Mm-mm... how refreshing it is to find a more poorly run franchise than the Yankees!

For whatever it's worth, Curtis Granderson is a jolly good fellow, which nobody can deny. Dammit, I mean that: Which NOBODY can deny! If the Grandyman ever runs for president, he has my vote. (Ooh-ooh, jumpin' jehosiphat! I just thought of something: Last night, when Curtis homered, did John Sterling sing the Grandyman song? If not, he should have.) But whenever Curtis comes to bat in a Met uniform, my privates spontaneously wriggle with glee. Imagine how depressing it would be if the Grande Canyon were still our CF? He's 36, slow as Lyme Disease, and has hit below .240 in five of the last six years - a ceiling so made of concrete that it's a wonder to still be standing.

Last year, Curtis hit 30 HRs with - gulp - only 59 RBIs. Figure that. Thirty homers and just 59 RBIs? So he homered last night against us - his 18th on a year in which he has only - wait for it - forty-eight RBIs. And here's a shocker: Last night, when he hit is, there was nobody on base. 

Same with Humanis Centepedes, their hitting version of Aroldis Chapman. Last night, Cespedes homered - 15th on the season - driving in his 37th run. Thirty seven. Guess what: A solo shot.

It was as if we were playing ourselves, but an older, weaker, dimmer copy.

In the comic book The Flash, his arch-villain is the Reverse Flash - a bad guy who found the Flash's full-body leotards and dyed the colors backwards. That's always been how I view the Mets... the Reverse Yanks. It's not that they're evil - actually, we're the evil team - but they provide a fun house reflection of ourselves. Last night, with Grandy as DH, they appeared as our time warp, astral duplicate from 2013. For a while, they matched us with solo home runs, until we out-soloed them - Judge, Hicks and Sanchez - driving in, gulp, three runs. 

Listen: I'm not complaining about the HRs - which were more than the rest of the team accomplished. (Hey, Gardy, maybe next weekend, the back of your jersey should say "1 for 5.") And I'm not officially mocking the Mets: They could sweep the next three and win the little coveted 2017 Subway Series. Anything is possible, especially with El Chapo inscribed into marble as our closer. Still, it's nice to play a New York-based team, which means that - regardless of the sport - everyone - be it Carmelo, Odell, Tim Tebow or whomever - is always swinging for the fences, because in Gotham, that's what brings the moolah, bread, scratch, schmegira, spawgioleego... the distilled liquid demigreeb! 

So last night we beat a team with Curtis Granderson leading off. Batting fifth was the famed slugger Wilmer Flores. Entering the night, the team was 12 games behind in the NL Wild Card race. In other words, we played the single-most important reason why the '17 Yankees have owned the NY tabloid back pages. There was no competition. If anyone is unhappy with Yankee management, all they need do was hold their noses and look in the direction of Queens. It's been a reverse year for the Reverse Flashers. But if we compare ourselves to them, remember: It's a false read in a cracked mirror. They're us, just a bad version. And if we don't sweep this thing, shame shame shame...