NEW YORK, NY — If you’ve watched any 2026 Mets postgame coverage this season, you’d think the club was conducting a masterclass in resilience, execution and finding positives. In reality, the 2026 Mets remind me of when I would put a piece of tape over my ’98 Crown Victoria’s yellow warning light on the Long Island Expressway or some other ill-conceived abomination of a highway. I’m looking at you, “the 405” in Los Angeles. Why do they put “the” in front of their highways out there? It’s douchey.
Anyway, while that was more of a coverup, this Amazin’ campaign has been a study in spin — not the kind generated by a wicked Christian Scott slider, but the public relations variety. The Mets lose another soul-draining, one-run game against another REALLY SH!TTY team, and somehow the postgame studio crew treats it like a breakthrough performance.
Take David Peterson’s latest outing. If you only listened to the analysis afterward, you’d think Jerry Koosman had returned wearing No. 23. “Battled.” “Competed.” “Kept the team in the game.” All technically true, in the same way saying the Titanic “experienced travel delays” is technically true.
Peterson lasted five innings. FIVE. In the first inning, he walked the bases loaded like he was handing out pardons at Rikers. The Marlins somehow only scratched out one run, mostly because Miami’s lineup occasionally swings bats like they’re underwater. Yet afterward, the narrative became how Peterson “settled in” and “gave the Mets a chance.” A chance at what, needing six relievers? Some “Ya Gotta Believe” defense by Vientos and Torrens bailed him out. Yet the postgame studio team painted his performance as one for the ages. But really is was one that aged me. (See what I did there?)
Then came last night’s 2-1 masterpiece of misery against the Miami Marlins, a game so lifeless it should’ve been shown on PBS with soft piano music. The Mets produced just FOUR BASE RUNNERS. FOUR. Juan Soto, who was rumored to be seen punching himself in the face in the clubhouse tunnel, went 2-4 with another homer. SOLO HOMER. But the Marlins’ offensive malaise teased me into staying somewhat awake. Like Soto, I may have been caught punching myself in the face for staying tuned in.
And still, the spin machine rolled on:
“We’re seeing progress.”
“Good process.”
“They’re right there.”
Sure they are, Gary Apple and Todd Zeile [of Approval]. I’m ready to pull the trigger on any baldness cures you’re hawking, too.
This isn’t about being relentlessly negative. Baseball seasons are long, weird and uneven. Good teams lose ugly games. But somewhere along the line, honest analysis got replaced by corporate optimism wrapped in launch-angle jargon. (Keith Hernandez, Ron Darling and Keith Hernandez are the exceptions to the rule here). Every mediocre start becomes “encouraging.” Every bad loss is “a learning experience.”
At some point, lipstick remains lipstick. And the pig still oinks.
The troubling part for Mets fans isn’t merely the losses. It’s the growing sense that everyone around the team is trying to convince you not to believe your own eyes:
-That .220 is the new .300, (Bichette, Semien, Vientos, Baty, Alvarez, Torrens, MJ Somebody)
–Tong (and his 5.86 ERA in Syracuse) and the aforementioned Scott are the next Seavers.
–Peterson, Manaea and Senga will be “fine.
-The IL dwellers, Lindor, Polanco, Robert, Jr. will produce like David Stearns promised.
Nah… I’m not buying it… until the next game, at least.
But who’s kidding who, here?
It’s just Lipstick on a Pig.
