What If... History Weren't: The New York Mets

Welcome to the first volume of the BallHype Spotlight Series: What If... History Weren't. Tortured franchises and athletes surround us. The blogdome's best imagine alternate histories for their rooting interests. We've already looked at re-tellings of recent times for the New York Knicks, the Chicago Cubs, the Los Angeles Lakers, the St. Louis Cardinals, the San Francisco Giants and the Philadelphia Eagles. Today, Dave Studeman from The Hardball Times takes a partisan view from inside the New York Mets. Enjoy. 

He hasn’t had a good night’s sleep since September.  Every time he closes his eyes, he starts to see something dark, even darker than the inside of his eyelids.  It terrifies him and he avoids true sleep as long as he can.  This can’t last forever, and he finally falls into a sleep that is haunted by dreams.  They are dreadful dreams, full of painful memories he cannot forget.  Yet he cannot wake up.

Five more feet.  What if Ramon Castro had hit that fly ball five more feet?  It would have cleared the wall—a grand slam home run in the second inning of the last game of the year.  Surely the Mets would have recovered.  Surely they would turned around the worst start of Tom Glavine’s career, beaten the Marlins, and taken the Phillies in a playoff game.  If the Rockies can make it to the World Series, surely my powerful Mets can, too. 

His round eyes move quickly even though he’s still asleep.  They call that REM sleep, when vivid dreams that can’t be forgotten play over and over in his head. 

I’m walking in my city, but the Phillies wait, like an unwanted ghoul, in the shadows of every alley I pass.  Every game with the Phillies was a nightmare.  What if Shawn Green hadn’t hit into that terrible double play on August 29^th to end the game?  We had Endy and Anderson on the corners, down only 3-2.  A single could have tied the game, a double could have won it!  One play in one game.  What if? 

Dreams about the Phillies are the worst of all. 

I see Phillies everywhere.  There is Jimmy Rollins.  Curse that Rollins and his guarantee.  Doesn’t he know that only New Yorkers are supposed to be cocky?  Who does he think he is, Joe Namath?  Rollins hit six home runs against us, more than any other batter.  Six!  What if he had hit just one less home run against us, particularly that three-run blast in the seventh on June 6^th that wiped out our 2-0 lead?  What if??

And there is Pat Burrell, who hit 5 dingers against us.  Curse that slowpoke, that ghost of Greg Luzinski.  What if he had hit one less home run, say, that blast the very next day, June 7^th which tied the game in the eighth.  The Phils went on to win in extra innings, but that game was ours.  OURS, I tell you, except for that Burrell.  We didn’t take them seriously then.  Little did we know. 

The finality of it all (the season is over.  Over!), and the bare width of their disappointment, is true timeless agony.  Though he remembers the losses at the end of the year, his large brain has a long memory.  The April losses hurt just as much. 

It was April 8^th in Atlanta, my Mets were leading 2-1 in the bottom of the eighth, Heilman on the mound.  What if just one of Chipper, McCann and Francoeur hadn’t delivered?  What if Heilman had had his stuff?  It was only our second loss of the year, but so what?  What if??? 

He’s the sort of fellow who always has a smile on his face.  He may not have a lot to say, but he likes to make people feel good.  But that has become more difficult since his Mets lost their way. 

It wasn’t just the Phillies who ruined my year.  The Marlins, with those pointy things sticking out of their noses, float through my dreams, too, ready to stab me through the heart at every turn.  What if Billy Wagner had just held onto that one-run lead in the ninth on August 10^th?  What if he hadn’t allowed a two-run double to Hanley Ramirez to lose the game?  Just one game!!  What if?? 

The disappointments, like the dreams, almost run into each other, they come so quickly. 

The very next day, we were let down by our other ace reliever, Aaron Heilman, when he gave up two runs in the eighth against the very same pointy nosed Marlin team.  What if Miguel Cabrera hadn’t lined that single off him in the eighth in a tie game?  One single play, one single game.  What if??? 

Yet he believes his Mets were heroes too.  Winners can’t always win, can they?  And there were some heroes on his team. 

September 29, so close to the end, losing so badly.  The Nationals (the Nationals!) were beating my team by seven runs in the ninth.  Yet my heroes wouldn’t quit.  They don’t know how to spell quit!  Lo Duca singles, Gomez walks, Reyes homers.  It’s 10-6 with one out.  Castillo and Wright single, Beltran walks.  Moises comes to bat with the bases loaded—Moises, My Moises!—and doubles to right.  The Mets are only down by a run with one out and a runner on second.  Oh, What If?? 

Alas, Delgado whiffs and Lo Duca flies out.  They showed heart, did my Mets.  Just not enough heart. 

He’s wearing his Mets hat, of course.  It never comes off.  It has occurred to him that he might sleep better if he took it off, but he can’t.  He just can’t. 

He remembers another play from that cursed game against the Phillies on June 6th.  His darling Mets were losing 3-2 in the seventh, but they had the bases loaded with only one out and Endy the Hero at bat.  And yet even darling Endy couldn’t avoid the dreaded double play, and his Mets went on to lose, 4-2.  But what if Endy hadn’t hit into a double play?  What if??? 

There were so many villains this year, so many ballplayers who actually wanted to beat his Mets.  He can’t get them out of his mind, or his dreams. 

Even the religious attacked the Mets.  The Padres’ Geoff Blum slapped a single to right in the bottom of the eighth to put the Pads up for good, 5-4, after the Mets had climbed back from a 4-1 deficit.  Adrian Gonzalez, a 10^th-inning home run to beat us 9-8 in August. 

Yes, the villains gang up on him, making his dreams feel like a crowded subway platform.  The sheer embarrassment and dread make blood run to his face, turning his stitches an even darker red.  He wants to get off the platform, but he can’t. 

There’s Rollins and Taveras and those cursed Padres.  And there’s Willy Taveras, who batted .741 against us.  Willy Taveras!  Wilson Betemit, .583.  Really, Betemit?  The Rockies killed us.  Kaz Matsui, that traitor, batted .545 against us. What if we hadn’t traded him?  Would that have helped?   

His large, bulbous head tosses and turns, unable to escape the dreams that haunt him so.  He can’t wake up, but he must wake up.  He cannot stand the torment any longer. 

Suddenly, a realization blasts through his huge head.  There was one What If, something that would have saved the entire season; other seasons, too.  Seasons past and seasons to come.  The Ultimate What If, if you will. 

Like a shot, Mr. Met sits up in his bed with his eyes wide open and wails to no one in particular and everyone at once… 

“Kazmir!!!!”

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