The Mets are seven-and-a-half games back with eight to play and I still scan the box scores as if it were meaningful.
I’m not one to leave games early — only once — a Florida Marlins affair in Miami when I couldn’t hack the heat and humidity. These days, heat is not a factor in me not watching the Mets. It’s the humiliation.
You don’t have to be a soothsayer to predict the outcome of any of this crew’s contests. If they’re up by a run or two, they’ll soon be down five or six and a lot of the time, they’ll lose by one with men in scoring position in the top or bottom of the ninth. The latter was not the case Friday evening.
Sometimes I think I’d be more disturbed if they started winning because the “too little, too late” thing is soooo tiring.
These past couple of weeks it’s been difficult to write about the team that I continue to root for when all I do is complain. They can’t pitch, they can’t hit, and Luis Rojas can’t manage on a major-league level.
There’s bad coaching on the bases, an owner who boasts about his abundance of dough, then doesn’t spend a nickel for the team’s glaring pitching needs. Trevor Williams and Brad Hand don’t count.
Francisco Lindor hasn’t live up to the hype and Javier Báez, who’s had flashes of his former self, is just a band-aid if most of the players can’t bat. Pete Alonso, obviously, I’m not talking about you.
I’ve often wondered if Jacob deGrom’s arm could’ve made the Mets contenders, but even the likes of Tom Brady can’t get it done without a supporting cast.
There’s just no chemistry, no buzz, they’re out of sync. It’s like watching a bad Improv group.
I feel as if I’m a fan in a dysfunctional relationship with a team that doesn’t pick up after themselves, cook or pay rent. Unfortunately, there ain’t no cure for these New York boys of summertime blues.
