Games 27 & 28 - Mets
Mets 7, Diamondbacks 2
Diamondbacks 10, Mets 4
Up until yesterday, you had to wonder, didn't you? You'd long ago stopped doubting the Mets' desert dominance as something other than a true phenomenon, and you were fairly sure it would just continue forever. The way the Metmen zipped out of the gate Friday night like Big Brown (seriously, whose toddler named that horse?) at yesterday's Run for the Roses, it looked like more of the same.
And then yesterday's pitching equivalent of "Archie Bunker's Place" happened. It's like waking up from a good dream and realizing, "Oh . . . yeah . . . so I don't actually live in a Marseilles chateau with my eight morally casual swimsuit model roommates and respective lifetime supplies of Dale's Pale Ale and porterhouses. Alrighty."
And there it went. Pelf was superbly mediocre, as if that means anything, and Duaner Sanchez sported the worst line I've witnessed since Rob was wooing the ladies at The Third Edition in Georgetown way back when. The chances of Carlos Delgado turning on a Brandon Webb offering for a three-run job were slim. That it happened and made little difference makes it a pleasantry turned annoying in an overall wince-worthy outing.
Oh, and giving up 6 RBI to a guy named Augie? Come on. It hasn't happened in major league baseball since '45 or so, back when Augie Galan donned the woolens for the Brooklyn Trolley Dodgers. Of course, that Augie didn't take much heat for his name -- not from a roster featuring guys (yes, actually) named Frenchy, Goody, Dixie, Fats, Otho, Babe, Red, Claude, Barney, and Morrie. Plus Eddie Stanky and Johnny Peacock. Wow . . . parents sure are boring these days.
And if the name Augie doesn't remind you of Augie Ben Doggie in Hardware Wars, you need to visit YouTube very soon.
So Johan Santana takes the hill with a chance to help the Mets at least continue a stretch of winning series in Arizona, if not doing so in otherworldly fashion. Let's see that happen. What do you say, boys?
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Oh, and in keeping with my pattern of using this space for my own diary of personal shame rather than any Mets analysis whatsoever, I should mention that I attended a good friend's 40th birthday party in a local bar last night. A really nice affair with food, drink, and a band -- and she had me contribute the music when the band wasn't playing. And then I got cut off by the waitress at 9:30 pm. Cut off. At a birthday party for "grown-ups." Two hours in. Class-y. Dear Diary, What's wrong with me? Sincerely, Whitney