their two singles) showed themselves expert at.

Did we mention Jake pitched? Is it necessary to stress those instances don’t come along more frequently than once every five days? And that if Jake is going to go the trouble of essentially never giving up more than one earned run in any game, you ought to make the most of the opportunity he is providing you? Instead, though I imagine it wasn’t your intention, you saddled Jake with a loss. You couldn’t even no-decision him while facilitating a relatively cheap W for Loup, May or Diaz. Unconditional love is difficult for your paying patrons to tender when you refuse to, shall we say, play ball.

So play ball somewhere else for a week. Hit the road. Hit pitchers wearing red caps. Make distance make our hearts grow fonder. Make us realize how much we don’t want to grumble at you at any volume. Make this spate of clearly audible booing a vague April memory.

Go Mets. But leave the non-scoring nonsense behind.

The Booing at the Margins

My usual approach to frustrating losses is to recap them as quickly as possible and have faith that the sun rising again will bring a little optimism back with it. But sometimes I can’t bring myself to do that and opt for a different strategy, which is basically to go to bed and hope it turns out to all be a dream.

This never works. One day I’ll get that through my head.

The Mets lost by one lousy skinny run to the Red Sox. That was true last night; shockingly, it’s still true today.

David Peterson was really good: a mistake pitch to Bobby Dalbec that became a home run and a fatal sequencing combination in a double to Kiké Hernandez and a little bloop single to Rafael Devers. That was it, and if the Mets’ offense weren’t doing that thing it needs to stop doing — which is to say not doing much of anything — those two runs would be seen as mild blemishes. But they were enough to beat Peterson.

Frustratingly, the Mets got some hits — in fact, they had two in the fourth, fifth and sixth. But that wasn’t enough to generate a critical second run: The most galling lack was when J.D. Davis hit a sizzling single with Michael Conforto on second in the fourth. Conforto didn’t score, for the sound reason that he would have been thrown out by 45 feet — that’s how hard Davis hit the ball. So they were left with only Jeff McNeil‘s solo shot into Sodaland in terms of scoring.

It’s our impulse to blame this all on the Mets caring too little or too much (pick a lane, unhappy fans) in big spots, but give some credit to Garrett Richards, the Red Sox’s’s’s’s’s’s long-haired, vaguely action-figure-looking pitcher. Richards was even better than Peterson, using an absolutely deadly slider and looping curve to send Met after Met trudging away from the plate. Sometimes it’s not all about you; sometimes the other guy doing his job is part of what happened too.

The day-after muttering, though, is all about something that happened late in the game — after Francisco Lindor grounded back to the pitcher in the eighth, the boos began. A few at first, then more, and everybody wanted Luis Rojas to weigh in on the fanbase’s discontent in the postgame Zoom. (Rojas was diplomatic, wisely offering mild truisms about fans and passion.)

Honestly? I was surprised that hadn’t happened already, seeing how talk radio was one generation’s fast-forward button and digital media was the next generation’s. It’s the usual recipe that produces this brew: a frustratingly slow start for a player we expected to be a star from Day One, overall dissatisfaction with events that needs an outlet, the shadow of more money than regular people can comprehend, and an instinct among a certain class of New Yorkers to show how New York they are by subjecting newcomers to the hazing they all supposedly deserve. It happened to Mike Piazza; hell, it happened to fucking Joe DiMaggio.

Lindor will be fine, because he’s Lindor, and in all likelihood the Mets will be fine once outcomes revert to a mean, after which we’ll all nod our heads at some ridiculous Just So story. (Lineup out of a hat? Inspiring meeting of the Cookie Club? On-field fight that brings everyone together? Team adopting tradition of cosplaying as furries on charter flights?) And in another 10 or 15 years this will happen again, and columnists will write shocked/world-weary columns, and we’ll have an insipid tiff about booing, and all the while the world will spin as it always has and always will.

Still, it would be nice to win a few more games. There’s very little in the ever-spinning world not improved by that.

* * *

Subtract one from the ranks of potential recidivist Mets, as Jerry Blevins has retired.

Blevins was a popular Met for a couple of reasons, and it was mildly unfortunate that one of those reasons overshadowed the other. The mildly unfortunate reason was he was not a physically intimidating specimen, skinny and mild to meek of mien, and lacked the stone face maintained by some players. When he succeeded, it felt like a post-regression Damn Yankees outtake, with the everyman having triumphed over the odds; when he failed, it was very hard to send venom his way because he looked more desolate about the outcome than you felt. To that, add that Blevins was smart and thoughtful about his craft and never took himself all that seriously, adopting a mildly ridiculous mock-kid’s drawing of himself as a Met for his Twitter avatar. Fans like me are always going to root for a player like that.

Which is great, except for what it obscures. Blevins pitched 13 years in the big leagues, went 30-13 and was a lefty assassin, destroying some of the league’s deadliest left-handed antagonists. The fact that he didn’t look like a world-class athlete was endearing, but he was every inch of one.

Blevins will undoubtedly be back in the game in relatively short order; he’s already dabbled in commentary and proved good at it, and I suspect he’d be a terrific minor-league pitching coordinator or coach. For now, he’s talked about being a dad and buying a ticket, hot dog and beer to watch Jacob deGrom pitch today. Should you spot him in the stands, buy him the beer. He’s more than earned it.

* * *

You probably saw this, but just in case: It’s by Elizabeth Merrill of ESPN, about the ’69 Mets and how they’ve endured the long year of COVID, and those they’ve lost. It’s lovely and bittersweet, about the bonds between teammates and the fellowship of athletes, and the loneliness and loss when something unimaginable forces those bonds to be cut.

Get Into the Groove, Boys

And so it came to pass on the seventh day that the Mets had played six games in a row, one each day, as the Great Scorekeeper intended. It took them weeks to reach such a state of grace, playing baseball every day without interruption, but on the seventh day, a.k.a. Sunday, that became their sixth consecutive day of actual baseball activity, it appeared as if they had gotten the hang of their craft at last.

Now, on Monday, they have an off day. Enough with the days of rest. They’ve just gotten into the groove of showing up and not being sent home. There are signs they’re getting into the groove of playing fluidly. Why must they detoured from their groove just as it’s getting kinda groovy?

Play ball! Play ball like you did on Sunday!

We’ve been waiting for the Mets not to go a proverbial minute without being rained out or snowed out or plagued out. They finally got left alone by external factors that could go wrong and did go wrong. They got to start playing day after day, sometimes at night. The execution didn’t go so right in Chicago, but they were just getting the hang of not getting postponed. From a series-winning standpoint, it went much better at home against Washington.

That team playing baseball on Sunday afternoon was a team playing sharp baseball from every angle.

Their starting pitcher Taijuan Walker toughed out some baserunners but persevered for seven shutout innings en route to the well-deserved 4-0 win.

Their relievers Miguel Castro and Edwin Diaz threw a scoreless frame apiece and deserve a nod because you know we’d be shaking our heads in violent disapproval if they’d done anything dreadful.

Their shortstop Francisco Lindor leapt through the air with the greatest of ease at one point and came down with an out seconds earlier ticketed to become a hit. Francisco has yet to get untracked at the plate. Notice nobody ever talks about a player who’s performing superbly as untracked, as if that’s a destination. Wow, that Brandon Nimmo sure came out of the gate untracked this year. Same for the opposite. I think it’s fair to say Lindor couldn’t be more tracked if he tried. He’s probably trying too hard to untrack himself. If we’re still engaging in fun with language vis-à-vis Lindor in a month or a year, it won’t be so engaging. I doubt that will be the case. Anyway, really nice catch from he who is temporarily tracked.

Their right fielder, Michael Conforto, and their second baseman, Jonathan Villar, teamed for a sweet couple of relays to nab a runner at third. Villar only fills in. Conforto is a staple who appeared on the verge of uncollating on Saturday. From one day to the next you never know who will put it together. That’s why you want to have a game every day.

Their offensive third baseman J.D. Davis solved his defensive woes by hitting so much — three-for-four with a two-run homer — that what defensive woes? True, Davis can only be described as a third baseman if we adjust the definition of third baseman to “man who touches third base after homering,” but some days the bat plays and the glove doesn’t bother anybody. Oh, and Davis did cleanly put down the tag at the end of that Conforto-to-Villar thing of beauty.

J.D. was not alone in doing great things that involved the Citi Field fence. Pete Alonso cleared it with no problem for his fifth home run of a season that’s beginning to look powerfully like 2019 for him. Albert Almora, Jr., took off toward it like Endy Chavez and slammed his body à la Mike Baxter into it, robbing Kyle Schwarber with a flair that was all Almora. Albert with the championship pedigree walked away in one piece unlike Mike from Bayside and will dress for a game again very soon, which unfortunately Endy didn’t following the Endy Catch.

Chavez’s team had reached its end when he made his grab in 2006. Almora’s team is just getting going. Maybe really getting going. Except for a couple of basepath outs that I blame mostly on the misuse of the oven mitt as a sliding impediment, all of the Met cylinders were firing on Sunday. Watching them Sunday made one want to watch them some more on Monday, but they won’t play again until Tuesday.

Can’t anybody make a schedule that doesn’t keep pressing pause? Can’t anybody here play this game today?

They Shouldn't Have

After the Nationals were thoroughly dismantled by Jacob deGrom Friday night, even the defeated team’s social-media gang had to acknowledge his insane dominance:

A classy gesture! And on Twitter, no less!

The next day, deGrom’s Met teammates made a gesture of their own: They kept a respectful distance from winning baseball all afternoon, perhaps in recognition that nothing could compare to watching the best pitcher in baseball at work.

Marcus Stroman, who’d begun the year outclassed only by his ace teammate, spent his time on the mound either sighing at home-plate umpire Edwin Moscoso or watching various Nationals whack balls over his infielders’ heads. And Moscoso’s strike zone was indeed somewhat random. But pinning the blame on him is a lotta much — Moscoso’s failing wasn’t so much the dimensions, which were pretty consistent, as it was that he kept missing clear strikes that caught quite a bit of the zone, not only for Stroman but also for Washington’s Joe Ross.

The difference was that Ross’s location was sharp and Stroman’s was terrible — he couldn’t reliably find the bottom of the strike zone with his sinker, but he found the middle of the zone far too often, with the results one would expect. He also got no help from his defense, with Michael Conforto having a horrible day in the field that one homer banked off the foul pole couldn’t make up for. And Conforto’s homer was the only run the Mets scratched out, a day after their highly uncharacteristic eruption of runs for deGrom.

Stephen Tarpley entered Saturday as a Met ghost, having been on the roster twice as the 27th man in doubleheaders (and even warming up at Coors Field) without appearing. Joey Lucchesi‘s departure to the alternate site (a move I’m always tempted to call a rendition, which would make the whole transaction sound even creepier) gave Tarpley a more solid roster spot, and after Stroman was excused further duties the former Yankee and Marlin finally got to shed his ectoplasmic asterisk.

Perhaps Tarpley should have remained on another plane of existence — he threw 14 pitches and got nobody out, and now sits in the Met record books with an ERA of infinity. Spooky! Yes, Patrick Mazeika and Jose Peraza, there is a worse fate than being a ghost.

Robert Gsellman turned in three hitless innings as the long man, which I suppose can be viewed as the faintest of silver linings. But by then it was lipstick-on-a-pig time, with little to offer except Gary Cohen relentlessly though amiably razzing Keith Hernandez, whose attention had decayed to “fitful” even by his standards. But who could blame him? Hell, by then I was tweeting peevish complaints about the heavy-rotation commercials that I’m already tired of. (“Don’t use Taltz if you’re allergic to Taltz.” REALLY? WHO ACTUALLY NEEDS THIS SPELLED OUT FOR THEM?) These are the kind of games you watch in April because we’ve barely escaped the yawning void of baseball not being around, and you’re glad for the game’s company even on a day like this, when you know there’s no shortage of somethings you’d be better off doing instead.

Anyway, the Mets’ respectful gesture was an interesting call. But really, they shouldn’t have.

The Incomparable Jacob deGrom

“Don’t ever embarrass anybody by comparing him to…” might read as the beginning of a familiar quote from Reds manager Sparky Anderson, uttered at the conclusion of the 1976 World Series. Thurman Munson of the losing Yankees hit .529 in the four-game Cincinnati sweep. His catching counterpart, Johnny Bench, hit .533 and won Most Valuable Player honors. Anderson had been asked to compare the two great catchers of their day. Sparky called Munson “outstanding,” but wouldn’t brook a direct comparison between any other catcher and his own all-world backstop. Naturally, the above quote ends with “…Johnny Bench.”

I thought of Anderson’s frank assessment Friday night as the incomparable Jacob deGrom went about his usual business of being routinely brilliant…except more so. The strength of the Nationals’ batting order certainly merited no comparison to that of the Mets’ starter. The Nats came to bat 29 times at Citi Field against deGrom. They collected two hits, didn’t otherwise reach base, struck out fifteen times and never scored. Come to think of it, they were overmatched as well by deGrom the hitter. Jacob went 2-for-4 at the plate; broke a scoreless tie by driving in the only run he’d need; and scored two others, presumably to keep his legs limber.

DeGrom the .545-average hitter — wisely slotted in the eight-hole Friday — is a delicious side dish: a testament to a competitor’s determination to be skilled at all facets of his craft and a counterpoint to all the folderol about the desirability of the DH on a team that lately has more bats than gloves. But that, like Brandon Nimmo’s oh-by-the-way homer and four-RBI night, was served up merely to complement the 6-0 Mets win. The main course consisted of Jacob deGrom the 0.31-ERA pitcher throwing what appeared to be the most effortless 15-strikeout shutout in human history. No doubt he invested effort in his outing. There’s preparation of a physical and mental nature. There’s work in the bullpen. There’s data from the analytics department. There are discussions with catchers and coaches. There is an inherent degree of exertion that comes with releasing from one’s right hand 109 pitches — 84 of them strikes — across nine innings.

Yet he makes it look so damn easy. Late in the game, I kept an eye peeled to see how many pitches he’d thrown. I saw the number “98”. It was the miles per hour of his most recent delivery…which was also the number of pitches he’d delivered to that point.

He was throwing 98 MPH upon his 98th pitch. From a safe televised distance, it looked like a breeze. In whatever seats are permitted to be filled in the vicinity of home plate, the breezes created by National bats must have felt delightful.

Jake’s fifteen strikeouts, compiled in service to somehow his first-ever home shutout, were a career-high. The fifty strikeouts he’s racked up in his four starts thus far this season established a major league record for most strikeouts in the first four starts of any season. That’s one of those records you don’t realize exists except when someone motivates its revision.

Statistics have their own vocabulary to deal with deGrom. The English language should be so lucky. When Jake pitches, the words that fly around include “disgusting”; “stupid”; “insane;” and “sick”. Those are compliments, mind you. They must have been coined in this realm by batters who couldn’t bear to label pitching that utterly defeats them as something “sublime” or “exquisite”.

Give it the least mellifluous adjectives you can think of if you must. No matter how you say it, you’re likely muttering it from the dugout.

To be fair, we all grope for a proper context in which to discuss deGrom. He’s rendered obsolete “one of” as a precursor to “the best”. Are there others in the game currently who match up to Jake? Sparky Anderson’s already Benchmarked our answer. We are convinced Jacob has no peer in the here and now. Our recency bias isn’t so recent, either. Granted, 2020 was short and 2021 has barely begun, but Jacob deGrom has been on an ethereal roll for the length of four seasons, and he fit plenty comfortably within the outdated category of “one of the best” for the four seasons before that.

Among deGrom’s many achievements Friday night was lowering his career earned run average to 2.55, the best for any Mets pitcher who’s logged a minimum of a thousand innings. Let’s repeat that: Jacob deGrom has the best Mets career ERA ever. Better than everybody who’s ever pitched for the Mets.

Which is to say better than Tom Seaver.

Now let’s caveat the bejeesus out of that, because the phrase “better than Tom Seaver” doesn’t dare articulate itself casually in these parts. Jacob deGrom has thrown 1,198.2 innings. Tom Seaver threw, for the Mets, 3,045.2 innings. So that’s more. A lot more. Seaver’s Met ERA was 2.57, or a speck more than where deGrom’s stands at present. Also, it includes Tom’s 1983, which was his age-38 season, six seasons removed from the Franchise’s initial departure from the franchise. Seaver’s ERA in 1983 was an unsightly (for him) 3.55. It’s on his ledger in permanent ink, so, OK, it counts. But the Seaver who’s Seaver to us is the Tom who debuted on April 13, 1967, and barely missed a start through June 12, 1977. That Seaver, spanning 22 to 32 years old, totaled 2,814.2 innings and compiled an ERA of 2.49.

Keep that in mind during deGrom’s next start when SNY hails 2.55 as the new Met record. And keep in mind that for the first 1,198.2 innings of Seaver’s career, covering 1967 through the seventh inning of June 9, 1971 (thanks, Baseball-Reference!), Tom’s ERA stood at 2.46. Jake’s 2.55 ERA over the exact same number of innings is still sublime and exquisite, but it’s not lower than Seaver’s.

Lord knows I’ve come not to bury deGrom and only incidentally to praise Seaver. I’m generally pleased the chatter Jake spurs every fifth-ish day catapults Tom into the upper tier of our contemporary conversation. When No. 48 — or No. 42, as he was Friday for Jackie Robinson Night — is at his best, No. 41 is more than a sleeve patch. When Jacob strikes out nine Rockies in a row, as he did a week ago, Tom’s exploits come alive. Actually, when Jacob came within one of Tom’s record of ten straight K’s, I was as nervous as I used to get when a Met neared the then-elusive first no-hitter in Mets history.

Except I couldn’t tell what I was nervous about: that Jake wouldn’t match and maybe exceed Tom, or that Jake would match and maybe exceed Tom. Tom Seaver’s ten consecutive strikeouts of the San Diego Padres on April 22, 1970, is one of my idol’s signature moments. I’ve lived with it proudly for 51 years. It’s been his, ours, mine. Once in a while, some Doug Fister comes along and challenges it, and I put all the hex I can muster on him, because, due respect to a perfectly good major league pitcher, who the hell is Doug Fister to try to displace Tom Seaver from the record books?

Yet Jacob deGrom isn’t Doug Fister. Jacob deGrom is one of our own. He’s more than that. He’s Jacob deGrom. The instinct to protect a hero’s legacy shouldn’t activate against somebody you revel in rooting for to begin with. And if records are made to be broken, who better to break this one than someone who will keep it in the family? I didn’t want Jacob to not strike out a tenth consecutive Rockie, but when he fell short of Tom’s record, well, let’s just say I was disappointed, but I wasn’t devastated.

Though they’ve arisen organically because Jake is out there being so terrific you can’t help but think of Tom, I don’t particularly ache to make these comparisons between deGrom and Seaver. Or between deGrom and anybody, even if it’s a reflex reaction to do so. It’s how we process baseball after a while.

“A” reminds me of “B”.
“A” is having the kind of game “C” had that time.
“A” is having the best season since “D”.
“A” really stacks up with “E,” and you know “E” was about as good as anybody, right up there with “F,” “G” and “H”.

That, too, is our vocabulary.

Nevertheless, I’ve grown a little uncomfortable with the collective effort to micromanage Jacob deGrom’s greatness since it became our most urgent common cause in 2018; it’s as if simply sitting back and taking in Jake’s brilliance isn’t satisfying enough. Maybe if the Mets scored for Jake regularly like Jake scored for Jake on Friday we wouldn’t get overly hung up on his minutiae. But when wins became mostly inaccessible to him in his race for recognition versus the likes of Scherzer and Nola, we had to emphasize the finer print. It was fine, all right. It was a 1.70 ERA. I think we got used to shepherding Jake’s every start and touting his every inning thereafter. Two guys get on while he’s pitching and we worry the rest of the world will dismiss him as a barely .500 pitcher unworthy of another Cy Young.

Jake is so smooth about the spectacle he’s calmly created. He’s asked if he aspires to more awards, including MVP, per the chants he heard Friday night (in April). Sure, he says. How about the Hall of Fame? Sure, he adds, despite needing two more seasons just to qualify for eventual preliminary consideration. Why be shy about knowing how good you are? It’s not a campaign, just a polite answer. What’s the pitcher with the 0.31 ERA going to say? “Aw, shucks” ain’t an option at this level.

But asking each other between every 98 MPH pitch of every game “how good is Jacob deGrom?” doesn’t really reveal anything we can assert with anything resembling certainty. I very recently rewatched Oh, God!, the 1977 film our people light up to when George Burns in the title role tells John Denver his last miracle was the 1969 Mets. But I jotted down another piece of Godly dialogue that I thought applies to our ongoing attempts to appraise deGrom:

I only know what is. Also I’m very big on what was. On what isn’t yet, I haven’t got a clue.

I do know Jacob deGrom has had a four-game stretch like I’ve very rarely seen and is having a four-year run I wouldn’t too quickly trade for many accomplished by any pitcher considered among the all-time best. I haven’t got a clue about where exactly that places him in the greater scheme of things, especially with so much (knock wood) left to find out. Finding out figures to be the treat.

In the meantime, don’t ever embarrass another pitcher by comparing him to Jacob deGrom.

Or Tom Seaver.

I'd Rather Not Have What He's Having

It’s not quite “LFGM” — that was both snappier and happier — but Pete Alonso added to his book of quotations once Thursday night’s game against the Cubs had mercifully ended, telling the assembled scribes that “getting swept feels like eating a shit sandwich, to be honest with you.”

I can’t say and I hope the Polar Bear can’t either, but the last three nights of baseball certainly weren’t pleasant. The Mets lost because of a brief spasm of ineptitude, lost because that ineptitude turned chronic, and then lost a game where the ineptitude was so all-consuming that neither team deserved a W, except it’s inarguable that the Mets deserved one slightly less.

Do we really want the details? I suppose that’s why we have recaps, so fine. Joey Lucchesi continued the Mets’ recent maddening pattern of looking somewhere between effective and untouchable before falling apart. The relief corps was pretty good — particularly new import Sean Reid-Foley, who lowers his torso and stares forward to get the catcher’s sign, looking a bit like a homeowner who’s pretty sure he’s going to discover that wasps have built a nest right under the deck. On the other hand, let’s not get too excited about Reid-Foley’s debut: new export Trevor Hildenberger looked pretty good when he arrived and he’s now departed, because middle relievers. The Mets got their runs in a brief flurry of solid hitting, but left a bad taste in your mouth (that thing I just did is called foreshadowing) by following said barrage with a waste of a no-out, runner-on-second situation. Oh, and there was Kevin Pillar and Michael Conforto collaborating on not catching a pop-up that hung in the air for approximately 15 minutes, a misplay that seemed to mesmerize Javier Baez into nearly getting tagged out while lollygagging back into first. (He was safe because Alonso swipe-tagged him with his forearm and not the ball, completing a sequence best set to “Yakety Sax.”)

Aaron Loup and Miguel Castro somehow stranded a leadoff Cubs triple, but in hindsight that might have been because the Mets and Cubs had both decided to change the baseball rules and take turns trying not to win. (Who knows, maybe that rule will be foisted on some poor indy circuit before Rob Manfred is finally invited to find a new hobby.) Having won high marks from the judges for their ineptitude, the Cubs gave the Mets their chance in the 10th: Pillar started on second as the free runner, dramatically increasing the chances of his doing something actually useful, and moved to third on a wild pitch.

Normally, I’d take the odds on Jeff McNeil at least hitting a ball to an outfielder, but McNeil can’t get out of his own way right now and swung at a pitch above the strike zone. I had more confidence in Luis Guillorme, who walked. So did Francisco Lindor. Up came Dom Smith, who actually connected — right into a double play. With the Mets having failed, Baez was the Cubs’ free runner and soon scored on a Jason Heyward single through the infield after a bunch of stuff I no longer care to recall.

Honestly, this was a deeply stupid baseball game, nearly as miserable as it was to watch as I’m sure it was to play. If the best baseball games are chess matches, this was watching two blindfolded children screaming and flinging checkers at each other. It’s the first game of the season that left me fuming and muttering how much I hate baseball and saying all the usual stupid things I say about now when there’s inevitably a stupid hateful game like this.

So yeah, my views are just about the same as Pete’s. This restaurant gets zero stars. Someone give me a toothbrush, a bottle of Scope, and a new day on the calendar.

As Bob Murphy Might’ve Called It

It isn’t a beautiful night at normally beautiful Wrigley Field, as the Mets have fallen further behind the Chicago Cubs, and now manager Luis Rojas comes out of the dugout to have a word with home plate umpire Bruce Dreckman, apparently ready to make a change to his lineup. After conferring with Dreckman, Luis walks slowly, past the mound, past the infield and into the outfield. Gil Hodges once took a walk of this nature, not stopping until he wound up in left field to remove Cleon Jones from a game very much like this one versus the Houston Astros. Longtime Mets fans will remember that move as a real turning point in the championship season of the 1969 New York Mets. Gil didn’t take the removal of a player in the middle of a game lightly, but when he took out Jones, who nearly won the batting title that year, he had a real idea of what he was doing.

Sure enough, Luis has arrived and is speaking calmly with Dom Smith. Dom, such a good-looking young hitter, hasn’t played his best defensive game, and it appears Luis is taking him out of the game. Gil walked Cleon back to the Mets’ dugout in that blowout loss to Houston at Shea Stadium, and the current manager will no doubt be taking that same walk with his left fielder of today.

Oh, what’s this? Dom is heading back to the bench and perhaps the clubhouse on this frigid night in Chicago, but Luis has made a right turn and is now motioning to center fielder Kevin Pillar to leave the field as well. Pillar, a marvelous defensive center fielder, admittedly hasn’t had the most brilliant game under the lights, either. Maybe Luis wants to give the veteran a chance to rest. Brandon Nimmo, off to such a dazzling start, has been sitting with what’s been described as stiffness in his right hip, giving Pillar an opportunity to start. One of the hallmarks of Gil Hodges was his ability to assign playing time to every member of his roster. Luis, too, has been doing his best to keep his reserves fresh.

While Pillar exits the field, it appears Luis isn’t done taking his impromptu tour. You know, Luis Rojas comes from a great baseball family, the son of the wonderful manager and player Felipe Alou and nephew to two of Felipe’s brothers, Matty and Jesus, both of them solid players in their own right. We had the privilege of seeing all three Alou brothers line up in the outfield for the San Francisco Giants when they played the Mets in 1963. The Mets drew some enormous crowds for both the Giants and Dodgers when the former New York teams came back to the Polo Grounds those first two seasons of the Mets’ existence. The fans were so happy to greet their old heroes and have National League baseball again. Casey Stengel made those years so memorable and so enjoyable.

When games were over at the Polo Grounds, the uniformed personnel on both sides would have to go for a very long stroll to the clubhouses that were located beyond the spacious outfield of the ancient ballpark. I don’t know if we’ve seen a Mets manager spend as much time in the outfield since then. Well, Luis Rojas hasn’t yet left the outfield here at Wrigley. Instead, he’s going to right field and, yes, he’s taking out Michael Conforto as well.

Michael is such a fine young man and such a talented player. His start this season is no indication of his ability, but it has been a rough start and he, too, has endured a lot of bad road tonight, so Luis is removing his regular right fielder. This is unusual, but perhaps the manager is trying to send a message to his beleaguered troops. Though the Mets entered the evening in first place in the National League East and are guaranteed to stay there at the end of play, they have committed four errors and have had their share of trouble handling the ball cleanly.

While we wait for the skipper to make his way back to the dugout, this is a good time to remind you tickets for Batting Helmet Day are now on sale at all Mets ticket outlets, including select branches of Manufacturers Hanover Trust. All fans 14 and under will receive an adjustable bright blue and orange batting helmet like the one slugger Pete Alonso wears. Pete is so popular with the kids. They call him the Polar Bear. Pete hit a monster of a home run earlier tonight, way, way out of Wrigley Field and onto Waveland Avenue, probably in the vicinity of where some of Dave Kingman’s shots used to land. I hear Dave is doing great in retirement in Arizona and we wish him well. He’s a wonderful guy once you get to know him.

What’s this now? Luis has paused at first base and is telling Pete Alonso his night is over. That’s a surprise, as Pete has been busy at first base, trying to field the many balls his teammates have attempted to throw in his general direction. The Cubs have such a hard-hitting team and an offense like theirs will keep the infield as well as the outfield on its toes.

Well, apparently, the manager isn’t done, as he rounds first, heads for second…and yes, Luis Rojas is taking out Jeff McNeil, the man they call the Squirrel. Jeff, like Michael Conforto, is a fine young man experiencing a bit of a shaky start to the new season. You know, they call baseball “the summer game,” and conditions like we have tonight, with temperatures dipping into the thirties and the winds whipping up, are not conducive to baseball being played at its best. McNeil, who along with his lovely wife Tatiana have given a good home to a dog and a cat who were up for adoption, has no doubt felt the effects of the conditions and hasn’t looked as crisp as he usually does.

While Rojas is removing his second baseman, this might be a good time for you to remove your second Schaefer of the game from the fridge. Schaefer, after all, is the one beer to have when you’re having more than one, and as long as you’re not outside tonight at Wrigley Field, the smooth, delicious finish of a cold Schaefer goes great with a ballgame entering its final inning. We thank F. & M. Schaefer Brewing Company for joining our family of participating sponsors of New York Mets baseball. We had such enthusiastic support from our friends at Rheingold for many years, but once their brewery closed, Schaefer stepped right up to take their place. Stay tuned after the game when we award points in the Schaefer Mets Player of the Game balloting.

Frankly, it may be a difficult selection process tonight, as the Mets admittedly aren’t having their most award-winning game. Alonso hit that very long home run, a two-run job that drew the Mets close in the fifth inning. David Peterson, who looked so poised his last time out, versus Philadelphia, threw three masterful innings at the start and didn’t give up a hit until the fourth. He ran into some bad luck in what became the seven-run bottom of the fourth, leading Rojas to make his first trip from the dugout. At that time, it was only to take out the pitcher. David’s successors on the mound encountered some trouble as well. Of course when the game began, it looked like the big story would be Francisco Lindor hitting his first home run as a New York Met, the first of many to come. Lindor was such a big acquisition in the offseason, a real superstar and a real leader in that clubhouse. I’ve had the chance to talk to Francisco over Zoom and I have to tell you I’ve rarely encountered such an impressive young man.

Unfortunately, it appears Francisco has made the wrong impression on his manager tonight because Rojas is taking his shortstop out, too. The bad weather doesn’t ask to see your credentials and it must’ve taken a toll on Francisco. He’ll bounce back. He’s too good a player not to.

The Mets have made four errors tonight, which is surprising, considering how good they looked defensively over the weekend at Coors Field, which, like Wrigley, can be subject to some pretty harsh elements. It was cold in Denver just as it’s cold tonight in Chicago. We can’t wait for some of that good summer weather, sunshine, and little more than a few harmless puffy cumulus clouds overhead.

Luis still hasn’t left the field. He’s pausing at third base to remove J.D. Davis. Davis is such a promising hitter and he’s continued to produce when healthy, but third base has often been such a trouble spot for New York Mets throughout their history. In their first year of 1962, the Mets used nine different men at third. There’s a reason they call it the hot corner. Casey Stengel started the season with Don Zimmer, who suffered an 0-for-34 streak. Don finally broke out of his slump and, as thanks, he was traded to Cincinnati for Cliff Cook and Bob G. Miller. Try as he might, Casey couldn’t seem to distinguish between that Bob Miller, a lefty, and the other Bob Miller on the pitching staff, a righty. When Casey would call the bullpen, he’d say, “Get Nelson up,” which came to be understood as Bob L. Miller, the righthander. You had to speak “Stengelese” in those days, but it was worth it. Casey kept Lindsey, Ralph and me as well as the writers who covered the team that first year so very entertained. The Mets lost 120 games, but broadcasting was never a chore with Casey around.

Davis’s tough night hasn’t been for lack of practice. J.D. has been working very hard to improve his defense, but you won’t have to work hard to find great taste in a cigarette if you smoke Viceroy. Light up a Viceroy and feel as regal as a monarch.

J.D. is such a likable young man. All of these Mets are. When they can, a whole host of the everyday players get together on the road after the game for cookies and milk and talk hitting in somebody’s hotel room. They like each other that much. Maybe Luis is advising J.D. that fielding should be on the agenda for tonight’s get-together. It looks like the regulars can get a head start on planning their meeting, as J.D., like the others, has been removed from the game. Not even Gil Hodges took this drastic a move with virtually his entire lineup. The only players Rojas hasn’t replaced since emerging from the dugout minutes ago are his pitcher and catcher. He’s certainly run through several relievers tonight — Robert Gsellman, Trevor Hildenberger, Aaron Loup and Miguel Castro. Loup and Castro didn’t give up any earned runs. Behind the plate for all of the pitchers has been James McCann. McCann has made such a difference since signing with the Mets over the winter. We saw evidence of his impact when he threw out Trevor Story attempting to steal for the last out of Sunday’s game in Colorado, an ending you don’t see too often.

Now, though, Luis is opting to give James the rest of the night off, making it eight out of eight position players he has pulled at once. It’s hard to blame Rojas for wanting to make wholesale changes. The Mets are losing by so many runs that the operator of the hand-held scoreboard here at Wrigley Field must be getting cramps, especially on such a cold night. It’s a shame we can’t see this ballpark in daylight. You think of Wrigley in daylight, you think of great guys like Ernie Banks, who always wanted to play two. The Mets and Cubs certainly had some battles here on the Near North Side in 1969, with Gil Hodges and Leo Durocher going at it. Tonight, however, I think Luis Rojas just wants to get the final inning over with and try his luck tomorrow. We’ll be on the air with the pregame show at 7:25 New York time.

Coming into pitch now appears to be Luis Guillorme. Guillorme is so versatile. He’s pitched before, but really you know his manager would prefer to see him at one of the infield positions, which Guillorme handles so skillfully. Of course Rojas now has to tell Dreckman who’s going to fill the rest of the roles on the field now that he’s removed his entire lineup. Oh, but what’s this? Luis Rojas instead marches back to the Mets’ dugout, hands the lineup card to his trusted bench coach Dave Jauss, and removes himself, setting an example for all of his players. If you’re not up to the task, Rojas seems to be saying, you don’t belong in the game. Baseball is a game of redeeming features, and the series finale will give the manager and all the Mets a chance to redeem their less than representative outing. Joey Lucchesi, the stylish lefthander, and Trevor Williams are the probable pitchers for Thursday.

Dreckman gives the go-ahead to resume the action. Guillorme goes into his windup. It’s ball one to Anthony Rizzo.

Thinking Can Only Hurt the Ballclub

I love J.D. Davis, from his weirdo back-construction nickname (“Jonathan Gregory Davis” doesn’t obviously suggest “J.D. Davis,” but “Jonathan Davis” plus a little repetition does) and his shrill heckling to his postgame manic episodes and general air of just being tickled to play baseball. But a thinking J.D. Davis is his own worst enemy.

I’ll paint the word picture for future generations in search of an extra dose of masochism: Bottom of the third, scoreless game, frozen night at Wrigley. Taijuan Walker faces Willson Contreras with two outs and Eric Sogard on second. Walker’s 2-1 sinker touches the bottom of the strike zone and yields exactly what it’s meant to: a grounder to the infield. But Davis backs up on it, giving ground to get a true hop instead of coming in aggressively. Then, with the ball in his hand, you see him double-pump, maybe repositioning the ball to get the seams. Whatever it is, it’s a moment in which he’s thinking — and that’s not good for an infielder in the heat of battle whose throws aren’t always true.

Uh-oh, I thought. And sure enough, Davis’s throw skipped into the dirt, clanking off Pete Alonso‘s glove as Sogard alertly kept motoring, scoring on the play. The Cubs led 1-0, and Davis would make a carbon-copy error in the fifth, allowing Kris Bryant to reach.

In between, the fourth proved fatal to the Mets’ chances. Walker fanned the first two Cubs before allowing a single to Jason Heyward, who was safe by an eyelash stealing second. The pesky Sogard survived a 2-2 call just above the top of the strike zone and then drove in Heyward. Walker then started doing what his last name suggests, walking opposing pitcher Jake Arrieta, Ian Happ and Contreras to force in another run and end Walker’s night. All three at-bats featured multiple pitches on the edge of the strike zone, inspiring Walker to give home-plate umpire John Libka a piece of his mind on his way to the dugout. Libka ejected Walker, who was out of the game anyway and therefore penalized by no longer being entitled to enjoy the deep-freeze conditions outside of the visiting clubhouse. (“Stop, don’t.”)

Those two sequences were ultimately all that mattered in the game: The Mets posed a ninth-inning threat against Craig Kimbrel that fell flat, meaning the entirety of their offense was a solo homer by Davis, struck so perfectly that not even the meanest Wrigley inbound wind could have tamed it. This was a problem that got masked in Colorado — there, the Mets took two out of three because they got terrific pitching, played sound defensive baseball and hit just enough when it mattered. Here, the pitching was a little below that level (though Walker was pretty good), the defense was a lot below that level, and the timely hits weren’t there. The Mets’ lineup should allow the team to outslug a lot of such troubles, but the lineup largely hasn’t done that so far in 2021’s weird stop-start season.

As for the in-game controversy, I thought Libka’s strike zone was actually pretty fair. Sure, there were borderline pitches that could have been argued either way, but that’s always the case — only Sogard’s leadoff walk strikes me as a miscarraige of justice according to ESPN’s pitch plotting, and Mets hitters had some calls go their way too. What Libka didn’t do was mysteriously expand the zone from side to side and force both teams to figure out its dimensions, an umpiring distortion so common that we’ve learned to accept it as part of daily conditions, as if weather made the strike zone wax and wane like wood over the seasons. If you want to complain about Libka, do it for another reason, one noted by Eduardo Perez on a not-bad ESPN broadcast — Libka should have known Walker would be steaming on his walk off the mound, and he could have found a pretext for paying attention to something along the foul line away from the visitors’ dugout, so he could claim not to have heard the critique of his strike zone. Instead, he stayed front and center, providing a handy teapot for the inevitable tempest.

Well, anyway. Every season has 40-odd games you should just erase from memory as soon as they’re concluded, because dwelling on them will do no one any good. As I hope Francisco Lindor tells Davis in a quiet moment during infield practice, don’t think. It can only hurt the ballclub.

Glove, Actually

You can’t talk about Sunday’s 2-1 Mets win at Coors Field without acknowledging the run the Mets strung together in the second inning, built on a Pete Alonso single, a Michael Conforto double and well-placed Jeff McNeil groundout. You can’t talk about the Mets taking their three-game series without taking note of J.D. Davis’s bat making its statement via a two-out single that scored Conforto in the fourth.

Duly acknowledged and noted. Now let’s talk Mets defense.

Mets defense? That’s a thing? It hasn’t been all that much in recent years. “Where have you gone 2014 Juan Lagares?” we might have asked as Metsopotamia turned its Gold Glove eyes to a display case gathering dust. The Mets featured few irrefutable defensive standouts once Juan began spending more time on the (then) DL than in CF. If the Mets were going to win, it would be via pitching, three-run homers and an innate hope that nobody hit the ball anywhere except right at somebody, and even then, maybe not too hard.

The spirit of the departed Lagares (himself presiding over funerals for fly balls for the Angels before haunting their IL) was alive and well for a change in Denver on Sunday. Defense was alive and well in the field for the Mets. When you win by one run, you need all the help you can muster, and you need to not hurt yourself in the process.

I counted seven separate plays Sunday that went beyond the routine and involved something more than a catcher cradling strikes. In Saturday’s doubleheader opener, Mets pitchers, mostly Jacob deGrom, struck out 17 Rockie batters. When Jake is really on, “just don’t drop strike three” is the extent of the Mets’ defensive strategy. In Sunday’s finale, Marcus Stroman took the mound. Marcus Stroman isn’t Jacob deGrom, and not because nobody is Jacob deGrom except Jacob deGrom. Nobody who isn’t Marcus Stroman is Marcus Stroman, either.

We’re not talking about asking for ID. Stroman approaches his outings like nobody I’ve ever seen in more than fifty years of watching Mets baseball. He doesn’t “attack” the batter or the strike zone. He attacks the entire game. If a top rope surrounded the rubber, he’d climb atop it, jump off of it, pin the batter he’s startled and egg the crowd on to chant his name. That’s “his attitude,” Conforto said of his 3-0 teammate in Sunday’s postgame Zoom, “the ultimate confidence in himself, and I think that can be contagious sometimes.” Rooting for our first-place team, we should all come down with a case of that kind of self-belief.

There may be spectacle to Stroman’s starts, but the substance is sophisticated. Maybe if Marcus thought he could strike out everybody in sight, that’s how he’d approach each encounter. But he understands his stuff and he pitches a game different from deGrom or most contemporary pitchers in the age of the K. He pitches to his strengths — “I throw an elite sinker” — and he pitches to his defense. Against the Rockies, he struck out five over eight innings, which registers at a glance as something well short of deGrominant, but Marcus’s final line tells its own something-to-love story: 3 hits, 1 walk, 1 run. And did we mention the eight innings? Stro’s ERA thus far in 2021 is 0.90. Sub-one is deGrom territory. Or deGrom/Stroman territory. Two aces will deck any opposing batting order.

Usually Stroman produces ground balls, and the bottom of every inning at Coors Field — a pitcher’s park when Jacob and Marcus are at work — involved at least one groundout. But a couple of times the ball took off in the thin air, deep into the outfield. Mets flycatchers, despite the absence of a Lagares type, were up to the challenge. Brandon Nimmo had to hustle to deepest center to reel in a belt by C.J. Cron. Conforto had to fight the sun through his sunglasses to retire Garrett Hampson; he prayed a little, laid out a lot and took care of the mission.

Within the infield, Francisco Lindor reminded us what a fully formed shortstop looks like. He plays a very fast game. Maybe too fast? For a skosh, I thought so when, on a potential double play ball, I saw Stroman’s fling to Lindor on a sacrifice attempt apparently bounce out of his glove. But no, Francisco had grabbed the throw and got credit for an out before the ball briefly escaped his clutches “on the transfer”. That may not be the best example of a smooth play, but it felt like Lindor knew what he was doing. What Conforto said about confidence vis-à-vis Stroman applies to Lindor. He knows what he has to do out there and he knows he’s going to do it.

Stroman demonstrates the most defensive confidence in Stroman. If he’s around a ball, he’ll be involved and he won’t worry that he’s only the pitcher. He’s a Gold Glove pitcher (2017 AL) and he trusts the fielder who was thusly awarded. On Sunday, in the seventh, Marcus had to leap high en route to first to pull down a toss from Alonso to make the first out on Ryan McMahon. He did, assuring us he can indeed do as Mountain Dew commercials once advised and get vertical. In the eighth, Stroman pivoted from 3-1 in the scorebook to 1-3, but not like you’re conditioned to expect. Josh Fuentes’s sharp grounder to Marcus’s right necessitated the pitcher make a spectacular behind-the-back stab — which he did — and then a kickball kind of pitch toward Pete (“I want it slow and bouncy”) — which he also did. “That was bizarre!” Gary Cohen marveled. But it was also effective. It was an out.

Eight innings is almost unheard of in today’s game, at Coors Field or any field, but Stro went nearly the distance. Luis Rojas, learning as he manages, left him in for ninety pitches. In the ninth, it wasn’t surprising to see Edwin Diaz relieve him. It was a little stunning, however, to notice the Mets simultaneously make three defensive maneuvers, sending in Luis Guillorme for Davis at third and Albert Almora, Jr., for Nimmo in center while shifting Brandon to left in place of Dom Smith. The Mets had their defensive lineup out there.

I swear I can’t remember the last time the Mets had a defensive lineup.

Though the Mets seemed confident, and their confidence was internally contagious, no Mets fan can ever have be vaccinated with enough doses against doubt. For all the sharp plays they’d made, they were still leading by a single slender run. The Mets were 1-for-8 with runners in scoring position. McNeil’s calculated risk in trying to stretch a double into a triple in the top of the ninth didn’t pay off. Lindor’s offensive momentum didn’t carry over from Saturday’s big hit; he went 0-for-4 and is batting .189. As deep as the lineup looks, the Mets have scored more than four runs in a game only twice in eleven games.

Which is why, for now, the Mets have to rely on pitching and defense. Especially defense.

Diaz struck out the side Saturday. A less fresh Edwin couldn’t strike out anybody Sunday. But he had gloves on his side. Francisco took care of a liner for the first out of the ninth. Brandon, having just moved to left, raced to the wall and brought down a scarily long out for the second. Trevor Story singled to keep the Rockies alive, bringing Charlie Blackmon to the plate as the potential Sugar shocker. Blackmon could theoretically ruin the entire day and series with one swing. Never mind a Coors Field homer. A gapper could get Story on his horse and galloping for the tie. Trevor understands the dimensions as well as anybody in Colorado. He also grasps that scoring from second is an easier sprint in mile-high elevation than scoring from first.

On the first pitch Diaz threw Blackmon, Story lit out for second. Cringing replaced confidence back in New York. Great, they have a runner in scoring position was my initial reaction, brewed with only the most natural ingredients of Rocky Mountain water, Moravian barley and Mets fan anxiety born of perennially porous defense.

But what’s this in my mug? It’s James McCann — @McCannon33 to his tweeps — rising and throwing and gunning to second. And it’s Francisco Lindor, swiftly covering, catching and tagging. In a blink, Story is out and the game is over. A couple of extra blinks are required partly because replay review has to be fired up and partly because we are rubbing our eyes from a touch of disbelief.

Yup, he’s out, and yup, we won a defensive struggle. We have a defensive lineup. We have gloves and players who know how to use them. And we finished off our Sunday on a play that rarely finishes off any Met day. Some helpful Twitter researchers and an additional dive into Baseball-Reference’s Stathead service indicated this was only the eighth time a Met catcher recorded a caught stealing to seal a victory. Jerry Grote did it first, in 1968. Omir Santos had done it most recently, in 2009. In between, there were Duffy Dyer in 1970; John Stearns in 1976; Mike Fitzgerald in 1984; Gary Carter in 1989; and, in his brief recidivist return, Kelly Stinnett in 2006. I was at what we’ll call, for our purposes today, the Stinnett game, versus the Dodgers at Shea. The Santos game, too, against the Brewers at Citi. They were smashing notes on which to exit the ballpark, but they didn’t necessarily seem to capture the Metgeist of their moment. I looked up what I blogged in the one-run victory recaps that followed and didn’t think to mention either throw.

McCann to Lindor, however, felt like something that tells us something about these Mets and their latest one-run win. They’re not scoring a ton, but they are winning a lot, even if it’s not by a lot. Sunday’s was the Mets’ fourth one-run win out of a total of seven. They’ve pitched, defended and edged their way into a division lead. It’s early. But it’s confidence-inspiring.

Let's Play One

Here’s a proposed rule change for baseball to consider: A team that wins the first game of a doubleheader in inspiring style doesn’t have to play the second game. They get to defer it for a day and bask in the afterglow, instead of going right back into battle and risking an emotional fallen souffle.

The Mets would have been in favor of that Saturday. They recorded one of their most satisfying wins of the young season in the matinee against the Rockies, spitting in the eye of recent history and exorcising some pesky statistical demons. Then they looked flat and overmatched in the nightcap, going down meekly. That second loss didn’t cancel out the good vibes of the opener, but it did affix a moderately sized asterisk to the proceedings.

On the other hand, the Mets actually getting to play was a victory in its own right, after two days of being sidelined by rain and snow. Despite the sun finally shining on him again, Jacob deGrom looked out of kilter early, struggling with his posture on landings and wearing the perturbed look that he reserves for such situation: I’m the best pitcher on the planet. Why are things I do better than anybody else suddenly hard?

But as is so often the case, the prospect of an emergency — runners on first and second, nobody out — helped him find his footing, and boy did he ever find it. Nine Rockies up, nine Rockies down, all by strikeout. One more K, and deGrom would stand alongside Tom Seaver — a Met immortal whose place in the firmament is a little less above deGrom’s head with every start — as the only pitchers to fan 10 straight. Two more Ks, and deGrom would stand alone.

Ah, but baseball is baseball, Denver is Denver … and there’s no Jacob deGrom masterpiece that his teammates won’t try to improve with crayons and finger paint. After swinging through deGrom’s first pitch of the fifth, Josh Fuentes slapped a hard grounder back of the middle that eluded deGrom and handcuffed Jeff McNeil, who flung it past Pete Alonso. After a strikeout, Dom Nunez rifled a ball off the right-field fence that Michael Conforto had to corral halfway back to the infield. Tie game. The next batter, Yonathan Daza, hit a low liner to Conforto in short right; Conforto looked like he had a play at the plate, but threw wide of James McCann. Then Raimel Tapia rifled a ball down the right-field line for a homer, and hey, you couldn’t blame that one on defensive slapstick. In a few minutes, deGrom had gone from flirting with baseball glory to being once again on the wrong side of the scoreboard and practicing his thousand-mile stare in the dugout.

Except, well, rerun that part about baseball and Denver. A line-drive homer by Alonso brought the Mets within one, and in the top of the seventh they rose up in indignation: McCann started the inning by singling and Jonathan Villar doubled into the corner, with Gary DiSarcina sending pinch-runner Albert Almora rather than leave things to Brandon Nimmo with runners on second and third and nobody out. Almora was safe at the plate, by somewhere between a pinkie and an eyelash; Francisco Lindor then singled through the infield for the lead.

Which Edwin Diaz secured with so little fuss that you felt a little bad for thinking about, well, all the times he hasn’t. The Mets had got to play baseball and they’d won. DeGrom had even won. It had been downright inspiring.

At the risk of being told it’s rude to do that in the punchbowl, though, a note of discontent has crept into the year for me.

DeGrom and Diaz combined to strike out 17, meaning just four Rockie outs were recorded away from home plate. Now, I find even routine baseball plays beautiful — the way shortstops glide across the dirt to pick off a grounder before it can reach the grass, or the instinctive paths outfielders carve across so much green to corral a fly ball’s arc. But a pitcher and catcher tossing the ball back and forth past a human windmill? There’s not a lot of beauty on display, even when a generational talent like deGrom is involved. Frankly, games like that are boring — static and leaden instead of balletic and filled with possibilities, like baseball ought to be.

They’re boring and they’re increasingly common. I bristle at tinkering with baseball’s essentials, but my muttering has become half-hearted as too many games become dull affairs. Something needs to change, even if it means messing with elements I once considered sacrosanct.

Anyway, there was more to the Mets’ day than that, but I’ll make it mercifully brief: They played more baseball and were carved up by German Marquez and his merciless slider, able to mount very little resistance. But let’s not talk about that, because remember the Mets invoked the inspiration rule after Game 1, meaning the rest was just a strange dream and they’ll play two tomorrow.

Oh wait, that experiment hasn’t even reached the Atlantic League yet. Shoot. Would’ve been a good day to give it a try, right?