It is a balmy mid-summer night and my family is huddled together on the bed watching the Mets. In between innings, we flip back and forth to another channel featuring a documentary on Billy Joel and his last concert at Shea. He is singing one of my favorite songs, Summer Highland Falls. It’s either sadness or euphoria, Billy croons. It’s an oddly fitting backdrop for the evening as the Mets head into the 14 th inning. Indeed for experienced Met fans, it’s usually sadness. The bases are loaded. Lucas Duda is up. So far he is 0 for 6. Most of the family hurls insults at the TV in part because they are mad at Lucas Duda and in part because they believe (though would never admit) that if they are really angry and believe the worst in him, some mix of karma and superstition will change the outcome of his at bat. The count is 2-2. I see my husband and son. They are cursing and praying for the young batter at the same time. He strikes out. My son clutches his head and falls t...