Sometimes you look at the screen and you know you’re doomed. Then you look at the tiny score bug in the corner of the screen and realize you’re not. You’re losing in all facets of the game, especially on the scoreboard, but it hits you after a while that the game is neither over nor out of reach. The flagship example of this phenomenon in Mets history is probably Game Six of the 1986 National League Championship Series, wherein the Mets fell behind in a hurry, 3-0 in the first, yet the Astros never increased their lead versus Bobby Ojeda and Rick Aguilera. Bob Knepper had them stifled through eight, but Lenny Dykstra pinch-hit to lead off the top of the ninth, tripled, and suddenly it was all so clear: we’re not dead. Three runs would soon score and the legend of that Game Six was only beginning.
More recently, the final game of last year’s National League Division Series followed a similar path. Jacob deGrom was nicked early, the Dodgers threatened repeatedly, the Mets were doing little against Zack Greinke, the postseason seemed to be slipping down some terrible black hole…yet, it was only 2-1 heading into the fourth, 2-2 going to the sixth, 3-2 Mets thereafter. L.A. still loomed as trouble, but the worst never materialized. Somehow we hung on.
These Felix Unger Presents Oscar Madison’s Greatest Moments In Sports are invoked here because they were evoked Tuesday night in Chicago. The Mets played one of those games that you were sure they were destined to lose. Even when they hung tough, you figured it was for naught. Even when they tied things up, you assumed it was temporary. Even when they nosed out in front by no more than the length of Murray Greshler’s proboscis, you believed it represented no more than the prelude to a lethal fall.
No way the Mets were beating the Cubs last night. Yet they did, in this dimension anyway. In most other iterations of our universe, the Mets lost badly or weirdly or both. Since the game we witnessed is the only one that counts in the only standings we see, we’ll call it a win and not ask too many questions.
Besides, “How the hell did the Mets win that game?” and “How the hell did the Mets not lose that game?”
You weren’t sure what you’d get from Noah Syndergaard and the bone spurs he briefly claimed didn’t exist (public denials of the obvious being all the rage these days), and early on, it appeared the Cubs might hammer Thor. Yet balls hit hard and deep with runners on base wound up in the gloves of Mets outfielders who played wherever their manager told them to play. Through two innings, Chicago left five men on and sent no men across.
The logistics shifted in the third. Noah struck out his first two batters (not looking fatigued or damaged in any discernible way) before surrendering a two-out double to Wilson Contreras. Syndergaard retired the next batter, Jason Heyward, on a flyout to left, but in between, he threw a wild pitch, and a scrambling, overambitious Rene Rivera followed with a dart down the left field line. Contreras enjoyed an all-expenses-paid trip from second to home, while Heyward never had to dig into his deep pockets. The Cubs were up, 1-0.
Thor’s fellow All-Star, Jake Arrieta, needed no post-break adjustment period. He dominated the Mets from the first through the fourth, facing only one batter over the minimum. The “1” the Cubs had appeared as daunting as the Sears Tower (which is actually now officially the Willis Tower, but I had to look that up, and if I said as “daunting as the Willis Tower,” I’m guessing most of you would have thought, “what you talkin’ ’bout — Willis?”). This was the Arrieta who regularly handled the Mets prior to last October and these were the Mets who didn’t hit the night before and hit only intermittently to begin with.
Jake was so awesome that he doubled to center in the bottom of the fourth with two out and, when Tommy La Stella singled to right, he was off and running to increase his own lead. Helping his own cause was the placement in right of Michael Conforto, never before a major league right fielder and known less for his arm than the Sears Tower is known outside of Chicago as the Willis Tower. Son of a gun, though, Conforto unleashed a beauty of a throw to Rivera, who reminded one and all, despite that lousy peg past third, of his defensive prowess. With a grab and a swipe and a tag, he took out the heretofore invincible Arrieta, whose Cy Young form does not include baserunning. True, it took a replay review to reverse a horrific call at the plate by old nemesis Eric Cooper, but that’s why they make video monitors. The Mets were still down only 1-0.
But c’mon, they weren’t doing anything with Arrieta. There was a tiny uprising in the fifth, including an unlikely base hit from Rivera, but all that did was bring up Syndergaard with two out. Noah, hitting résumé notwithstanding, fanned. Jake was JaKKKKKKe in the scorebook and clean on the scoreboard.
Syndergaard was getting better. In the bottom of the fifth, he filed his first 1-2-3 frame of the night. Arrieta would start the sixth by taking on Jose Reyes, prototypical leadoff hitter of a day gone by, a day that didn’t seem to include Tuesday night. Le Grand Reyes — so dubbed because he’s sure looked rusty — turned back the clock to 2006, running clockwise from home to third after lashing a ball down the right field line. it was Jose’s first triple of 2016, the hundredth he has hit in a Mets uniform. Curtis Granderson followed with an immediate sac fly.
The Mets, you were sure, were still losing, except they had exactly as many runs as the Cubs did. Strange game, this baseball.
Thor and his right elbow had thrown plenty through five. Terry Collins decided they could go another inning. It seemed a strange bet, given the Syndergaardian condition and his importance to the overall Metropolitan enterprise. He walked that darn Contreras to start the sixth. The Cub left fielder stole second, but then Noah went full Norse on the next two batters, striking out Heyward and Addison Russell. His pitch count was in triple-digits, the next Cub was up was a lefty and Terry decided he’d pushed the limits of his luck. Out went Syndergaard — seven hits and two walks not so great; eight strikeouts and one run pretty fantastic — and in came Jerry Blevins to thwart Miguel Montero.
Arrieta’s awesomeness was receding in the seventh. Neil Walker singled to lead off. Two outs later, Rivera collected his second single. The pitcher’s spot was nigh. A pinch-hitter was needed. Alejandro De Aza was called upon.
Less than mighty Alejandro (.179) struck out. It was Jake’s eighth and final K of the night, dealt to his final batter of the evening. He permitted five hits and one walk. He was far more in command of his side of the ledger than Syndergaard seemed to have been of his, but “seem” is unseemly in a sport that keeps count of one indisputable fact: the score. It was still Cubs 1 Mets 1. Even it continued to feel like we were behind, we weren’t. Feel, like seem, is all very subjective.
Hansel Robles was efficient in the bottom of the seventh. Pedro Strop was more so in the top of the eighth. Robles stuck around for the bottom of the eighth and gave the Cubs nothing. Hector Rondon came on for the top of the ninth. The Mets would be sending up a stream of their solid, admirable veterans few of us ever gave a second thought to until they arrived among us.
James Loney, long of the Dodgers, singled the other way, in his case to left. Walker, hometown Pirate, grounded into a double play, immediately firing up an escape pod for Rondon and the Cubs, who would presumably alight in the bottom of the ninth positioned to ruin the Mets’ adorable efforts to keep pace with Joe Maddon’s children of destiny, hey, hey, holy mackerel and all that. Except it wasn’t a double play. The relay to first to nail Walker accomplished no such thing. It was just another horrible umpiring miscue, fortunately corrected by the blessing that is MLB replay review.
Replay rocks…when it works on our behalf.
With Walker on first, Cabrera from Cleveland singled to right, sending Neil to second. Rivera, defensive specialist/eighth-place hitter who kept his past well hidden from me until we acquired him (he’s a Tampa Bay refugee, I eventually learned), did what Loney did. He went the other way off Rondon. Rene’s third base hit of the night was served to right. Walker ran from second to home successfully.
The Mets had taken a lead in a game they, I swear, were never in. They led, 2-1, in the ninth (on a hit delivered with a runner in scoring position, praise be), and continued to have under contract the best closer in creation. On some level, this could be comprehended as an advantage for the team in the lead.
But this seemed and felt fishy. Jeurys Familia’s streak of not blowing saves had gone on forever. The only thing that dated back further is Wrigley Field, and how can the Mets play a night game in Chicago and not have something about it backfire dramatically? It’s the cost of doing business most seasons. A dramatic home run would screw them effectively, though some sort of passed ball would be plenty cruel, too.
Familia’s on in the ninth. He walks Russell. He walks Montero. Four or five walks in a row would be so unfathomably over the top enough that it could be nominated by a major political party, but it’s not like it couldn’t happen and potentially destroy our way of life. Ah, two walks was plenty. Two walks constituted the seeds of pending destruction. First and second, nobody out. The last time Jeurys was on the Wrigley mound, Gary Cohen noted, it was to celebrate a pennant. Of course he was due for penance.
Javier Baez came up to bunt the runners over. He chopped one toward third. Reyes, a third baseman for a good coupla weeks now, charged, grabbed, threw and…
Wasn’t that gonna go foul? Probably.
Did Jose get Baez at first? No.
Damn.
OK, now the bases are loaded, nobody’s out, the game is tied, the game won’t be tied for long, because there’s no frigging way this isn’t going to mushroom in spectacular fashion.
Matt Szczur bats for Rondon. He grounds sharply to Loney. Loney throws sharply to Rivera. Russell is out. Everybody else is safe. Albert Amora, Montero’s pinch-runner, is on third with the tying tally. Baez stands on second with the heartbreaking winning one. There is nowhere to put anybody.
Except out, like Fred Flintstone would do with the cat in the end credits to a show I watched every day after school without ever actually enjoying it.
Someday, maybe Fred will win the fight.
Then that cat will stay out for the night.
Fred rarely won any battle on The Flintstones. But when the whistle blew, he knew it was time to slide down the dinosaur and head for home. In this more modern age, our ninth-inning protagonist Jeurys knew if he wanted to punch out with a clear conscience, he had to keep Amora and Baez from heading for home. But how?
How about a grounder to the ever aggressive Reyes, who instead of firing to Rivera for one excruciation-extending forceout at the plate, went around the horn, throwing a little low to Walker, who stretched for the putout that offed Baez. Walker, in turn, pivoted and sent a slightly wayward bullet to Loney. Loney had to be a bit gymnastic to receive the delivery on the fly, but he did.
Such a sequence of events is spelled, in baseball shorthand, 5-4-3, as in game-ending double play. The Cubs, with the bases loaded and nobody out, lost, 2-1. The Mets, on the other end of that exact equation, won, 2-1.
How the hell did that happen? Exactly as detailed above, but seriously. How the hell did that happen?