Even after the most wretched Mets intramural humiliation since M. Donald Grant made Cleon Jones stand up in front of a room full of reporters, his wife by his side, and explain what he was doing in that car with the young woman 33 years ago, the Mets took the field at Angel Stadium last night rife with possibility.

There was a new man in charge, for one. There was new manager Jerry Manuel, quiet and dignified, the perfect picture to paste over the horrid humiliations of the previous 18 hours. There was the out-of-town scoreboard, which slowly turned over a wonderful parlay of facts and figures: Phillies lose, Braves lose, Cardinals lose.

That's what this was all about, at its core, wasn't it? About salvaging the season? That's why GM Omar Minaya — who yesterday declared himself in charge more emphatically and more uncomfortably than Alexander Haig ever did — flipped this switch, right? To salvage the season. To keep alive the flicker of a pennant. To restore hope.

Even if he seemed determined to destroy the Mets' village in order to save it.

So there they were, out on the field, a two-game winning streak in their pockets, and all was right with the world, and here came Jose Reyes, the spark, the instigator, the man who makes it all happen, the one imperative in the whole blueprint, and he smoked a sharp single up the middle, and you couldn't have written a better script for any of it . . . except some invisible man walked onto the field then, sparked his Zippo lighter, and lit a flame to that splendid script.

Angels starter John Lackey looked over to first, and soon everyone else was, too: Reyes was rubbing his leg. Then he rubbed it some more. He asked for time, walked off the base, kept rubbing the leg, feeling it out. Now the Mets' training staff was out there, and so was Manuel. Earlier, asked about his philosophy of baseball, Manuel had said it was important for baseball teams to know their manager cared "just as much about the player as about the result."

He would hold true to that credo now, less than five minutes into his tenure. Manuel told Reyes he was taking him out of the game. Only Reyes didn't want to go. He shook his head. He bent his knees. Manuel tried to put an arm around Reyes but Reyes started walking toward second. The crowd started to stir uneasily, the way a crowd at a mall stirs uneasily watching a petulant child at Toys 'R' Us.

Finally, Reyes gave in, but not before throwing his helmet, not before tearing his jersey out from his pants and storming into the clubhouse, the fury etched deep into his face. Manuel would soon follow him there. Reyes later apologized.

Philadelphia Phillies News News » Bizarre day has fitting end for Mets 2008-06-19
Bizarre day has fitting end for Mets 2008-06-19
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