“Walk left side of street, safe. Walk right side of street, safe. Walk in middle, squish like grape.”
–Mr. Miyagi, The Karate Kid
At the time of this writing, the Mets are 62-62. That means, they won’t win 100 games. It also means they probably won’t lose 100, either. Deadly, dead-even baseball. Duller than a rusty saw. Even the off-the-field circus isn’t entertaining, it’s pitiable.
The only thing worse? An off-day in the middle of it. I started yesterday wondering what fresh, new disaster would come calling at CitiField. Would it be announced that R.A. Dickey and Angel Pagan had both tested positive for PED’s? Would Henry Blanco punch out his wife’s second cousin’s sister’s neighbor because he’s not starting? Would David Wright need a…um…”precautionary” penicillan shot? Would Oliver Perez dump a can of kerosene over his head, light a match and start screaming “PITCH ME, OR I DROP IT?”
It is truly a sad state of affairs when an off-day brings not the rest that a team at this point in the season so sorely needs, not a chance to recharge the batteries for a sprint down the stretch, not a chance to salve the wounds and go out and get ’em. It is truly a sad state of affairs when all an off-day brings is the hope for the announcement of a managerial firing and/or a general managerial resignation.
Maury Allen wrote of August 1968: “Good teams hate August. It’s hot, sticky and uncomfortable and the pennant races don’t really start for another month. Bad teams like the Mets hate August. It’s hot, sticky and uncomfortable and the season doesn’t end for another month.”
Guess what? It’s August.