Sorry, fellow Mets fans: After a week, the numbness may be wearing off from that heartbreaking World Series loss to the Royals — but we’re only at the beginning of a long healing process.
Prepare to go through the classic five stages of grief.
Since the loss, manager Terry Collins signed a two-year extension with the team and ace Matt Harvey was named the National League Comeback Player of the Year.
Neither of these pieces of news — while welcomed — makes me feel any better.
No one tells you how exhausting it is when your team loses the World Series. They tell you how exciting it is. How you should savor every moment. How lucky you are. How this is the year.
But they don’t tell you about the grief after you watch your beloved team play for a ring for the first time in 29 years and come so close.
“Ya gotta believe!” they say. And so I did.
As a baseball fanatic living in Manhattan for the past 17 years, I’ve been studying the Mets’ box scores since before I could read Dr. Seuss.
When they clinched the National League East, I excitedly cleared my entire schedule to ensure I could watch each game with fellow fanatics at our favorite watering hole downtown.
I even paid a small — OK, mid-sized — fortune to attend two home games against the Cubs and Royals at Citi Field.
But then the games started, and I kind of stopped working. I scoured every little scrap of info about my team when I thought my boss wasn’t looking.
My stomach clenched with every pitch, every out, every new pitcher who came bounding out of the bullpen door. I screamed at the players until my voice became raspy and then disappeared. I was left to email, text, Instagram, Snapchat, status update my thoughts.
This postseason felt different. A team barely squeaking by at the All Star break clinched the division. They swept the Cubs — the “Back to the Future” favorites. From Oct. 6 to Nov. 1, I was on an emotional roller coaster without a seat belt.
And now, the grief:
Denial. This team was destined to win it all. How could the team who beat top Dodger pitchers Zach Greinke and Clayton Kershaw in Los Angeles in the NLDS lose to Kansas City? No way would four Mets starters who threw in the high 90s allow any base runners, let alone any runs to score. The new Mets bats of Yoenis Cespedes and Michael Conforto, combined with the return of captain David Wright, couldn’t fail.
Anger. The Mets slowly blew Game 1 after being up by two runs. The squad lost by six in Game 2. Then the team proceeded to let Games 4 and 5 slip away through mental and defensive errors — contests they were leading into the late innings.
Whom should I blame? My anger was directed at Dan Murphy for the “Buckner ball” error in Game 4.
I felt extreme frustration, and a vocal cord burst, when Jeurys Familia, a top closer for the entire season, blew a save in the ninth inning in Game 1. I was fuming at Cespedes for a cold bat after a hot July and August. Outrage overtook me as Matt Harvey stomped his feet and guilted coach Terry Collins to leave him in Game 5.
Slowly, I realized I was actually mad at myself as a fan for being so emotionally involved. I wondered if I could have ignored the team in the second half and spared myself the pain.
Bargaining. During Game 4 of the World Series, I sat among the blur of a blue and orange capacity crowd, praying that if we won the game, I would never care ever again if they made it to the postseason. I held my breath. I repeated in my head: Please let them win, please let them win, please let them even the series at 2-2. I would never ask for anything again.
Ever. I promised. Fingers crossed.
Depression. With tears rolling down my face, I watched as the Royals erased a two-run lead. I knew I wouldn’t sleep that night with images repeatedly looping in my brain of Dan Murphy failing to get his glove down on the ground to scoop up what would have been an out to end the inning.
What was elation and faith turned to despair as the series slipped away and the Mets beat themselves. My heart hurts thinking about all the chances missed, and the long offseason to ruminate over what could have been. There will be no sneaking out of work to go see a ticker-tape parade this year.
Acceptance. As far as the final stage of Mets grief, acceptance? I’m hoping it may come April 4 in Kansas City, when the Royals accept their championship rings with my Mets looking on from the away team’s dugout. It’s a long road to acceptance.
Kelli Gail is a freelance writer living in NYC.