The Cardinals series gave us hope and the Phillies’ slump kept us alive. Now the Yankees have brought us down to earth. If you can’t beat Chien Ming Wang, whom do you expect to beat?
I guess we’re in serious trouble, although I’m not ruling out the possibility that everything can turn around in the next series. I’m not betting on it, but I’m not ruling anything out given the way the world is behaving lately.
It has rained every single day since April 1. The world has sunk into a financial crisis no one foresaw a year ago. The earth is off its axis. The planets are in places they don’t normally go.
The Mets have had the worst conceivable luck with their regulars, who were all on deck last year. Yet they have had remarkably good luck with the replacements. They have played some of the worst baseball they have ever played this year. Yet they are at .500, 2 and a half games out of first.
And everything is totally strange because they are not playing where they have always played. They are in an unfamiliar place, where balls don’t reach the walls that seem to recede as soon as you hear the crack of the bat. The Mets have hit fewer home runs in a half season, but not right after hitting so many home runs so many years in a row.
This could be a particularly sour season. Or it can be a particularly memorable one. I cling to the hope that we are seeing 1973 all over again. If we are, we might be all right if we can stay within ten games as we go into August. We might be able to afford to spiral downward through the rest of July. And then again we might not. Somebody in the division might suddenly figure out in which direction they are supposed to run.
The Mets are temporarily out of luck. They ran out of gas a while ago. Adam Dunn is not going to fix this, amigos. This can’t be fixed. It must either be followed or endured. Hang on.