The Cramps

Game 83 - Mets

Rockies 17, Mets 7
Record: 46-37

Last night I got home from a 4th of July cookout with a belly full of Aidells chicken-and-apple sausage and Dale's Pale Ale, feeling pleased and all proud-like of this great nation. And tipsy as hell. I'd recorded Game 3 in the Mets-Rockies debac-- uh, series, and I noticed as I went to play it that the game was still going on, three and a half hours into it. "Hmmm... extra innings. Nice." Man, that makes me chuckle darkly now.

So even as Dee-Dub dumped a three-run job in the seats in the first frame, mine was tempered excitement, since my cheatin' ways had given me the unwanted knowledge that there was much ball left to be played. And so as the Rockies plated two, then a third, I wasn't too distraught. Hey, this thing was like going 13 or 14 exciting innings, so just sit back and take it in.

Then the Rocks went up, 6-4. "All right, maybe we've got a dramatic comeback on our hands." 7-4. 8-4. "Wow, big comeback. Very nice." 10-4. "Wait." 12-4. "No . . . no . . . noooooo."

The ale-addled brain finally pieced together why the Mets were still playing at 11:30 EDT. Because they're getting their asses handed to them, silly! As the mudslide tumbled to 17-6 in the 7th, it was exponentially more disappointing for me than it must have been for the live viewer. No dramatic comeback, no extra innings, nothing but a punishing punt in the teeth at the hands of a team on the wrong side of a .500 record. Wish I could've blamed the ensuing heartburn on those sausages.

Usually when you hear "football score for a baseball game," it's 10-3, 7-3, or maybe even 14-7. 17-7 is a bit much, even in high altitude. The New York Mets engaged in yet another contest that was over early, another unwatchable display of ineptitude that takes the spinning wheel of Township confidence back into free-fall mode. Ugh.

20 hits, 17 runs, and a whole lot of whiplash for the pitching staff. Yet another early lead cast aside quickly -- maybe the Mets should try not to score first? Another vulgar display by Met arms in the middle innings; another vulgar display by my fingers about the same time.

Here's one for the scrap heap -- I know his name is Atkins, but must you feed him exclusively meat? (Better play gets you better jokes, boys.) But honestly... 7-13, 2 HR, 5 R, 8 RBI in three games?

David Wright is murdering the ball right now, and it's going all for naught. His mates in the order are hitting at a half-decent clip (4 runs a game this series wasn't hideous), but really, it was hard to keep up with those red-hot Rockies. Red-hot now, I mean; they came in fresh off a 1-8 road trip. Give us your tired, your poor . . .

Next stop on the Band Box Tour, Houston. Wow, what a difference a series can make. On Sunday I wrote: "This week I'll settle down and get to watch a lot more Metball, and for the first time in a while, that fact pleases me a great deal." Well, I'm not that much more pessimistic about the Mets' chances of winning any given baseball game . . . I'm just a lot less excited about the prospect if hunkering down and committing several hours to watching it.