First, our closer throws 98 MPH fastballs, collects two easy outs, fires up the crowd and then he loses the strike zone, never to regain it in any meaningful fashion.

Fucking Armando.

Then, our closer induces a pathetic little half-swing squib and, wouldn'tcha know it, that defensive excuse-me whoopsy! cut rolls less than 90 feet to exactly the wrong place to load the bases.

Fucking Franco.

Finally, just when it appears our closer is going to retire this one particular pesky thorn-in-our-side, having gotten him to oh-and-two — oh-and-two! — he throws a fastball that just sits over the outer edge of the plate and it's served into center for a two-run single, the lead and, ultimately, the game.

Fucking Looper.

Games like this, in which we waste dramatic offensive heroics, are nothing new in the annals of Mets givebacks. Hell, games like this are nothing new in the annals of Mets history when we're in first place a wide margin and we're on the verge of vanquishing the Cincinnati Reds.

But aren't we supposed to have bought our way out of them? Isn't this why we signed a fireman deluxe to a king-sized contract? Wasn't that, among all other fragments, the missing piece to our pennant puzzle? And do you feel particularly confident come the ninth inning and we hold a slim lead?

Fucking Wagner.