So much more was lost than just at least a few days in Los Angeles.

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That the Mets team plane on Sunday went north from Miami to New York rather than west to the Dodgers was emblematic of the season’s final descent south. A journey not only home literally, but Met-aphorically — home being a return to the loss of faith associated with the franchise; as if the Wilpons were shaking hands with Art Howe or Sandy Alderson was bragging about being able to land Mickey Callaway or …

The Mets reached the Dodgers last year. They shocked their way to the NLCS. In the winning Division Series clubhouse after defeating the Phillies, drenched in champagne before everyone would dry off to fly to L.A., Steve Cohen gloriously said, “I want to slay the negative Mets fan perceptions. And we’re on the way to doing it.”

Then 2025 happened. Traditional Mets stuff happened. The negative perceptions weren’t slayed. They were revived. They were all but given CPR. They weren’t on the way to doing it. They detoured to the comfort zone of gut-wrenching misery and incompetence.