I've given up watching Mets games this season, so as to maintain "my spiritual well-being, the stability of which [I am here borrowing from my erstwhile drinking companion Nick Tosches] has not commonly been likened to a large rock." Still, I can't avoid hearing the score the next morning as WQXR does its best to rouse me. Last night, I checked it on line, and was amused to see Mets 9, Cardinals 0. Amused, not delighted, because by now it's clear there's no hope. My first thought was, "Who pitched?" I clicked for the game report, and saw the win credited to Figueroa. Strange, I thought, for a reliever to win a lopsided shutout. Could all of the scoring have happened in the last three innings? Then I looked at the narrative. Sure enough, Nieves, the starter, was pulled in the second inning with what was declared a season-ending hamstring tear. (What is it with the Mets and hamstrings? My memory of Mets hamstring woes goes back to Keith Hernandez, and extends through Vince Coleman, Ricky Henderson, and Jose Reyes. Having a pitcher felled by a hammy is a new one, though.) Tonight, they're being trounced by the Padres. Meanwhile, my fall-back (and wife's favorite) team, the Red Sox, have gone into the sort of mid-season swoon that characterized their long stay in baseball purgatory pre-2004, and have lost their first game to the loathsome Yanks, who now look unstoppable.
Wake me when it's over.
