According to just about everyone, the Mets have released Oliver Perez. So you can exhale.

I hate to say I told you so.

The decision brought about celebration in even the most contrarian corners of the fanbase. The universally reviled Perez, he of the 6.81 ERA in 112 innings since signing that lucrative three-year contract, is gone. We will suffer no more of his meltdowns. He has hurdled over the foul line into Mets’ history.

There’s really not much else to say. But I’ll add that though the Mets-fan part of me is warmed by the news — more proof that the new front-office is willing to cut bait on sunk costs and compile the best possible roster regardless of contractual nonsense — some other part of me sees it as at least a little bit sad. I got at this before, a couple weeks ago.

I know no one’s eager to pity a guy who is about to make $12 million this year for doing absolutely nothing. But Oliver Perez is 29. He has been playing baseball professionally since he was 17. He has lost his fastball. What must it be like to have the body that took you to such heights stop cooperating? What does Ollie do now?