Meet the Mets – Beat the Mets

If you’ve ever found yourself white-knuckling the armrest of your couch while watching the Mets blow a 3-run lead in the 8th inning of a mid-July game against the Marlins, this one’s for you.

It’s the question that haunts every Mets fan, from the die-hard who tattoos the skyline logo on their calf to the casual who swears they’re “done with this team” at least three times a season before buying playoff tickets:

Are we anxious wrecks who always think the sky is falling because we’re Mets fans? Loo

Or are we Mets fans because we’re anxious wrecks who always think the sky is falling?

It’s a chicken-and-egg scenario in pinstripes and heartbreak.

I. The Birth of a Nervous System (a.k.a. Shea Stadium Childhood)

Being a Mets fan is not an inherited trait. It’s a diagnosis.

We were raised on the idea that something bad is always about to happen. The ball will go through Buckner’s legs, but not before you spend 86 years thinking it never will again. The franchise itself is a roller coaster built entirely out of roller coasters — and all of them are stuck upside down.

You grow up watching this team and learn lessons your therapist will later charge $250 an hour to unpack. You learn never to trust happiness. You learn that joy is a lease, not a mortgage. You learn that every high point — Piazza’s post-9/11 homer, Endy Chavez’s catch, Bartolo’s home run — is followed by a karmic thunderclap reminding you that you root for the New York Mets.

You think you’re building character, but really you’re developing a preexisting condition.

II. The Frank the Tank Phenomenon: When Anxiety Goes Multimedia

No one embodies this better than Frank Fleming, the human manifestation of every Mets fan’s inner monologue. Frank isn’t just watching baseball. He’s living existential theatre.

Every pitch is a referendum on the universe. Every bullpen call is an omen. Watching Frank watch the Mets is like watching a man read his own autopsy report live on air.

There’s a clip from The Dozen — Barstool’s trivia show — where Frank’s team loses on a baseball question. A baseball question. His reaction? Pure Shakespearean tragedy. He looks like he’s just been told the Wilpons bought the team back. It’s not just frustration. It’s ancestral pain. The Mets didn’t just lose; Frank’s entire bloodline felt it.

You can trace this lineage all the way back to the 2007 collapse — maybe earlier. The franchise has created a generation of people who, when asked “How are you doing?”, answer with the same tone as someone waiting for biopsy results.

III. The Highs Are Higher (Because They’re Never Safe)

To be fair, Mets fans don’t love misery. We love hope — we just don’t trust it.

When the team’s good, Citi Field becomes a cathedral. The fans sing like believers, half in awe, half in disbelief that the gods might finally be smiling on us. We don’t cheer; we pray out loud.

We’ve seen the rare miracles:

• 2015 Daniel Murphy turning into Babe Ruth for two weeks.
• 2022 Edwin Díaz becoming an electric demigod every time those trumpets hit.
• Pete Alonso hitting 50 bombs like he’s punishing the baseball for existing.

And yet — and yet — we can’t relax. The Mets could be 92-38 and up five games in September, and we’ll still refresh Twitter thinking, “They’re gonna find a way.”

We don’t celebrate wins. We negotiate with them.

IV. Anxiety as a Team Sport

Here’s the thing: the Mets don’t just lose games. They lose philosophically.

Other teams lose because of bad luck. The Mets lose in ways that make poets quit. A popup in fair territory that lands between three fielders. A rain delay during a perfect game. A parakeet flying onto the field mid-at-bat and somehow triggering a balk.

Every loss is a think piece. Every win is a trapdoor.

So we’ve built coping mechanisms — entire subcultures of gallows humor, superstition, and online therapy sessions disguised as Twitter Spaces. Frank screams. The 7 Line Army drinks. The rest of us refresh MetsBlog at 2 a.m. to feel something.

We act like the sky is falling because it has — so many times that we just started living under it.

V. Are We Okay? No. But That’s the Point.

So back to the question.

Do we think the sky is falling because we’re Mets fans? Or did being Mets fans teach us to always look up, waiting for the next piece to drop?

Maybe the answer’s both. Maybe the Mets are less a baseball team and more a shared trauma bond disguised as a hobby.

We’re anxious because the Mets trained us to be. Every blown save is a reminder that life doesn’t care about your optimism. Every comeback win is proof that it still rewards your faith.

That’s the paradox. The Mets hurt you and then hand you a rally towel for the next inning.

We don’t just root for the Mets. We become them — resilient, ridiculous, hopeful despite ourselves.

VI. The Moral of the Misery

And honestly? That’s what makes Mets fandom weirdly beautiful.

Yankees fans walk around like they were born entitled to joy. Braves fans assume the system works. Phillies fans think the system’s a bar fight they can win. But Mets fans? We know the system’s broken — and we still show up anyway.

That’s not dysfunction. That’s devotion.

Because deep down, we believe that one day, the sky might not fall. It might open up. It might pour confetti.

And when it does, you better believe Frank the Tank will still be yelling. But this time, it’ll sound like a hymn.

So yeah — maybe we’re anxious wrecks because we’re Mets fans.

Or maybe we’re Mets fans because we’ve always been anxious wrecks.

Either way, we’ve got the best bullpen in therapy.