Terry Collins sat in the back of the clubhouse, his noise pointed diagonally upward in alert worry. Before him, Mets dressed for the game. They laced up. They punched gloves. Colon was suggesting songs he could solo over to the bullpen barber shop quartet. His 4th inning "The Man Who Sold the World" in game 3 had gone surprisingly well. In Terry Collins' palm was an old singing bowl. The tips of his fingers held a smooth wooden rod. As Curtis Granderson chose from an exquisitely curated selection of chewing gums, Collins circled the edge of the bowl with the rod, holding the rod with a grasp of medium strength. Vibrations hummed out into the clubhouse.
"Coach," whined Cuddyer, "why this sound before every game?"
Collins did not respond. He only observed.
"Wright," whispered Wright. "I wasn't sure if I heard it before, but yes, there is a sound."
"It usually goes away for me after the first inning," Degrom said, facing his closed locker, as he had been for the last several minutes.
Granderson and Duda heard it faintly, but were unsure. Clippard and Reed had to take a break from singing a capella, but Familia didn't understand why.
Terry Collins lifted the singing bowl up to his mouth. As he spoke, his words split in two, gliding along each side of the bowl and rejoining into themselves on the other side. Sonic effluvia peppered Flores' ear drums.
"If you can hear me loud and clear, your baseball is low," said Collins. "Sound waves from this object are repelled by baseball. Some of you can hear me only faintly, and you may have just enough baseball to make it through the night. Those of you who are low on baseball can now see who each other are. You must not tell the others. Keep their spirits large. For baseball is a fleeting yak herd. So large and then it's gone."
Mets eyed each other with concern. Could they withstand the fiery lashes of Justin Turner?
Daniel Murphy laced up, stood up, hatted up.
"It's like a quiet place in here!" he declared. "Someone put on some music! This is baseball!"