In the future I won’t be able to listen to people say that this year was disappointing. I remember the 2006 season already. It was six and a half happy months of greatness. Our team was dominant and glorious. In spite of the sudden disappearance of our starting pitching, we swept the Dodgers in the first round of the playoffs. We took the Cardinals to the last strike of the ninth inning of the seventh game of the NLCS. We deserved to go further.
In the last game we played, Endy Chavez brought a ball back to the field after it had cleared the wall. Oliver Perez came back to life. Things felt right. There are many ways the game could have been won by the Mets. I don’t have to tell them to you. Nobody screwed up. The big loud crowd did all it could. In the top of the ninth, Yadier Molina hit a ball too high for Endy to catch. In the bottom of the ninth, the Mets filled the bases. The beautiful season struggled to live until the very last second, when you saw the ball drop, you saw the umpire’s arm, you saw men jumping, and you scrambled to find the remote.
This is baseball. Over the long term, it pleases you. But when the story stops, and the TV is suddenly silent, you really hear that silence. You think of the sweet dead thing and you cry.