Diary of a Mets Double Header

This post is so late I can barely stand to type it.

It was nine o’clock in the morning, and I was already getting a sunburn.  You reach a point in the summer when you realize that your farmer’s tan just isn’t going anywhere.  Again.

So, as my flesh was bubbling in the hot mid-morning solar rays, I hopped on the subway and sat quietly while the other Phils fans wished they were still in bed.

“IF YOU DON’T STOP SCREAMING, THE BASEBALL GAME WILL BE CANCELED,” the father with his six-year-old son unleashed on all of us.

The vibe was set for a Mets double header.

And, honestly, it went just about as eventless as I was afraid it would be.  There weren’t a lot of Mets fans even there, and the ones you saw were…well, children.  And I just don’t have low enough self-esteem to scream at a child.

Though it must take the mind of a child to wear a Mets jersey these days anyway.

But those Mets fans knew exactly what they were doing.  The fight’s left them, and maybe you could blame the 20 games out of first place, the broken bones and strained muscles, the…dugout steps…whatever.

They just didn’t want to hear it this year.  And not in a “We’re not gonna take your crap, Philadelphia,” way, in a “Please, just…just go,” way.

And in a way, that is the ultimate revenge.

I guess I’ll talk about the baseball now.

Well, hel-lo, Mr. Kyle Kendrick, and where did that little ice cream sundae of a pitching start come from?  How many innings of shutout baseball?  More than anybody would have guessed, no doubt.

Two quality starters, actually.  When Charlie walked back to the dugout after not taking Pedro out I was…it just…bad-ass, man.  That was bad-ass.

And then Carlos put an exclamation point on it to make it a bad-ass! finish.  The dude can flat out snipe, honestly.

One run, though?  One run.  I thought we were working on this.  Other playoff teams are going to be able to outscore us if we don’t score more than one run.  That’s like, the first sentence in the “Playoff Baseball” handbook.

I recognize any win’s a win right now (right, Brad?  Ha, ha.  Get out of here), but we’re playing the backwash of MLB right now, and the idea is to be making a playoff run.

Makes people nervous.

As I exited the stadium through tailgated parking lot, I enjoyed the wins my head again, while avoiding the irresponsible driving-fueled lot.  It was two wins against the Mets in one day, and, tempers flaring or not, we were walking out the victors.

Now, all that was left of K Lot was a barren wasteland of cooled pavement and seagulls tearing into stale kielbasa.  Sure, every once in a while some guy in an xTerra would floor it and careen over the median in an attempt to avoid traffic, but the cheers only lasted for so long.

The day was done.

It was time to accept that.

Despite the rivalry, despite Brad, victory was achieved, and sadly enough, it was achieved quietly, expertly, and with the most dignity that 45,000 alcoholics with shirts that said “JESUS HATES THE METS” could muster.

See you next, near, Amazin’s.

David Wright’s helmet is ridiculous.

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