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ABOUT US

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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Thanks, We Needed That

You might grab a nap. You might grab a shower. You might grab one of your top prospects and send him to the mound in front of the home folks to make his major league debut and watch him succeed. There are plenty of ways to feel refreshed. The Nolan McLean version proved most effective Saturday. I watched that kid pitch and field and comport himself and, my goodness, did I have a new outlook on life. Five-and-a-third innings in which no runs were given up and potential trouble was wriggled from as if it was something to be brushed aside rather than crumble down upon you can do that for a fan.

Can’t wait for another juicy bite.

McLean didn’t overwhelm Cal Raleigh and the Seattle Mariners as much as he withstood whatever could have gotten the best of him while they batted. Inconsistent umpiring didn’t bother him — four walks weren’t great, but eight strikeouts made those seem less concerning. A liner up the middle with the bases loaded didn’t bother him — that’s where his fielding, via a behind-the-back grab of Julio Rodriguez’s scorcher that the rookie calmly transformed into a 1-4-3 double play, came in. Removal in the top of the sixth with one out, despite having allowed only two hits, didn’t quite sit right with him, per his postgame comments, but you could sense as he walked off the mound to robust applause that he knew he’d be back. Why wouldn’t he? Nolan’s incredibly encouraging effort, along with mighty contributions from Francisco Lindor at the bat, Brett Baty on the basepaths, Pete Alonso when his 100th RBI beckoned, and Gregory Soto and Edwin Diaz as they combined to effectively shut down Seattle the rest of the way, added up to a 3-1 Met triumph. McLean may as well have unsealed a bottle of Mennen Skin Bracer and splashed it on the faces of millions of Mets fans.

Thanks. We needed that.

Now and then through McLean’s maiden voyage, names would be dropped into the telecast, identifying predecessors in premiering prominently with whom Nolan had something in common. Dick Rusteck got a shoutout. Dick Rusteck, time has all but forgotten, is the only Met to begin his career by tossing a shutout, doing so versus the Reds in 1966. Soon after, he had arm problems, and you’ve never otherwise heard Dick Rusteck mentioned in any other context. But those nine innings are nine innings for the ages. Bill Denehy struck out eight Phillies the first time he faced big leaguers, the same week Tom Seaver did the same. Seaver is Seaver. Denehy, who passed away in June, is known best as the guy who kept Tom company on their shared 1967 rookie card, unless he’s known better as the compensation the Mets sent the Washington Senators so they could hire Gil Hodges to manage. But those eight strikeouts, same total McLean accumulated versus the Mariners, live on as evidence of one of the most impressive first starts ever among Mets.

Rusteck, Denehy, and Seaver all did what they did to get things going at Shea Stadium. Steven Matz had to wait until Citi Field was open to toe his first MLB rubber, starting the nightcap of a de facto doubleheader in 2015. The first game completed the previous day’s suspended action and went seven looooooong innings on its own steam. The second game was all Matz, all the time: pitched until there were two out in the eighth, giving up only two runs, driving in four (because that’s how we rolled in the National League), briefly turning his cheering Grandpa Bert into a cult figure. Steven Matz’s record after that start was 1-0. No other Mets starting pitcher commencing his tenure at Citi Field could claim such a mark for another decade. Nolan McLean is the one.

Well, I don’t know if he’s the one the way we wish every rookie getting the ball for the very first time ahead of a game’s very first pitch becomes another Tom Seaver. There’s a reason we hold Tom Seaver as our ideal. There was only one of him. Still, it’s not bad when a pitcher becomes, say, a Steven Matz, who continues to ply his craft today, relieving for the Boston Red Sox. Matz came up in an era when starting pitchers made major league debuts for the New York Mets, and the event wasn’t just the start but the anticipation. Matt Harvey in 2012, donning his Dark Knight cape and striking out eleven in Phoenix; Zack Wheeler in 2013, grinding his way to a win in Atlanta (all the best to his right shoulder, irrespective of who he’s with now); Rafael Montero and Jacob deGrom on consecutive nights in New York in 2014, each dropping strong hints of what was possible; Noah Syndergaard in 2015, bringing to bear an apt nickname and an undeniable presence in Chicago; then Steven doing everything right that late afternoon in Flushing. Matz, Thor, Jake, and Matt each pitched in the World Series for the Mets in 2015. Wheeler and Montero worked in the 2022 Fall Classic, neither for the Mets, but narratives can’t have everything.

In August of 2025, we have a fresh new starting pitcher who appeared poised and capable and came along at a moment when the Mets had sagged beyond belief. Entering Saturday, the Mets had lost 14 of 16. Throughout 2025, when things got a little desperate in the starting pitching department, the Mets tried everything that wasn’t a fresh new starting pitcher appearing poised and capable. Other than Blade Tidwell — touted to a degree, but admittedly short of fully ready — we went with relievers and retreads. Lotta retreads. I sat in on one of David Stearns’s media sessions in early July, one that happened to coincide with one of those junctures when the Mets learned they’d developed a hole in their rotation and had to fill it quick; in this case, it was an injury to Paul Blackburn roiling best laid plans. Stearns, a master of saying nothing for public consumption when he doesn’t wish to speak his thinking aloud yet somehow sounding thoughtful while doing so, used a phrase that stuck with me: runway.

Here, courtesy of SNY’s online coverage, are the president of baseball operation’s two full quotes on the subject.

1) “I think from a developmental standpoint we prefer — again, it’s not always possible — but we prefer and I’ve seen over my career that it’s often beneficial for pitchers who you expect to pitch in your rotation for years to come to have a little bit of runway when they break into the major leagues. It’s not easy to come up here and perform right away. Sometimes it takes two, three, four, five starts to get your feet under yourself at the major league level, and I think allowing a pitcher, especially a top prospect pitcher, to have that runway can be helpful sometimes, both from a physical and a psychological standpoint. There’s also the reality of a baseball season that you have to get through, so you don’t always get to follow the perfect path.”

2) “The clear downside to giving someone the ball and having them not have a good outing, a short start, whatever it is, is you put your major league team in a hole. So step one is we’d like to avoid that outcome. For the individual player’s development, you never know. I’m certain there are pitching prospects and prospects in general who will handle that just fine, and there are others who it probably impacts a little bit more, and trying to figure out which is which can be difficult. It’s also perfectly possible that you call someone up, they give you five good innings, and then go back down and continue their development. I’m certainly aware of all of these outcomes, and we’re sorting through it.”

The Mets wound up using reliever Justin Hagenman as an opener to fill in for Blackburn, and Hagenman did a decent job en route to a stirring victory. It was an intermediate answer, but not a solution. If it was a solution, Justin Hagenman would be starting every fifth day for the New York Mets. The Mets brain trust, no doubt having more data at their fingertips than we have within our entire bodies of knowledge, purposely avoided the possible solution that has sat under their collective nose all season. Not so much McLean, per se, but the pitchers they’ve been developing, pitchers who, presumably, are being developed to take on major league hitters and win major league games pretty soon. Until Saturday, Nolan McLean was just a name to those of us who don’t pore over the prospect lists daily. Brandon Sproat and Jonah Tong still are. Yet runways don’t have to be straight paths. Baseball isn’t LaGuardia.

Kudos for looking out for youngsters’ physical and psychological well-being as they climb the ladder toward the top of their profession. Phooey on treating actual major league games as disposable by rolling the dice on pitchers who you don’t necessarily believe can compete with the hitters they’re facing. So much of the Met approach leading up to this stretch that would have already sunk them had not so many playoff spots been made available has revolved around starting guys for whom there are few reasonable expectations of success and crossing fingers that they’d exceed them. They got lucky once in a while. That luck (like their patience with experienced fringe starters) seems to have run out.

Luck as the residue of design needs a shot of confidence to activate it. The Mets looked confident Saturday. McLean looked confident. Baty rounding third looked confident that he’d score on Lindor’s third-inning double into the right field corner. Citi Field had been regional headquarters for tentativeness in tight situations. A team constructed to not have to question itself wasn’t computing and wasn’t competing. Suddenly it looked like it knew what it had to do in order to prevail. Just one game, but the season is comprised of 162 of those. Win enough just-one-games, and pretty soon you’ve won the ton you need to proceed further.

Nolan McLean didn’t come up with the (justified) hype of a Harvey, but there was definitely more excitement surrounding his debut than which was attached to Seth Lugo’s. I bring up Lugo, who made nine mostly low-leverage relief appearances before getting a chance to start in the summer of 2016, because he intersected with opportunity. The Mets nine years ago were following a trajectory a bit like the one that’s emerged in 2025. On July 7, they stood nine games above .500. By August 19, they were two below, having gone 13-24 in the interim. It was good way to almost completely slip from playoff contention.

Short of starting pitching, Terry Collins turned to Lugo. Lugo, in his second start, won. This was two nights after Robert Gsellman, another Met minor leaguer on nobody’s savior scorecard, notched his first win. Soon both were in the rotation. Almost every Met starter on whom hopes had been hung was injured as that August turned to September. The Mets had almost no choice but to give two rookies who were showing a bit of promise the ball on a regular basis. The other choice was flail about with whoever they could pluck off the nearest scrap heap. They chose the two kids. The two kids were instrumental in boosting the Mets out of the doldrums. The club went 27-13 after bottoming out at 60-62 and won a Wild Card. By the day they clinched, they — and we — brimmed with confidence.

A lot of things have to coalesce to effect a genuine surge. One of them can be a pitcher you planned to use next year. Maybe another one or two can be as well.

Pratfall & McLean

The best chance for Mets fans to enjoy some happy days rather than endure more dog days as mid-August inevitably commences shedding summer will appear on the Citi Field mound this afternoon when Nolan McLean makes his major league debut. I was going to call it his hotly anticipated major league debut, but it’s almost impossible to imagine eagerly looking forward to anything the Mets are doing right now.

That’s a shame. When we close our eyes and picture ourselves enjoying Mets baseball in the idealized sense, we probably see ourselves in the stands having a fine old time, maybe watching on TV or listening to the radio, so glad we have our team stoking our enthusiasm, filling our hours, nourishing our affinity. Then we open our eyes and we have this Mets team playing these Mets games, and it’s not remotely what we dream of when it’s not baseball season. It’s the stuff of nightmares in this baseball season.

From June 13 forward, including Friday night’s 11-9 loss to the Seattle Mariners — the scores change, the opponents change, the result doesn’t — the Mets’ record is 19-34. Among all MLB teams, only the Washington Nationals have been worse over that span. When Jorge Lopez and the Mets stumbled to a 22-33 start in 2024, we were convinced we’d hit rock bottom, which we did as regarded last year’s trajectory. Math indicates 19-34 is a lesser pace than 22-33, which itself suggests new lows are always within reach. Perhaps instead of posing and grinning with an oversized sandal to revel in fleeting triumphs, a Met needs to angrily fling a glove into the seats and effect an attitudinal reset.

The Mets are apparently capable of scoring nine runs in a given game, but not without giving up eleven, according to our latest sample size. Four home runs, including two with runners on base, should have been enough. Five innings of nearly adequate starting pitching, from Sean Manaea, should have provided ample cushion to get through the rest of this particular evening. When Manaea left ahead, 6-4, the stage was set for SuperBullpen to protect the lead. One of the pen’s more ballyhooed components, submarining Tyler Rogers, gave up one run in the sixth, which wasn’t great, but it was just one run. We’ll call the battle of submariner versus some Mariners a draw.

Enter Ryan Helsley to pitch the seventh. We’ll call that a slaughter. Helsley, more than any relief reinforcement, is the reason we were advised post-deadline that we could withstand speeding bullets, powerful locomotives, marauding Mariners, whatever. It turns out SuperBullpen is an urban myth. Helsley faced three batters, providing him the opportunity to allow Seattle to tie the game at six and position them to bolt ahead. St. Louis’s revenge for our stealing Keith Hernandez handed a runner at second to Brooks Raley, who had pitched well before not pitching at all of late. Pitching again, Raley permitted Helsley’s runner to score, then three more of his own to do the same.

That was pretty much the game, this game pretty much the same as all the others over the past few weeks. Francisco Lindor’s two homers, Juan Soto’s solo shot (his favorite kind), and Francisco Alvarez’s admirable attempt at heroics via a three-run, eighth-inning bomb, couldn’t measure up to the sheer Metsiness of the moment. I’m not sure if these Mets consistently find ways to lose or stop short of sincerely seeking a way to win. I do know the ultimate Met destination doesn’t distinguish between wayward Met journeys.

To make room for Nolan McLean on the roster, Paul Blackburn has been DFA’d, presumably because this pitching staff has room for only one Frankie Montas. The Mets haven’t yet designated the stubbornly present Rock Bottom for assignment, as Rock Bottom’s assignment is not yet clear. One game after another seems the worst of an ongoing skid, but the skid continues unabated, so who can tell? Manaea’s return, like Kodai Senga’s, was going to be a remedy. Neither was. Raley’s return was going to plug a hole. It hasn’t. The acquisitions of late-inning stalwarts like Helsley was going to put a definitive halt to the pervading sense of nonsense. Now, we can tell ourselves until 4:10, it will be McLean. And, indeed, maybe a strong start from young Nolan will make us briefly forget the disaster that has been ragged Ryan.

Good luck, kid. And good luck to us in case we strain to remember how much we like Mets baseball. Not this Mets baseball, but however we idealized it in our heads long ago.

Familiarly Appalling

Different night, same three-legged stool of suck.

Kodai Senga worked into the sixth, which is the Mets starting pitcher equivalent of a complete game these days. Into the sixth, but not out of it — let’s not go crazy, folks. Was that better than Senga has been? Yes. Was that better than Mets starters in general have been? Also yes. Was it a performance worth of hosannas? Meh.

Two of the Mets’ vaunted bullpen acquisitions then took over. How did they do? Well, Tyler Rogers allowed a single that gave the Braves the lead; when the Mets leapfrogged Atlanta, Ryan Helsley not only failed to protect a one-run lead but also gave up two runs and took the loss. Rogers has had more bad luck than anything else, but Helsley’s been flat out bad. (How a gigantic dude who throws 104 is ever bad is a baseball mystery, but one best considered when I’m not fuming.)

The offense? Francisco Lindor looked like his long run of poor performances might behind him, an indication that perhaps that toe is finally healing. But his teammates didn’t do much to support him — the Mets totaled three runs on six hits, capping their night by looking absolutely hapless against Raisel Iglesias, who’s had a terrible year.

It was appalling, and in all too familiar way — the Mets have been largely appalling for two months now, and are on the verge of being on the outside of October looking in, a fate they richly deserve.

Is anyone connected with the club doing anything to fix this, beyond happy talk about processes and a stubborn confidence that one of these months players will revert to their career means? I see no signs of that, from anybody. That’s also appalling, and starting to be far too familiar.

This Tornado Doesn't Love You

Perhaps the only good thing about Wednesday night’s belated loss to the Braves was that I found it hard to take it personally.

I imagine it isn’t fun to watch from the root cellar as a tornado reduces the house to kindling. But I also imagine one doesn’t feel singled out to be in the path of something so huge; rather, I’d think, you’d feel a small, dismayed awe at witnessing something vast and impersonal cut a pitiless swath down the middle what you thought of as reality.

What does this have to do with baseball? Well, one moment the Mets were cruising along behind David Peterson, AKA Our Only Reliable Starting Pitcher. Francisco Lindor had jump-started the offense in a way we hadn’t seen in weeks, Juan Soto had homered, and the Mets were pouring it on against Old Friend Carlos Carrasco, who soldiered on gallantly despite having no respite in sight. It felt like the worm had turned, like the Mets might actually be OK from now on despite their long summer swoon.

And then … the sky went black, the siren wailed, and BLAMMO.

Before you could blink Peterson had lost the strike zone, surrendered 5/6 of the lead and departed in the fourth inning, a depressingly familiar sight for a Mets starter but a shocking one for him. Before you could blink again Reed Garrett had served up a grand slam and the Mets were down by three.

Nine Atlanta runs in a half-hour from Hell. Citi Field sounded more … well actually it didn’t sound like anything at all. Shock is largely communicated via silence.

Go back a night to Tuesday, with the benefit of hindsight, and some patterns we didn’t want to acknowledge given polar bear-related celebrations are all too visible. There, we also had a starter cough up what felt like a comfortable lead and depart with unseemly haste. That’s been one leg of the three-legged stool of suck for this team since June — unreliable starters not going deep, putting too much strain on overtaxed relievers, and the lineup too anemic to provide a counterweight. On Tuesday all that was masked as the lineup came through for once, letting the Mets outhit their mistakes. (And Justin Hagenman stepped up in relief, for which his reward was of course a ticket back to Syracuse.)

Wednesday night? Same script, only this time the Braves’ outburst was too much to overcome. The writing was on the wall in the aftermath, when Starling Marte singled with two outs and runners on first and second — all of us had watched enough baseball to know that Pete Alonso would score from second, cutting the Atlanta lead to two runs, and we felt hope stir that maybe the Mets would rise up in indignation again.

Except Alonso … well, a day later I’m still not sure what happened to him. I turned away for a moment, looked back in shock when I realized there was a play at the plate, and was briefly baffled. Had Jeff McNeil tried to score from first? But nope, that wasn’t it. Alonso had gotten a slow start off second, or blundered into quicksand rounding third, or been held back by an invisible rubber band, or something.

He was out, the Mets were still three runs down, and when Paul Blackburn served up a homer to the loathsome Marcell Ozuna I decided that I could sort through the wreckage of the house in the morning.

But hey, at least I didn’t take it personally.

Studio 254

It throbbed. It pulsated. It got down with the beat, not to mention the Bear. It lit up like crazy, so much so that they shot off every last firework within reach. Maybe this is what the Ritchie Family was referring to in 1976 when they paid homage to the best disco in town.

Citi Field grooved on Tuesday night as Pete Alonso went clubbing and we all went along with him. We were up on our feet when Pete belted the 253rd home run of his Met career, which instantly became the most of any Met career. Our third-inning response was so nice, the Polar Bear saw fit to do it twice. Following Pete’s sixth-inning blast, the club record therefore ticked up to 254.

You know who holds it. And you know who couldn’t hold back its appreciation? This crowd.

Yeah, we were into Pete Alonso passing Darryl Strawberry for the franchise long ball mark. And we were into Alonso passing himself to establish another franchise long ball mark. We were into Francisco Alvarez going deep two times, Brandon Nimmo homering with two men on, and Brett Baty icing the cake with a homer of his own.

Oh, by the way, the Mets won this curtain call carnival in which they slugged like they forgot that they had forgotten how to slug for the last week and change. They scored 13 runs in all, every last one of them with two outs. They allowed five to whoever they played (the largely irrelevant Braves), which appeared to be a problem when the score was briefly 5-5, but the bats were out for the home team. So were the fans.

We came to praise Peter, who out-Berry’d Straw.

This was a night to overlook that Clay Holmes couldn’t escape the fourth inning, and that the Cincinnati win over Philadelphia represented a mug half-full situation, as we’re five behind the Phillies for the NL East lead but only two ahead of the Reds for the final Wild Card slot. It was even a night to overlook that this Met win, as rousing as it was, was their first in eight games. We eventually got the pitching necessary to put 0-7 behind us, thanks to Gregory Soto coming in way earlier than usual (the fourth) and Justin Hagenman staying in way longer than could have been forecast in a game that wound up a 13-5 romp (Justin no-hitting Atlanta from the sixth through the ninth earned him one of those delightful “no, really” saves).

Pitching, however, could not be the theme of the night when Pete Alonso was crashing and remaking history. When he swung off Spencer Strider — now there’s a swing-off that means something — and the result was laser-tagged until it landed in the visitors’ bullpen, it dawned on those of us fortunate enough to be in attendance what we just saw. We saw seven seasons of Alonso culminate where we projected he’d land as soon as we got a load of what he could do as a rookie. We saw the Straw Man wave him into the top spot on the Met home run chart. Darryl hit career home run No. 155 on May 3, 1988, to take the all-time Met lead from Dave Kingman. It was noteworthy, to be sure, but the lead story from Shea that evening was David Cone making his first start of the year and bulling his way into the rotation to stay, shutting out the Braves (them again), 8-0. Pitching was the theme of that night. Pitching was often the theme while Darryl was adding 97 more home runs to his record between 1988 and 1990. Pitching has been the theme of the Mets most of their life. Darryl’s 252nd home run, off Greg Maddux of the Cubs on September 23, 1990, supported eight winning innings from Dwight Gooden. When you’re hitting home runs and your pitchers are the likes of Cone building a 20-win season and Gooden heading for 19-7, your home runs are only part of the story.

True for 37 seasons, not so much any longer.

Pete Alonso won the Rookie of the Year award in 2019, the same year Jacob deGrom earned his second consecutive Cy Young. From there, it seems the paths of Met hitters and Met pitchers have diverged. Pitching is something we never have enough of in the 2020s. Hitting (recent trends notwithstanding) is more the Met signature in this generation. It is, after all, the Polar Generation. Drink it in, drink it in, drink it in.

That we did. Pete choosing the second Tuesday in August at home to whack his record-breaker and record-extender was thoughtful, considering that more or less every second Tuesday in August at home is the date the Princes make to meet up with our favorite father-and-son combo, Rob and Ryder Chasin. We first met the Chasins when Ryder was thirteen (it’s a whole story). We went to our first game with them when Ryder was on the verge of turning fourteen. Ryder will soon be twenty-nine. Along with the sustained excellence of Pete Alonso, the Chasin Game at almost precisely the same juncture every August is, certainly to me, Citi Field’s greatest ongoing success story.

We shared Pete and the new power generation’s success with more than 39,000 this Tuesday night. The Mets reminded us why we willingly flock to see them. They can’t always promise history, let alone victory. But when they deliver, man, just keep playing that groove.

And when you need to sit out a set, hustle on over to your podcast provider of choice and take in the 200th episode of Jeff Hysen’s National League Town, to which I returned to sit in for a spell this week, because who can resist being on hand for a milestone?

Welcome to Millie Helper

Although the architecture for this blog indicates it remains dedicated to the New York Mets, we have changed the format for today to a blog dedicated to our new favorite team, the Milwaukee Brewers. See, we don’t wish to think about the Mets any longer, but we don’t mind thinking about some other baseball team, particularly a real good baseball team. Thus, you can now think of this site as Millie Helper, Millie, as in our affectionate name for Milwaukee, and Helper, as in we’d like to help our new favorite team get as far as they can. (And, yes, Millie Helper was a character on The Dick Van Dyke Show, portrayed by actress Ann Morgan Guilbert, an alumna of Solomon Juneau High School in Milwaukee, a fact we’re sure all Brewers fans like us already knew.)

Today, we are all Millie — that’s short for Milwaukee — helpers.

Good news, fellow Millie Helpers — we won on Sunday! Is that news? Don’t our Brewers always win? Sure seems like it, especially when we take on those Mets. Wow, those Mets, huh? Seems like not so long ago the Mets were a problem for us, specifically last October, but that was last year, and now they’re really quite the welcome sight on our schedule, or I suppose, the schedule of any team’s fans. Maybe not that of Mets fans, but they’d have to speak to that issue.

The Mets led in the series finale, 5-0, and if you hadn’t been watching the Brewers much, you might have thought a five-run deficit would be daunting. But not for our Millie! Our Brewers chopped and chipped away at that New York lead, and before you knew it, we were tied, 6-6. This was with our starting pitcher, Quinn Priester, lasting only four-and-a-third. Quinn gave up two home runs, one to Brett Baty, who I understand was once a top Met prospect, and one to Cedric Mullins, who hadn’t hit much since the Mets acquired him from Baltimore. Of course Quinn could relate to the Mets starter, Sean Manaea. Manaea went only four-plus innings, which is about what most Met starters top out at. Or so I think I read on the screen during Sunday’s game. I watched the Mets feed, and their announcers mentioned two things repeatedly:

1) Their starters, except for David Peterson, never last.

2) Our team, the Brewers, is really impressive.

I could have told them the second part.

Anyway, Quinn didn’t have it, but you know our Brew Crew, never out of it until we’re out of it, and against the Mets, we were never out of it during this entire series. There we were in the fourth, getting on the board via a William Contreras leadoff home run, the poke that clued us in that this would be like any other day that ends in y, a day where coming up with a way to beat the Mets was inevitable. Later in the same inning, Joey Ortiz — we call him Pal Joey — singled to left to bring in two more runs. We were trailing the Mets by two, but you knew it was only a matter of time.

The bullpens eventually took over, and I know I saw something about the Mets beefing up their pen (sort of like we Brewers fans beef up our tailgates when we’re not grilling brats), but Met pens seem to run out of ink no matter who’s in them. Witness the uncapping of Reed Garrett who gave up Contreras’s second homer of the day, this one with a man on. We couldn’t get to Brooks Raley or Tyler Rogers, but sure enough, come the eighth inning, when we were down, 6-5, we built a rally versus Ryan Helsley, who I have to admit I’m having a hard time not thinking of as a Cardinal, what with our frame of reference being the National League Central. Funny thing, I was watching the Mets’ postgame show on Saturday night (know thy enemy and all that), and a reporter asked Helsley to comment on Pete Alonso tying their franchise record for home runs, and I was thinking, why would Helsley have an opinion on that? Ask him about Stan Musial.

But I digress. Helsley came in and, before you knew it, our Brewers had a scoring threat that culminated in Pal Joey singling in the tying run. I’m not one for those constant gambling come-ons that have infiltrated baseball broadcasts, but I thought, man, I have to put down my brat and place a bet, because I know our Brewers are gonna win, whether it’s in the eighth, or ninth, or tenth.

As a fine, upstanding fan of a Midwestern-based baseball team, I try to think only positive thoughts, but when the bottom of the ninth began, the game still tied at six, I envisioned the game ending with a shot of Edwin Diaz walking forlornly off the mound. I mean I planned on enjoying however we won the game, but you didn’t have to be a Mets fan to have known that was coming. Diaz is a great closer, but he hasn’t closed anything since I don’t know when, because the Mets never take any leads into the ninth. I’ll bet even his jars of mustard are open for when he grills (that’s a little Midwestern tailgating humor there, of course). Unsurprisingly, one of our many fine Brewers, Isaac Collins, took Diaz over the right field fence, not far from where Pete Alonso did that thing last October that we don’t think about as Brewers fans anymore, because we’ve moved on from 2024. The final was our Millie Brewers 7, those New York Mets 6.

I really should have placed that bet. I knew it would come out like that. That’s what life as fan who doesn’t root for a team that has wrapped itself in predictable doom is like. I don’t have to tell you that if you love the Brewers the way we love the Brewers here at Millie Helper, but in case there are still any Mets fans reading, I thought you might like to know that baseball still has the ability to fill some people with joy these days.

Good Decisions and Bad Ones

The Mets were playing the Brewers Saturday night.

I had recap.

I went to see “Superman” with my family — a movie I’d already seen.

I did that because I’d reached the point where I can’t stand this team, which right now combines a deep-rooted cruddiness with a magnetic attraction to disaster. Knowing they’ll find a way to lose and wondering how they’ll do it was starting to infect the rest of my day, and two hours of the determined optimism and indefatigable sunniness of James Gunn’s “Superman” felt like exactly what I needed.

Which it was! We walked out of the theater and for a minute or so I completely forgot the Mets were playing.

And then I remembered and we turned on the MLB Audio feed for the drive home. The Mets were up 4-3 in the bottom of the seventh, with Ryne Stanek on the hill, nobody out and a runner on first.

Yes, that’s when I tuned in — sometimes the jokes really do write themselves.

You know what happened next — or if you don’t, you’re better off and I’d strongly advise you to stop reading now.

Lineout to shortstop. Ball off the right-field chalk that bounced into the stands, sending runners to second and third. A grounder to shortstop where Stanek got in the way of Francisco Lindor‘s throw home, forcing Lindor to take the out at first as the tying run scored. Enter Ryan Helsley, who got a grounder to Ronny Mauricio, who muffed an in-between hop to give the Brewers the lead. Helsley got William Contreras to line out to Juan Soto — only, incredibly, to have the out nullified on a pitch-clock violation. Contreras then clobbered Helsley’s next pitch into the stands, and the Mets were dead.

As a friend noted on Bluesky, I should have seen a double feature.

(Yeah, Pete Alonso tied Darryl Strawberry‘s franchise home-run record. Don’t really care right now.)

Going to the movies was a smart move. Returning to the reality of the Mets was a deeply dumb one, a lesson they rubbed my face in by giving me the so-far worst 10 minutes of a rapidly decaying season.

Honestly, I should find a movie to see Sunday. Why should I watch this team? Why should you? Why should anybody?

The Mets’ vaunted lineup hasn’t hit in weeks (they struck out 12 more times Saturday night), and the response of David Stearns isn’t to fire coaches whose failure is statistically obvious but to serve up happy talk about a process that pretty self-evidently isn’t working.

But it’s not just the nonexistent offense that’s gone rotten. The defense has collapsed (particularly Lindor, who’s having an inexplicably horrible year), there’s only one reliable starter, the newly acquired relievers have mostly been terrible and the previously employed ones have been taxed beyond their capabilities. If there’s a way to lose, these current Mets will find it — whether early and limply or late and tragically.

There’s no urgency and worse than that, there’s no accountability — which sure isn’t something I expected from a business run by Steve Cohen.

Until there is, why give this team any of your time?

Desperation Row

Starling Marte got a good lead off second, had a good jump as soon as Jeff McNeil singled into center, took a good route around third, sped home at a good rate, and made a good slide toward the plate. He did everything well on the two-out play intended to tie the Mets-Brewers game in the top of the ninth. He was out, anyway.

Such things happen in the course of a baseball season. Such things happen to end baseball games. Such things happen to teams of all stripe. That it’s all happening to the Mets right now is what makes the conclusion to Friday’s 3-2 loss in Milwaukee that much more vexing. The Mets totaled five hits. Two of them were solo home runs, one struck in the first inning by Juan Soto, the other blasted by Marte in the second. Two of them were the double and single strung together by Marte and McNeil in the ninth. In between, there was a McNeil single in the fourth and nothing more. McNeil in the fourth was erased on a double play.

The Mets outhit the Brewers, 5-4. But Brewer pitching, led by Brandon Woodruff for seven innings, struck out more batters while walking fewer of them. The only pitcher on either side to hit anybody was a Met, Brooks Raley. That came with the bases loaded in the fifth, after Brice Turang had socked a two-run homer that was set up by a Kodai Senga error, the only error made in the game. That shot had tied the score at two. After getting one out, Senga walked a batter, had one reach when catcher’s interference was called on Francisco Alvarez, and walked another batter. That was the bases-loaded situation Raley stepped into, the one that led to the HBP.

Throughout the game, there emerged slight edge after slight edge the Brewers had on the Mets. Another “such things happen” situation, perhaps, but haven’t we been seeing this versus the Padres, the Giants, and the Guardians? Look what the opponents brought to bear. Tighter fielding. Clutcher pitching. A home run hit with a runner on base. A bases-loaded opportunity taken advantage of just by letting the Mets hand it to them. Such things keep happening.

Senga was OK for four innings, didn’t last the fifth. Woodruff looked like the ace we thought Senga was. Our bullpen, despite Raley’s one pitch that hit dinged Isaac Collins in the foot at the worst possible juncture, was sufficiently sound. Ryne Stanek, Gregory Soto, and Tyler Rogers were fine (and hopefully don’t become unavailable the rest of the weekend for having been used once). They kept the deficit at one run. So did the Met offense. The composite of three hits in the first eight-and-two-thirds-innings left lots of white space the Mets never filled. Strikeouts. Groundouts. Flyouts. Uninterrupted futility. Hitters who didn’t exactly jog to first, but they sure as hell didn’t sprint. The Met lineup seems to have subscribed to the notion that nothing is going to happen, so why pretend they can make something out of nothing?

Yet there they were in the ninth, Marte delivering his second extra-base hit and McNeil singling for the second time. Starling was ready to run. He can still do that. Maybe Tyrone Taylor — the capable pinch-runner trepidatiously held up at third on Monday — could have gotten a better lead, a better jump, and been a better bet, but I saw nothing that indicated Starling was physically compromised (and do you really want Taylor as your DH should the game find itself in an eleventh inning?). McNeil came through, Marte executed, and Mike Sarbaugh had no reason to put up a stop sign. In the end, the Brewers had one more slight edge on the Mets. Blake Perkins made an excellent throw, William Contreras caught it where he needed to be, and he tagged Marte out. The Mets challenged, perhaps for the first time all night in any sense of the word, and they were rebuffed. The Brewers won one of those one-run games that didn’t feel quite so close.

The Mets have lost five in row, nine out of ten. Everything feels like it’s the reason. Senga’s gotta go longer. Taylor coulda been in there. Acuña oughta be up here (he oughta, actually). Mistakes have to be minimized. Catcher’s interference? Yeesh, absolutely, but there was one Met hit from none out in the top of the second to two out in the top of the ninth. Some nights, like the night of the third game of last year’s Wild Card Series in the very same ballpark, you can wait until the ninth inning to pull out all the stops, but that was a special occasion in a special year. There’s nothing special going on here now.

Not so fab of late.

Try something. My possibly goofy suggestion is take the so-called Fab Four, whose golden slumbers atop the lineup are weighing down the offense as a whole, and break them up for a spell. Shuffle the deck. Bat one of them second, one of them fourth, one of them sixth, and one of them eighth. Or first, third, fifth, and seventh. I don’t care which Met you put where at this point. I know Lindor, Soto, Alonso, and Nimmo are far better than they’ve shown, but I swear they’re infecting each other with their contiguous mediocrity, and the effect on everybody else is that of a superspreader. Let a couple of them bat where the pressure feels lighter. Maybe they’ll rediscover the approach that made them stars. Maybe the opposing pitcher will be flummoxed that he has to face a repuational big bat every other spot. Simultaneously, move Mullins, who isn’t getting anything done wherever he’s batted, to the top of the order. Or Mauricio. Or McNeil. Or whoever. Anything for one or two games. Whatever they’re doing and continue to do clearly isn’t working. It ain’t Panic City if constancy for constancy’s sake is stranding you in Also-Ran Village.

The Mets continue to hold a playoff spot because they played very well for a while in this very same season. Both facts are hard to believe based on what we’ve been watching for the bulk of nearly two months. It’s hard to believe they will play very well again in this season and it’s almost laughable to anticipate them participating in the upcoming postseason. The tenor of laughs can certainly change from early August onward. Can you believe we ever doubted the 2025 Mets? HA on us! But not at this rate. Try something. Try almost anything. To not change up some aspect of the Mets while they wither is most trying of all.

Nothing Doing, Nothing Special

I greeted Juan Soto’s bottom-of-the-ninth solo home run with more enthusiasm than Juan Soto greets extra-base hits he has to gather and fire back into the infield, which is to say with minimal enthusiasm. Until he ended Gavin Williams’s no-hit bid Wednesday afternoon, I’d allowed myself to almost root for the no-hitter to happen. Almost. Once it wasn’t going to happen, well, good — the Mets just scored a run to cut the Guardians’ lead to 4-1 and maybe they’ll get a couple of runners on, bring the tying run up, and remind us of who they are or at least who they seemed to be not that long ago.

They didn’t do any of that, but at least they didn’t get no-hit. Spiritually, they’ve been no-hit for the last week-plus. Statistically they’ve gotten hits. The hits haven’t much mattered. The Mets are playing like nothing matters, and what if it did? I thought they were a special team when the season started and progressed, even when it ran into rough spots. Now I wait for these players to coalesce into something resembling cohesion. They’ve come together of late mostly to not get base hits in unison.

A tip of the hat need be directed toward the opposing pitcher. Permitted to remain on the mound and chase history, Williams retired a major league lineup over and over without allowing a hit across eight-and-a-third. I know the Mets constitute a major league lineup because I’ve seen the Major League Baseball logo stitched onto the backs of their caps and jerseys. That’s the only clue I have.

Watching a no-hitter would have been novel. A dreary loss was more same old squared. The Mets have lost eight of nine. They’ve tried astoundingly frustrating. They’re tried deadly dull. Might as well mix it up with a game that pops, even if it pops for the wrong team. Then again, the Mets simply winning would be novel. Maybe they’ll try that in Milwaukee.

Jeremy's Advice

The Mets have sunk from amazing to confounding to unwatchable.

Tuesday night’s one-run loss to the Guardians showcased everything about this team right now that no one sensible would put in a showcase: one bad inning from a starting pitcher who (once again) didn’t give his team much length, a bit of ill-timed bad luck, and an absolutely inert offense. The Mets scored their first run of the game without a hit, which feels like the punchline to a joke, their second run on a single, and that was the sum total of the scoring. In fact, Jeff McNeil‘s leadoff single in the fourth was their final hit of the night, with the last 14 Mets making outs without so much as a whimper.

The Guardians, for their part, took the lead in the seventh on a mildly absurd trio of two-out hits against Tyler Rogers: a grounder that bounced through the 5.5 hole into left, a little poke job over the infield on a pitch 18 inches outside, and finally a disgustingly Sojo-esque seeing-eye single up the middle.

After all that, Jeremy Hefner strolled out to the pitcher’s mound to talk to Rogers; we were in the car and wondered what a pitching coach possibly says in that situation.

“Hang with ’em?”

“Keep doing what you’re doing?”

But then Emily nailed it: “Sorry that you’re now on the Mets.”