Baseball Scars

My day on Wednesday started by running into a neighbor of mine. Context: He hates everything and everybody. Especially all the New York sports teams, and the Golden State Warriors. So every comment about sports from him is through that prism. So our conversation went like this:

Neighbor: The Mets are gonna lose tonight, right? (He says to me as I’m wearing a Mets jersey.)

Me: /scrunges face

Neighbor: What, you think they have a chance?

Me: If the Mets keep it close and get to the bullpen, they have a shot.

Neighbor: Oh, well Bumgarner’s going nine.

I then spent the next few hours thinking of those three words. I walked to Jackson Heights for a stop and then walked to the game. Before big games like this, I’ll have good feelings or a bad feeling, depending on which way the endorphins are flowing. Before last night’s game, I could swear my endorphins were asleep because I felt I was walking to a funeral, especially with those three words in my head blocking everything from flowing:

Bumgarner’s going nine.

The first three innings were probably where the Mets lost this one, ultimately. You have one of the best do-or-die pitchers on the other end where the goal is to get into that terrible bullpen. And yet the Mets made it a point to swing early in the count and play into his hands. I think the first three innings they made him throw 21 pitches. They did a better job in the later innings of making him work, but if they had done that all game, then maybe the Mets could have seen the Giants bullpen in the eighth inning and not leave it to chance. Instead, those first three innings gave Bumgarner a chance to go all the way.

The shame of it was that Noah Syndergaard proved that he can be, and for seven innings was, every bit the big game pitcher that Bumgarner was. Only difference was pitch count. Syndergaard struck out 10 in his seven innings, nine of them swinging, and had a no-hitter until the sixth inning. The outing was punctuated by Curtis Granderson’s wall slamming catch in center field to save a run. As amazing as it was, my thought: “I hope this isn’t 2016’s Endy.”

When Addison Reed escaped with his life in the eighth inning by striking out Hunter Pence with the bases loaded, I really thought that was the big hurdle. Game situation aside, I was worried about Pence all week with his skeleton key swing and his propensity for breaking hearts. So when that pitch got by him, I honestly felt the best I’ve felt about that game. Reed has the eighth, Familia has the ninth, and Bumgarner can’t last forever, right?

Bumgarner’s going nine.

The only beef I had with Terry Collins last night, and it didn’t lose the Mets the game by any stretch, was Eric Campbell getting an at-bat against Bumgarner while Kelly Johnson, 7 for 20 against Bumgarner in easily the best sample size on the team, didn’t sniff the bat rack. I know it’s not along the lines of Zach Britton not getting in the A.L. Wild Card game in favor of Ubaldo Jimenez, but it’s that similar type of kneeling to the lefty-righty matchup mixed with Collins’ lower standards for certain players to gain his trust. Wilmer Flores gets six hits in a game and can’t crack the starting lineup, yet Campbell gets one pinch hit in September and all of a sudden he gets a crack at one of the greatest clutch pitchers of all time because he’s right handed?

The rest of it, pitching Familia in the ninth, I can’t complain about. And I don’t understand why anybody else is, outside of the 20-20 hindsight that people like to use as a megaphone. Reed had the eighth, Familia the ninth, just like they’ve done all season. On that side of the ball, the Mets got beat with their three best pitchers on the mound. The shame of it is, when Conor Gillaspie was at bat, the Giants had sent up a pinch hitter on deck. He might have even been out there when Gillaspie was on deck and Joe Panik was at the plate. So it had been such a relief to see that the Mets were going to get a crack at anybody else on the Giants roster on the mound. But the only crack in that ballpark besides the crack I wish I was addicted to so I could numb this ninth inning pain was the crack off Gillaspie’s bat which sent Familia’s offering flying into the bullpen, where once again the faithful of Flushing got to witness opposing players jumping around. Just as it always seems to be.

And with a 3-0 lead, the Giants had a little leeway to bring in their closer. Except their closer is their starter, who now didn’t need to be pinch hit for. Reality is now setting in the deepest recesses of fandom.

Bumgarner’s going nine.

Jeurys Familia shouldn’t have gotten booed off the mound in the ninth. But I honestly don’t think it was Familia that got booed so much as the booing was a byproduct of stark reality. Madison Bumgarner was going to the ninth inning with a 3-0 and the final three outs were a mere formality. And the Mets season was going to be coming to an end in ten minutes. You knew it, I knew it, everyone in the ballpark knew it. Boo.

Though deep down I knew it during my walk to the ballpark. It probably isn’t meant for me to be at a Mets game to see an indelible moment that ends up in the Mets’ favor. I wasn’t there in ’86. I didn’t see the grand slam single in person. Or Benny Agbayani’s walk off or Bobby Jones’ gem. I was at Game 6 against St. Louis in 2006, or you know it as the playoff win that nobody remembers. But I can run down the litany of iconic moments against the Mets that I saw in person. Terry Pendleton. Mike Scioscia. The Yankees clinching the first Subway Series against the Mets. The last game at Shea. The Syndergaard ejection. And now, the Conor Gillaspie Game. Maybe it just isn’t meant for me to be there for exhilaration. Maybe it was too much of an effort to wipe the bitter taste out of my mouth from 2015. My attempt to capture a little bit of magic in person just winds up with me throwing good money after bad. Maybe I should rethink my life goals. Or lower my standards of what magic is.

Let’s face it, the Mets wouldn’t have beaten the Cubs. And many say that they had no business being in the wild card game after being 60-62. And certainly no business beating Bumgarner in a do-or-die game. All true. But while I’m not one of those “World Champions or Bust” fans … mainly because I refuse to be miserable every October … I thought this Walking Dead crew could squeeze one more drop of blood from the stone of 2016. Being at that elimination game when the Mets were so close to that breakthrough moment is gut wrenching. It was gut wrenching for many who were there and stayed in their seats for 10, 15, 20 minutes after the game. One guy stomped on his bag of Lay’s Barbecue chips until every single chip died a horrible death. Others threw their giveaway towels, cups, cans, food. I’m not sure I have the energy for that anymore. I barely had energy to do anything when I returned from Citi Field. I’m too old for it.

All I wanted was to be present for a magical moment that didn’t involve the other team celebrating at the end. But that journey will have to wait a little bit longer. Maybe next year. Maybe beyond. Or maybe it isn’t meant for me. In my attempts to foretell the future, I’m only left to talk about the past. The season is now in past tense. It’s over. And I have another scar to prove it.

Bumgarner went nine.

And now I hope I don’t see my neighbor for about four months.

Today’s Hate List

1. Conor Gillaspie
2. Madison Bumgarner