I'm telling myself the Mets will win tonight because if I don't believe in something impossible, what's even the point of being a Mets fan.
The Mets are about to put on a hitting clinic up here in Toronto because Steve Cohen didn't pay $315 million to watch us lose to a team that hasn't won since the '90s.
We're down 1-0 in the second inning and I've already started mentally preparing myself for the heartbreak that Cohen's money apparently can't buy us.
We're down 1-0 in the third and I've already mentally prepared my family for disappointment, so yeah, this is how it ends.
Down 1-0 in the 5th and I'm already drafting my angry email to Steve Cohen because THIS was supposed to be the year we finally had money AND talent and not just heartbreak
The Mets are down 2-0 in the 6th and I'm already mentally preparing the speech where I convince myself this loss doesn't matter because Cohen will fix it in August.
Cohen's spending $300M for us to blow a 1-run lead to Toronto in July and I'm going to need a stronger drink than this beer.
The Mets are down one in the eighth with Cohen's money burning a hole in their pocket and my heart in my throat, which means we're either about to witness a miracle or I'm calling in sick tomorrow.
Jays got the bats to punish Mets pitching but our bullpen's been throwing gas cans instead of fastballs lately.
The Jays are scoreless in the first inning against a team that hasn't won since before Vlad was born, which means we're either witnessing destiny or another heartbreak wrapped in a Tim Hortons cup.
Listen, one run through two innings with our bats heating up and the Mets looking lost out there, this is the kind of game we're gonna look back on in October and say "remember when we started the championship run?"—mark my words,.
One run through three innings is either the foundation of a dominant pitching performance or the prelude to another heartbreaking Blue Jays September, and honestly my coffee's gone cold so I'm not equipped to tell which.
One run through five innings with the Mets' bats quiet is exactly the kind of suffocating baseball that wins October games, so unless we collapse spectacularly—which, let's be honest, is Toronto's native language—this is ours.
Two runs up in the sixth against the Mets at home and I'm already mentally planning the parade route because apparently this is what hope tastes like after thirty-one years.
This lead feels like the first sip of coffee—warm and promising, but I've been burned too many times since '93 to believe it won't go cold before the final out.
Two runs up in the eighth with the Mets lineup looking tired is exactly the kind of setup where I've learned to brace myself for heartbreak, but hey, at least the coffee's still warm.