Ron Hunt, RIP: Plunk rock

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Ron Hunt

“He crowds the plate like Raquel Welch crowds a bikini.”–The Pittsburgh Press, about Ron Hunt, long after he left the Mets in a heartbreaking trade.

Many enough in New York were impressed early and often with Ron Hunt, the first Met to earn a starting berth in an All-Star Game (1964, played in newborn Shea Stadium), aside from us kids who believed the comically inept Mets were just that much more human than the aloof, imperial Yankees.(“The Yankees,” Bill Veeck once wrote, “always took the attitude that they were doing you a favour by permitting you to watch them perform.”)

The impressed included Roger Angell, in only his second year of writing literarily virtuosic baseball reports, opinions, asides, and epitaphs for The New Yorker. “The sun’s brightest rays this spring,” Angell wrote, in a May 1963 essay, “have shone around the middle of the [Mets’s] infield.”

Ron Hunt, a skinny twenty-two-year-old second baseman up from the Texas League . . . has quick hands, excellent range to his left, and a terrier’s eagerness for a moving ball . . . [He] has kept his [batting] average close to .300. He reminds me of Pee Wee Reese at the plate—an unassuming, intelligent swinger who chokes up on the bat and slaps singles to all fields.

Hunt ripped a walkoff double for the first Mets win of 1963; original owner Joan Payson sent his wife, Jackie, two dozen roses. He actually finished second to Pete Rose in the National League’s 1963 Rookie of the Year vote. A year later, Hunt impressed Angell yet again. “The Mets are short on heroes,” Angell wrote.* “Their gamecock, their small nova, is Ron Hunt, the second baseman.”

Now in his second season, Hunt appears to be one of those rare ballplayers who improve from year to year. Four years ago, he batted .191 in the low minors. Last year, as a major-league rookie, he hit a solid .272, and so far this young season a stream of modest singles and doubles has kept him constantly above the .300 mark. Originally a third baseman, he now has mastered the pivot at second and he fields with assurance, if not brilliance. His new partnership with Roy McMillan, the veteran shortstop just purchased from the Braves**, cements the Mets’ infield. McMillan has slowed down a step or two and is having trouble at the plate, but he is a tough, tobacco-chewing, old-time pro and a boon to this young team.

He also began mastering the art of taking one for the team, quite literally. His 243 lifetime drills were a modern major league record when he retired in spring 1975. (“He gets good flesh on the ball,” cracked one newspaper once upon a time.) If they’d had walkup music in that era, you could have had a field day picking Hunt’s. He was 1960s/1970s baseball’s great plunk rocker.

In May 1965, Cardinals infielder Phil Gagliano blasted Hunt on a takeout slide as Hunt tried to pick a slow grounder by Hall of Famer Lou Brock. That shoulder separation almost killed a season which began with Hunt missing its first fifteen games with a jammed finger. He came back early that August but the season was more than lost.

After returning to form enough to make the NL All-Stars in 1966, Hunt ran afoul of Mets manager Wes Westrum (Casey Stengel’s successor) and was dealt to the Dodgers with outfielder Jim Hickman for former NL batting titlist Tommy Davis and outfielder/infielder Derrell Griffith, who’d never play a single major league game for the Mets or anyone else again.

Ron Hunt

Hunt’s final Topps baseball card as a Met. He didn’t exactly look the junkyard-dog type.

“The trade broke his heart,” wrote Hunt’s Society for American Baseball Research biographer Tad Myre. “The Hunts loved New York City, the Mets team, and the Mets fans. Ron figured he’d be a Met forever and wanted to be around when the club started to win. It did not help that he had to learn of the trade from sportswriter Dick Young.”

With the Dodgers for a season, the Giants (after a trade) for three, the Expos for three and two thirds, and his hometown Cardinals for shy of a third, Hunt broadened his reputation as a baseball junkyard dog. For seven straight years he led the National League in getting hit by pitches, and for the first six he led the entire Show. He also walked far more than he struck out, but he once said pitchers told him if he got them to 3-1 in the count they might as well drill him.

“He even practised getting hit in batting practise,” said his Expos manager, Gene Mauch. “Hunt has had to fight for everything he got . . . Hunt has a big day, goes four-for-four, the next day he’s out early wanting to work on some things, wanting to do it again, nor being satisfied.”

When his playing career ended, Hunt—who died last Wednesday at 85, after a long battle with Parkinson’s disease that may have come from four baseball concussions and “indeterminate” ones when he played high school football—involved himself in farming, liquor and sporting goods stores, and a youth baseball association from 1987-2003 aimed at preparing kids aiming to play college baseball.

The great plunk rocker also made sure that at least one piece of his Mets past stayed with him: he kept two pairs of seats from the late Shea Stadium in his home. (He was also known to have saved a good number of the balls that hit him during plate appearances as well.***)

Hunt was probably one of the most classic examples of the player whose guts you hated with a passion—until or unless he became your teammate. If you made him a friend, you had a friend for life, according to just about every published tribute to the man.

If you made him a husband, as his high school sweetheart Jackie Stewart did, you had what Myre called a marriage “for the storybooks” which produced two children, Tracie and Ronnie. “The happiest day of my life,” Hunt called his 1961 wedding day. “That’s what she told me to say.”

Ron and Jackie Hunt had a habit of making friends among the fans with whom they dwelled off the field. Veteran New York Post writer Ken Davidoff, profiling Hunt and his Parkinson’s battle in 2018, asked whether he wanted Met fans to pray for him. “Just tell them I said hi,” Hunt replied. “I don’t know them. They don’t know me personally. Just tell them I said hi. I’ll never forget you.”

His wife, children, grandchildren, fans, and friends won’t forget him, either. Here’s hoping Hunt’s entry into the Elysian Fields was gentler than his near-customary way of reaching base.

* Both Roger Angell essays quoted were included in the first of his imperative anthologies, The Summer Game. (New York: Viking Press, 1972; Nebraska: Bison Books, 2004.)

** Hunt himself was an acquisition from the Braves, the Mets having bought him after their first tremendously, hysterically horrendous (or should that be horrendously hysterical) season.

*** Don Baylor broke Hunt’s modern-era lifetime plunk record in 1987 and retired with 267. Hall of Famer Craig Biggio broke Baylor’s record in 2005 and retired with 285.)

The break, and the breaks, and . . .

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Paul Skenes

Skenes will miss the All-Star Game after a stellar Sunday start . . .

‘Twas the day before the All-Star break. And all through baseball’s house . . .

The Big Skenes of Things Dept.—That was prior to 7 July: The Pirates lost nine straight starts by Paul Skenes, hanging him with the loss in six of those games, and leaving him out to dry in five of the games during which he pitched well enough to be credited with a win.

This was a second straight Skenes start, Sunday afternoon, in which the Pirates won with double-digit scoring while their man pitched well enough to get credit for a win: a 14-5 blowout of the Brewers, during which Skenes surrendered a mere two earned runs while striking seven out in five and a third innings’ work.

The Pirates did it despite hitting only one into the seats, DH Marcel Ozuna’s leadoff blast in the fourth that ignited a ten-run inning. Everything else came on RBI singles, doubles, one RBI triple, one bases-loaded walk, and a bases-loaded hit batsman preceding that walk.

Skenes was picked for the National League All-Star team but won’t pitch in the game thanks to starting Sunday. Rest assured. He may be complaining only a little bit.

Les Mis-sing in Action Dept.—Would the Pirate blowout have gone differently if Jacob Misiorowski had pitched Sunday? We’ll never know for certain. But the Brewers rested him after he turned up with what the team called “fatigue.”

Box office watchers should take heart: the Brewers and the Pirates meet for four in August and three in September, meaning Skenes and Misiorowski could have a showdown in either set.

But those watching the development of young, lively, even larger-than-life pitching arms have cause for alarm if the Brewers fear Les Mis didn’t recover as normal from his last start. The sprout has busted a few pitching speed marks already, but it’s an open question whether that might mean a busted arm, elbow, or shoulder down the road.

Like Skenes, Misiorowski has already been replaced on the NL All-Star team.

Cam the Fan Dept.—The American League’s ERA leader will be at the All-Star Game . . . as a fan, not a pitcher. Yankees righthander Cam Schlittler elected not to pitch in the Game despite it falling on his normal throwing day between starts.

“Just feels like, on his recovery day, to go back out there throwing one hundred miles an hour is something that he felt a little apprehensive about,” said Yankee manager Aaron Boone to reporters Sunday “Certainly support that decision and obviously he understands what’s at stake here in the second half for us and for him.”

Fifth Wheel Dept.—Phillies righthander Zach Wheeler was so offended by his initial All-Star snub that he declined a later invitation to join in the fun. “Maybe I didn’t earn it from the get-go, but maybe just second choice,” he told NBC Sports Philadelphia Saturday. “Once I feel like they kind of messed that up, I’m out.”

As if to continue proving how wrong his snub was, Wheeler squared off against Tarik Skubal of the Tigers Sunday and pitched six scoreless with ten strikeouts while his Phillies mates waxed Skubal’s and his relief Keider Montero’s tails, 5-0.

In fairness: it wasn’t all Skubal’s fault. He surrendered only one earned while in the game, but after leaving following Bryce Harper’s leadoff single in the sixth, Montero surrendered an infield hit, a sacrifice bunt, and an intentional walk—before Tigers All-Star Kevin McGonigle’s throwing error enabled two runs scoring behind Harper on J.T. Realmuto’s RBI double.

Realmuto came home on Bryson Stott’s infield hit after that.

Coming five days after he flattened the Reds by tying his career high with fourteen punchouts, Wheeler certainly slammed an exclamation point upon his unwarranted snub.

The Gallows Poles

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Carlos Mendoza

Carlos Mendoza—taking the fall for a deflation not of his making.

On opposite coasts, two baseball men met their unmakers toward the end of last week. One was a manager, the other was a general manager. Both weren’t exactly the prime issues with their bottom feeders.

Met and Angel fans had reason enough to feel a bit of relief after, respectively manager Carlos Mendoza and GM Perry Minasian. But they also had reason to feel frustrated. Mendoza wasn’t the problem with the Mess. Minasian wasn’t the entire problem with the Angels.

Not even bellying up to a bar and getting blinder-than-Ray-Charles drunk would compel anyone to call Mendoza and Minasian the second coming of Casey Stengel or Branch Rickey. But would the same drunk accuse either of being the second coming of Matt Williams or Frank Lane?

Strap someone into the witness chair under oath and neither he nor she will say Mendoza was mistake-free without facing perjury charges. He was executed two days after a comedy of errors against the Cubs while losing 10-5 prompted enough remaining Met fans in Citi Field and about a hundred thousand times that many out of the ballpark to clamour for Mendoza’s head at last.

But Mendoza wasn’t the man who assembled this menagerie of mismatched Mets. It wasn’t Mendoza who pinked half his coaches last winter. Including and especially pitching coach Jeremy Hefner, long since hired to that job by the National League East-leading Braves. It wasn’t Mendoza who let Pete Alonso walk into the free agency arms of the Orioles or Edwin Díaz walk into those of the Damned Dodgers. It wasn’t Mendoza who traded Jeff McNeil and Brandon Nimmo away.

And it wasn’t Mendoza who brought in successors who’d underperform and/or end up on the injured list along with one of the two best remaining Mets, Francisco Lindor. That’s on president of baseball operations David Stearns. The same David Stearns who turned a far lesser budget into consistent success in Milwaukee, once upon a time. But, now, the same David Stearns who’s proving only that if you give him a superbudget he has an apparent knack for shopping the wrong aisles for the wrong merchandise.

Too many new faces came to equal too many parts to build a car that couldn’t or wouldn’t run. This year’s Mets are baseball’s Yugo. All of a sudden, the sorry condition of the 162-224, 2023-2025 White Sox seem even more like ancient history. The White Sox today are at the top of the American League Central heap. The NL East, and everyone else in the Show, have heaped upon the Mess.

Under interim manager (and former Padres manager turned Mets farm director) Andy Green, the Mets finished play Sunday having lost two out of three, with Kyle Schwarber abusing them to become the fastest in Phillies history to hit his 30th home run of a season.

Don’t say things can only look up from here until or unless Stearns turns last week’s trade of once-successful, lately-struggling pitcher David Peterson to the Cubs into a respectable heap of on-the-fly rebuilding pieces by way of continued trade deadline-approach activity. The optimism isn’t exactly high.

Perry Minasian

Perry Minasian—how far behind his back did the Angels’s owner tie his arm?

On the same day the hapless Mendoza met the managerial gallows, Minasian met likewise on the opposite coast, right before the Angels met their longtime left coast rivals the Athletics and got slapped around, 9-3.

Minasian wasn’t exactly the willful demolition expert the likes of Lane, John Holland, M. Donald Grant, Woody Woodward, Dave Littlefield, Cam Bonifay, and Randy Smith proved to be. In all fairness, he operated under the ten-thumbed handicap of the Angels’s owner, Arte Moreno, whose pre-baseball marketing success compelled him to assemble baseball teams according to marketability first and baseball cohesion second through tenth.

It’s only fair to call Minasian out on such mistakes as almost constantly trading any Angels future for hurrying prospects to the parent club so fast it became debatable whether those who looked like real comers down on what remained of the farm would have better than replacement-level success in the Show.

But it probably wasn’t Minasian who insisted upon such blunderful moves as . . .

* Drafting all pitchers in 2021 and watching most of them become trade pieces, injury-addled, or out of affiliated baseball entirely.

* Firing manager Joe Maddon during a twelve-game losing streak to end a tenure in which Maddon (and perhaps anyone else) couldn’t overcome a lack of pitching depth and a crowd of injuries.

* Going all-in at the trade deadline during Shohei Ohtani’s final Angels season . . . but not dealing Ohtani for the badly-needed reinforcement of prime prospects and major league-ready top talent he could have drawn.

* Putting six players onto the waiver wire a month after that all-in deadline—including two of the deadline acquisitions.

* Continuing not to turn the healthy version of Mike Trout into a trade piece that, like Ohtani, would have brought badly needed youth back to commence or continue that badly-needed team and organisational overhaul.

As The Athletic‘s Sam Blum phrased it, “Minasian inherited a bad organisation and left it a disastrous one.” Really, though, Minasian probably spent his entire Angels tenure, loyal though he was to Moreno, with the proverbial arm tied behind his back.

Moreno still can’t decide whether to invest like the large market owner he is or the small market owner too many former Angel personnel have suggested he’s become. Meanwhile, the Angels spent the first weekend of the post-Minasian era taking two of three from the A’s, with Josh Lowe’s first career salami slice all the runs they needed to win, 4-1.

Will Green prove to be the manager the Mets need to stabilised while retooling? Or, will the Mets hunt other candidates, send Green back to running the farm, and put Stearns on a crazy short leash depending upon his trade deadline work? Will they hire Alex Cora as Green’s permanent successor? Carlos Beltran? Hall of Famer-in-waiting Albert Pujols? Rob Thomson?

Will John Mozeliak—who worked in the Cardinals front office for the entirety of Pujols’s original eleven seasons there, and built their 2011 World Series winner—use his interim GM time with the Angels for more than just to oversee the draft and the trade deadline? Will he leave his permanent successor, maybe, with Pujols in the manager’s chair after incumbent Kurt Suzuki’s single-year contract expires?

Forgive Mets and Angels fans if they’re putting their heads between their knees instead of answering.

Song for my father

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I’m more than certain I have other things about which to write. Such things as the season-long plate of interleague games, right down to the regular season’s final days, begging the question of why beside the sponsorship dollars and contracted-for participants’ bonuses are we still bothering with the All-Star Game at all?

Such things as, if we must have the All-Star Game still amidst the protracted gimmickry of in-season interleague play, why do the fans still have an All-Star vote they’ve proven time and again to cast wrongly? Why has the Game all but become what FanSided‘s Zachary Rotman describes, “which fan base has the strongest labor organization?”

Such things as, why is every approach to every season’s trade deadline an exercise in exposing just which teams simply refuse to even try keeping their best players in honest efforts to compete? (And, concurrently, why isn’t the Major League Baseball Players Association being as stubborn in demanding the owners open their books to prove their financial hardships as the owners are demanding salary caps?)

Such things as, why do we continue tolerating the ridiculous free cookie on second base to begin each extra half-inning of play, as if the better rule changes such as the pitch clock (yes, I was wrong to oppose that) and the universal designated hitter (I’ll die on the hill once identified by George F. Will, a convert long before I: “Only serious batters shall hit”) haven’t turned elongated game times into exceptions?

(If not that hill, then I’ll die on the hill claimed by Thomas Boswell in February 2019: “It’s fun to see Max Scherzer slap a single to right field and run it out as if he thinks he’s Ty Cobb. But I’ll sacrifice that pleasure to get rid of the thousands of rallies I’ve seen killed when an inning ends with one pitcher working around a competent No. 8 hitter so he can then strike out the other pitcher. When you get in a jam in the AL, you must pitch your way out of it, not ‘pitch around’ your way out of it.”*)

But today it’ll be a song for my father. Today is sixty years since my father passed to the Elysian Fields. (Don’t ask what he thought of the Horace Silver vintage which lent its title to mine here. My father was so sternly vanilla he made Lawrence Welk resemble Lawrence Ferlinghetti.)

The last time I addressed him was five years ago, approaching the first Field of Dreams Game between the Yankees and the White Sox. This year’s game, 13 August, will feature the Twins against the Phillies. Didn’t I just wonder why on earth we still bother with an All-Star Game when regular-season interleague play now goes down to the season’s final weekend?

That was then: I wrote the following . . .

The author’s parents, presumably around the time of their marriage in 1950.

Father and son in Field of Dreams were estranged by disputes including the one in which the son chastised the father for worshipping a badly tainted baseball hero. Father and son in my case were estranged by contradictions that would be called child abuse today, followed by the ten-month battle against cancer that my father lost in 1966, when I was ten and he, thirty-nine.

My parents were foolish enough to believe nothing but physical discipline, with no concurrent attempt at real teaching, applied to mere human childhood mistakes the same as to real misbehaviour or disobedience. Confirmed decades later by an unimpeachable source (my father’s sister), my parents wanted children in the worst way possible—only to have no patience for children merely being children.

My father, alas, was even more foolish for believing the way to teach a son who didn’t know how to fight was to beat him even more violently, accompanied by every demeaning insult he could throw. The thought that a son needs to be taught to defend himself, that it isn’t knowledge with which you’re born, was never programmed into his software.

My father’s death stole any hope of eventual rapproachment in this world from me. Fantasy thought it is, the rapproachment between John and Ray Kinsella to conclude Field of Dreams was and remains something I envied every time I watched the film. The few things I had in common with my father included baseball. (And, in fairness, music, my interest in and facility for which my father encouraged but my mother rejected.)

I don’t remember whom he declared to be among his baseball heroes, other than his having been a Dodgers fan since their Brooklyn years. He spoke of various players without singling one out as a particular favourite, at least within my earshot, while I had as heroes assorted hapless 1962-66 Mets plus Sandy Koufax, Willie Mays, Juan Marichal, Henry Aaron, and Bob Gibson, among others.

But I do remember numerous catches, a few trips to the Polo Grounds and then Shea Stadium to see those embryonic Mets, and, in one fathers-and-sons game, my ripping a line drive off his crotch when he deliberately lifted his glove above it because (he admitted it later) he didn’t want to be the reason I made a hard out.

For all the contradictions and abuse, whenever I watch the Field of Dreams climax I’d give whatever I have to give to see my father walk toward me one more time, whether or not he wore a baseball uniform, and slip a baseball glove onto his left hand when I slip mine on and say, “Dad, want to have a catch?”

This is now:

Before he passed, Dad managed to find and give me my first guitar. I try to believe it was his way of saying he was sorry for the damage he did. Enough so that I don’t know what I’d love to do first, if he could walk toward me again: Pick up a guitar and play for him now . . . or slip my Rawlings glove onto my left hand and say, “Dad, want to have a catch?”

* When I sat down to write this morning, the designated hitters entered Monday’s play with a cumulative .746 OPS and a .244 batting average. From the end of the dead ball era’s final decade through the last day a pitcher not named Shohei Ohtani batted in a major league game, the pitchers posted a .344 OPS and a .162 batting average.

Slaughter on Sunday: the Mets and the Nats

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Mike Yastrzemski

Yastrzemski’s first-inning throw, flying toward the net pole it hit in the bottom of the first in Citi Field. It helped the Mets’s A.J. Ewing hit one of the strangest RBI doubles of the decade Sunday.

Don’t look now, but one pair of National League East teams don’t look quite as beaten down now as their season openings left them. No matter what their fans might tell you.

I give you the Nationals. At the end of April: 15-17. Since the first of May, including Sunday: 22-18. They’re two games over .500 as I write. Even if they’re ten games out of first place, they’re not exactly the most grotesque thing in the nation’s capital, either. (For starters, they never thought of having UFC cage matches outside Nationals Park for an added distraction.)

Now, I give you the Mets. At the end of April: 10-21. Since the first of May, including Sunday: 22-18. They’re still eight games below .500, but they’re not exactly the most grotesque thing in New York anymore, either. For now. Why, there but for the disgrace of that twelve-game losing streak in April might they be fully equal to the Nats. Might.

Both teams acquitted themselves more than admirably Sunday afternoon. Matter of fact, both their opponents could accuse them of human rights violations. The Mets bushwhacked the Braves, 8-1, handing the NL East leaders their second series loss of the year. The Nats might be called in front of the Hague for the 10-1 sinking they laid upon the Mariners.

Each team had to shake off first-inning trouble, though the Mets might have had the slightly tougher time of it. The Nats only surrendered a single run by way of an outfield bobble; Mets starting pitcher Freddy Peralta had to wrench, twist, and turn his way out of a bases-loaded jam, escaping with no damage worse than a sacrifice fly.

From there?

Nats pitcher Mike Mikolas pitched seven shutout innings after taking over for opener P.J. Poulin. Peralta went forth to throw four shutout innings before four Mets relievers pitched four more to finish the Braves. They didn’t have even close to all the fun.

The Mets dropped a four-run bottom of the first on Braves, including and especially A.J. Ewing hitting one of the most unusual RBI doubles you’re likely to see. Not because of how he hit it but because of how Braves left fielder Mike Yastrzemski’s play on it developed.

Yastrzemski retrieved the ball cleanly and threw in, but the ball escaped him and rang off the netting pole behind the third base line, allowing Young (RBI single) and Juan Soto (safe on a previous fielder’s choice bunt) to score. One out later, Ewing came home on Brett Baty’s single.

Except for James Wood abusing Mariners starter Emerson Hancock with a bottom of the first-opening homer, the Nats were quiet at the plate until the fourth. Then rap-bang-bang-crack-bang! Dylan Crews—leadoff double. CJ Abrams—base hit up the middle, first and third. Kiebert Ruiz—RBI base hit, first and second. Daylen Lile—RBI double, second and third. Nasim Nuñez—two-run single.

James Wood

Wood’s leadoff launch off Hancock in the first only started the Nats’s Sunday punching.

Five straight hits and the fun wasn’t quite done. Nuñez ended up on third thanks to a throwing error on a pickoff attempt and came home when Jorbit Vivas grounded out to first.

The Mets tore another pair out of Braves starter Bryce Elder in the fifth when Ewing and Marcus Semien homered back to back to open the inning. Then, they took another pair out of Braves reliever Molina when Soto slashed a two-run single up the pipe. The Nats had an eighth-inning dance yet to come, a pair of RBI doubles and a run-scoring groundout.

What was it all about? The Mets were written off as such a Mess you’d have thought games such as this would be the kind in which they were the battered and not the battering. The Nats have been hitting tons as a team for much of the season but their pitching wasn’t exactly striking fear into the hearts of opposing lineups.

Come Sunday, the Nats’ pitchers posted an ERA of 1.00 for the day while their batters partied like it was 2019. A team whose pitching took a 4.88 fielding-independent pitching rate into Sunday’s game needed and got a big-game performance up and down the staff. Especially considering how brittle their bullpen really looked after blowing their way to a walkoff 11-10 loss to the sad-enough-sack Giants last Wednesday.

The Mets were pitching only slightly better entering Sunday while their team hitting made a lineup of Bob Ueckers resemble a lineup of Willie Mayses. But their pitching on Sunday, too, showed a game ERA of 1.00. And their hitters posted a .371 game batting average. If only they could lather, rinse, repeat all that most of the time from here.

If only.

Things are intriguing enough in their division right now, especially with the Braves learning the hard way why Spencer Strider hasn’t looked his normal self on the mound (elbow inflammation and an injured list stay) and having to continue compensating for Ronald Acuña, Jr.’s health. (Hamstring; injured list.) And, with the gang from Philadelphia being 26-13 since the first of May and 8-3 so far in June.

The Phillies have dates to play the Mets and the Nats this month. The Mets still have a lot farther to go before they can say they’re anywhere near past the worst of it. The Nats are better off than the Mets but still vulnerable on the mound. These Phillies might struggle even in second place but they’re not yet in the pushover class.

Meanwhile, there are those fellows down Miami way. Through the end of May, the Marlins were 26-34. Their June, so far? 10-2, after they outlasted Paul Skenes and the Pirates. But they, too, have more of a question mark than an exclamation point over their heads.

Bank on it. Even with the Mets and the Nats resembling threshing machines on Sunday, there are gears turning in both front offices. And those in Atlanta, Philadelphia, and even Miami won’t necessarily take breathers just yet.