THE CHEAP SEATS with STEVE CAMERON: When it all goes wrong, as it seems to be for the Mariners

It's grim.

Oh, there are fun days, along with the camaraderie that goes with a group of guys traveling around together.

But, mostly ...

It's really grim.

Like so many disappointing teams before them, the Mariners began the season with dreams of the World Series, and now are watching the whole thing go up in ashes.

Most fans haven't been major league baseball players, so the crowds who take their hearts to T-Mobile Park — or watch their team on TV — don't really grasp what it feels like to aim for a pennant and have everything go wrong.

Believe it or not, the players care more about winning than you do.

Playing bad, sloppy baseball that seems to keep getting worse is a mystery to them.

Trust me, Cal Raleigh never imagined in his most hideous nightmares that he would crash from the top of the game to a guy who's struggling, who's doing almost nothing for his team ... and can't understand how this collapse could happen.

Being part of a group like these 2026 Mariners — a team built for the postseason that somehow feels relieved after a two-game winning streak — is a weird experience.

I know.

I've been there.

IT'S NOT just the players who feel like they're plugging through quicksand every day from March through September.

A major league baseball club seems the size of a giant cruise liner, with staff, media and all manner of people whose full- or part-time gigs are tied to the fortunes of the team.

Every day brings smiles after a ninth-inning homer delivers a victory, and likewise there's quiet after a 7-1 loss.

Back in the days when I traveled with an MLB team — 11 years with the Kansas City Royals — media members could travel with the team.

Good games and bad, it made you part of the club.

I was there every day, in seasons like the Mariners are experiencing so far this summer, and I was drenched with champagne when the Royals made it to the World Series.

Ironically, the toughest years were boring treks when it seemed like nothing was happening.

There's plenty to write about when the sizzle of a pennant race keeps everyone busy ... and then some.

But.

Also.

Odd as it seems, the media is mega-busy with lots to explain when some of a team's stars suddenly can't hit the ball out of the infield and the pitching staff — almost unhittable a year ago — keeps getting ripped.

Those are the seasons when the world wants the manager fired.

Was it his fault?

Were there horrible decisions leading to losing streaks?

No one is happy (except maybe an outfielder in Triple-A who sees a possible job opening).

I'm not kidding, though, when I say that the sleepy, lifeless seasons are .500, give or take.

Win a couple, lose a couple.

The players are mostly happy about their paychecks (the MLB minimum is $780,000, and it rises from there like a rocket).

Fans are willing to wait another season, and every day you're writing a piece about why the customers are right or wrong.

Or both.

It's awful.

IN YEARS like that, baseball would be more thrilling in the Sahara desert.

The only thing that keeps everyone from going batty during those stretches of nothing ("The Dog Days of Summer"), is that it's 'ball,' so there will always be characters to keep the game alive.

Fans in the Northwest still love Lou Piniella, and I know why.

I got to see Lou as a player; you KNOW he was a hoot.

My favorite Piniella adventure occurred after a home game, and he had told his wife, Anita, that he was going out afterward for some beers.

For some crazy reason, Lou had bought a handgun for Anita's protection when he was on the road.

Anyhow, the "Night of a Few Beers" ended with Lou getting home in the wee hours.

Meanwhile, Anita thought she'd heard someone break into the house, so she grabbed the gun out of her nightstand and crept down the hall.

She was sure she heard someone in the bathroom, so she took a death grip on the pistol and kicked in the door.

There, of course, was Sweet Lou.

He was completely naked, holding a bat, standing in front of a full-length mirror, wiggling his hands and feet to get into a comfortable stance.

Probably didn't even notice his bride with her bazooka in the doorway.

No, he was grimacing at that imaginary pitcher in the mirror.

"I was looking for some cheese, inside, thigh high," Lou said later. "I'd missed that same pitch twice that night."

Dudes like Lou Piniella could make ordinary baseball seasons special.

No matter what, though, losses are grim.

So is having a hell of a team and someone finishing third.

Email: [email protected]

Longtime journalist Steve Cameron writes "The Cheap Seats" three times each week for The Press.