Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Second Rate Team

So, I guess I'm showing a good deal of restraint by not writing a post consisting solely of the phrase "WHAT THE FUCK?!" repeated over and over and over again until the readers eyes spin out of their head. Even then, I'm not sure what sort of a coherent post I can muster at this late hour. I should be asleep, but the rigors of rehearsal and the compounding agony of the evening make it a bit difficult to rest right now.

Last week, I mused about how maybe I wished I could watch these games now, despite being stuck in rehearsal. Tonight, I'm glad I wasn't there and I'm really glad I wasn't watching. I would guess the 55,081 at Shea were all vomiting in unison. I clicked the game on my computer at an off moment and saw a 5-2 score in the 8th, and felt good.

Then, the text messages began filtering in.

I spoke to a fellow Mets fan in the company of the show I'm working on after rehearsal had ended, already having been apprised of the happenings by El Guapo, who must have had to put a blindfold on or something by night's end, and he looked at me, speechless and dumbstruck.

How on earth do you manage to blow a 3-run lead to your biggest rival in the 9th inning. I know Wagner's hurt, but someone, SOMEONE out of Sanchez, Smith and Feliciano should have been capable of getting three outs before giving up three runs, right?


Apparently, this is giving this particular group too much credit.

On a night when Johan Santana needed to step up, he apparently did, although the early part of the game is more or less a rumor to me. I know he's getting ripped to shreds on WFAN right now for not starting the 9th inning, and at 105 pitches, perhaps that's justified, particularly in a game like this.

But then, I'm sure Johan Santana felt pretty damn confident that the guys behind him would get the necessary outs to sew up the victory. Nay. Once again, Santana saw a victory disappear because the guys around him shit the bed. Santana's reaction, perhaps, might have been a much more muted version of my reaction, while sitting and listening to some singers mangle a song that they should just shut up and learn to sing correctly, and my phone repeatedly buzzing with bad news followed by more bad news. All I could do was smack my forehead and look down. By the end of the night, I was grabbing the microphone from the director and cursing out actors, even though they probably deserved it. I'm usually relatively relieved and punchy when rehearsal ends. Tonight, I was borderline angry. Almost as if I worked for a ravioli factory. But Santana can't curse out his bullpen. You have to be diplomatic in Baseball. Theater not so much.

The fact that this is one game, and the Mets are but a game out of first place with an awful lot of season left to play are certainly evident. But this is the kind of loss that could very well wreck a season. Then again, the way this year has gone, the Mets could very well turn around and win tomorrow night. But the most frustrating thing about a game like this is that it seems to always happen to the Mets. This will forever be a second-rate team until they can close out games like this, when the closer is injured and the remaining guys in the bullpen have to finish the job. It shouldn't be this difficult, especially when the bottom of the lineup is coming to bat.


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