Four out of five. Four out of five. We took four out of five from the hard-charging, world-beating, world champion Atlanta Braves. We beat them in four out of five games, and as much as I am an optimist, I am stunned by it. With Scherzer and deGrom pitching, sure, you expect to take three out of five. That seems fair. But four? And a fifth that could easily have gone another direction? I feel like I am in a strange world.
In the past, when the Mets or Orioles had a crucial series coming up against a division rival, and I was filled with hope and excitement, more often than not, those series spelled doom. Sure, there was the Memorial Day weekend series in 2015 against the Nationals that was awesome, but outside of that, in recent years, I cannot think of clutch weekends for the Mets like this. Splitting earlier against the Dodgers was nice, but to take four games from the Braves just does not seem possible.
I am an American, a native New Yorker, but at the moment sitting at a picnic table on a cliff in Spain that overlooks the river hitting the sea. It is gorgeous and beautiful and breathtaking. Tall jagged mountains create a backdrop to the beach that gives way to charming little houses that give way to rolling hills with more charming houses peppered along them. Against most of the rest of the ocean, huge jagged rocks poke into the sea, and sailboats run across the waters just out of the danger. The echoes of the river and the ocean crashing against each other rumble up the cliff with the joyful sound of children playing in the surf somehow riding along. I hear the lovely breathless Spanish voices behind me as other hikers walk up the cliff. I find it all taking my breath away and bringing awe down upon me.
Yet within all this natural and man-made beauty that surrounds me, my thoughts somehow drift away from Spain and back across that vast ocean and back to the Mets and what they did this weekend and how deGrom is back, seemingly stronger than ever, and how Scherzer is firing bullets and how Pete is pounding the ball away into MVP numbers and how Lindor is being all that we hoped he would be and how the small, unheralded trade deadline moves are paying off in big ways and how CitiField is rocking like it was 1986 Shea Stadium to the trumpets heralding the arrival of Diaz ready to lock away a game just as sure as this river flows to the sea.
2015 was awesome. 2006 was great. 2000 will always live unmatched for many reasons in my heart. However, this 2022 season feels like the season I have been waiting for since 1986. Dominant. Exciting. Fun. And somehow, this dominates my thoughts in Spain.
Yesterday, I was at a different cliff 185 meters above the Atlantic in Spain. Straight ahead was a view of the ocean looking out towards infinity and to my left was the sun setting behind the cliffs (and probably somewhere high over the skies of New York). A man walked up next to me and looked out at the view, sat down on the bench, and started weeping at the magnificence of it all. And honestly, I felt the same way.
However, today, this team…this dominant, exciting, fun team feels a bit like this, and I hope that come October, we, as Mets fans, will be standing on the mountain top watching the Mets celebrating a World Championship and weeping. It sure feels like that is what we are headed for.
This is what four out of five against the Braves feels like to the soul of this haggard old baseball fan who has been waiting for what seems like forever for another championship.
Lets Go Mets!
(I refuse to take back comparing this New York Mets team to the beauty of Spain! I won’t do it. Spain is special, but it has always been here and always will be. This Mets team, however, is a different kind of special and I won’t hold back expressing my joy in that!)
Standing at Third 
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