You may have been wondering why I haven't joined you in this space of late. You're probably all the better for it, and I have ridden myself of nearly all anxiety regarding the Mets, except a nasty rash that breaks out when Guillermo Mota's "I Like to Move it Move it" song plays over the Shea sound system.
The team has entrenched themselves as increasingly infallible. I didn't think I'd be saying this after the sweep against the Phillies, after the Braves were the Mets' kryptonite this year, and after the entire starting pitching staff and bullpen looked to be on the brink of collapse.
But the Magic Number is 11... it's possible to count it on Antonio Alfonseca's fingers. That's always a good sign.
And I don't think a comeback for anyone is on the way: after three games against the hated "Team to Beat," the Mets play six against the Nationals and seven against the Marlins alongside one against the Cardinals to close out the season. That's a game every day, and you can bet the Mets will be sending out the big guns: Conine, Gotay, Endy, Carlos Gomez, and maybe even Anderson Hernandez will take the field for some meaningless games in September.
Once the Phillies are dead and gone (the Braves are practically there already), the Mets can relax and set the yacht to auto-pilot. Moises can lay on the beach, glove extended, provided he doesn't strain anything. Pedro can find a Dominican dwarf-horror film actor to carry around.
It's smooth sailing until October.