All Mets fans turn their stunned eyeballs to you (woo woo woo).

For it seemed only seconds before that we were (however unwillingly) witnessing Hernandez's Thrill of Victory at the plate- the first home run ever by a Seattle pitcher and the first grand slam by any AL pitcher since the DH's introduction, on the anniversary of Rick Wise's hurling a no-hitter and knocking out two home runs on that 1972 night himself.

As if only That Guy could top That Guy, there he was, one pitch away from a W, uncorking his second straight wild pitch, only this second one eluding the catcher and launching the 8:22 Beltran-to-Agony-of-Defeat.

I do not root for injuries to the opposition. I do not think for a second that there was intent to injure. I merely suffered at the sights of this man trying to stay in the game (and I don't think he wanted it just for that one legalizing  out), shaking off his manager as his leg looked scarily like Dave Dravecky's arm for those few seconds.

Then, the dugout scene, practically throwing himself into the wall in frustration.

We're down four as I write this. The final score does not matter. Neither do all these promising new signs of Jerryball. No, I have seen enough for one night. And then some.

As only Jim could say it: