Nothing dramatic happened.
No blown saves.
No ugly spring outing.
No public loss of confidence.
New York Mets v. Washington Nationals | Jared Blais/GettyImages
And yet, Dylan Ross keeps sliding backward.
When the New York Mets added the hard-throwing right-hander to their 40-man roster, there was a quiet assumption that 2026 might finally be the year he forced his way into the bullpen. He had earned it the slow way—through innings, results, and patience. But as camp approaches, the picture has shifted, and not in his favor.
Without a single pitch thrown this spring, Ross is already being crowded out.
The Mets’ recent roster additions—most notably Tobias Myers and Luis García—have subtly changed the math. The bullpen has become fuller, more layered, more cautious. Ross, once viewed as a logical next option, now looks like the odd man waiting for something to break.
The irony is that his performance hasn’t.
In 32 Triple-A innings last season, Ross posted a 1.69 ERA. He missed bats. He handled pressure. He showed he could survive late innings against experienced hitters. The problem wasn’t results—it was control. Twenty-two walks lingered like a warning label, and a 6.2 BB/9 rate was enough to keep the Mets from testing him earlier.
Even then, when the Mets’ season unraveled late in 2025, they never turned to him. They collapsed without finding out what he could offer when things were on fire.
That absence still hangs in the background.
On paper, there are pathways. The Mets technically have six starters on the roster, not including Myers, whose history as a starter gives him flexibility. Huascar Brazobán profiles as a shorter-bridge arm. Both are optional. In theory, that flexibility could open a door.
In practice, it hasn’t.
Ross now finds himself competing not just against Brazobán and Myers, but against time. The Mets can stash him. They can wait. They can choose veterans, redundancy, and insurance over curiosity.
And that’s where things get uncomfortable.
Ross isn’t blocked by a superstar. He isn’t losing ground because he failed. He’s being buried by accumulation—one arm at a time, one decision that makes sense in isolation but feels heavier when stacked together.
The other right-handed relievers on the 40-man roster who aren’t projected to make the team—Alex Carrillo, Austin Warren, and Joey Gerber—don’t carry the same intrigue. Ross does. He throws harder. He flashes more upside. He feels closer.
But closeness doesn’t guarantee urgency.
The Mets are also bringing in non-roster invitees, some with opt-out clauses that quietly tilt the competition. Veterans like Craig Kimbrel don’t sign up to wait indefinitely in Syracuse. Their presence compresses timelines and shrinks patience for developmental bets.
Suddenly, Ross isn’t just fighting for performance validation—he’s fighting roster economics.
The most likely scenario isn’t dramatic. It’s slow. Ross opens the year in Triple-A. He pitches well. He waits for an injury. He waits for subtraction. He waits for a moment when the Mets need an arm badly enough to trust him with it.
That moment may come. It may not.
What’s unsettling is that none of this reflects a lack of belief in his ability. It reflects a front office that keeps choosing optional flexibility over unanswered questions.
Ross still has a shovel. His stuff still plays. His numbers still matter.
But with every quiet addition, every “just-in-case” arm, the dirt gets a little heavier—and the silence around him gets harder to ignore.
At what point does patience stop being development…
and start becoming avoidance?
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