Seeing as how it was already over 100 games into the season, I figured I could trust the Mets to take care of themselves over the weekend. Wrong.
Throughout the first four months of the year, I kept a very close watch on them, knowing that this was a team struggling to find itself and cultivate a sustainable chemistry. So after the unprecedented four-game sweep of Cincinnati and a fifth consecutive win in D.C. during the week, I decided it would be fine to head into the wilderness of the Brazilian interior. Placated by their recent successes, I naively put my faith in this Beltran-less bunch, while I rashly set out for a mountainous wilderness devoid of hospitable residences or establishments carrying international satellite or cable TV packages with MLB broadcasts, or even passing through any areas offering wi-fi hotspots. Little did I realize, any real danger would not affect my well being, but rather, the credibility of Terry Collins and his overachievers as they sought to fend off the ever-pernicious Nationals.
On Saturday, Washington starter, Yunkiesky Maya (a last-minute replacement for the Diamondbacks-bound, Jason Marquis), should have been a simple enough target. I can’t be the only one who thought the Mets were more than ready to handle that.
Then Sunday’s game exposed Jonathon Niese’s inexplicable love of third base, as well as Dan Murphy’s breath-taking ability to bring spontaneity and magic to the now-prosaic art of base running. Right before our eyes, Young Murphy’s quickly becoming the next Lenny Bruce of the base paths. Or the next Gallagher. Only time will tell.
But time is running out. Fifty some-odd games remain and the wild card competition is daunting to say the least. And so, this is not a good time for brain fart errors and on-field mistakes lending themselves to comedian analogies. You can’t keep losing to the teams beneath you in the standings and expect to earn respect. And there I was, well out of earshot of Wayne Hagin, happily sipping a potent but smooth cachaça spirit, serenely imagining my temporary removal from any typical armchair supervision I might have otherwise been engaged in would prove unnecessary.
But they couldn’t keep it together for two days. Just two days. But, oh, believe me—I’m quite sure they knew what they were doing was bad, all right.
Because you can imagine my disappointment late Sunday night, when I discovered they only put on a show earlier in the week. It was more of their false promises, and more of their posturing as responsible and dependable when they are still up to their old tricks.
If we don’t stay on them, they’ll just screw up more routine throws to first and keep hitting soft ground out after soft ground out like everything’s fine. I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of the excuses. And after last night, I’m pretty sure that the Pelfrey kid’s a bad influence, and shouldn’t hang around anymore.
It’s August. The Mets should be mature enough to be left alone for a pair of weekend games against a last-place team. The come-from-behind try against Florida was a nice start at regaining our confidence, but then loading up the bases and giving up a grand slam in extra innings? Do they want to be punished? Let’s put it this way: even though they’re still hovering above .500, I’m not going away again before the end of October. They’ll have to prove they understand that actions have consequences. I never thought I’d say this, but really—why can’t they be more like those nice Arizona boys?
About the Author
CM Gorey is a writer and musician from New York who lives in São Paulo, Brazil. A contributing writer for Time Out São Paulo magazine and online arts magazine Thalo, he is also a composer of TV and film soundtracks, and performer with the electro outfit White Light Lametta. Suffering from a distance, he watches slowly generated, pixelated Mets games on an old netbook. After careful consideration, he has to admit that the return to the classic uniforms was a smart choice, regardless of his penchant for black uniforms.