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Jason Fry and Greg Prince
Faith and Fear in Flushing made its debut on Feb. 16, 2005, the brainchild of two longtime friends and lifelong Met fans.

Greg Prince discovered the Mets when he was 6, during the magical summer of 1969. He is a Long Island-based writer, editor and communications consultant. Contact him here.

Jason Fry is a Brooklyn writer whose first memories include his mom leaping up and down cheering for Rusty Staub. Check out his other writing here.

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Goodbye, Farewell, Get Lost

Some bits of business before resuming the G(r)eek Chorus for the Fabulous 50s.

Francisco Campos, whom I never actually sighted, is no more.

Jason Phillips is soon to be no more — though apparently the deal for Ishii can't be formalized until tomorrow because the commissioner's office isn't open on the weekend.

Wha? This can't be right. When teams make a trade involving money, they

don't send Selig & Co. an e-mail that says something like “Jason

for Kaz, and oh the Dodgers have to pay us a bunch of money, please

figure out how much.” I assume they work all that out themselves, and

leave it for some lawyer to eyeball and hit with an “OK” stamp. If so,

you're telling me some lawyer can't receive a fax on a Sunday morning?


As for the deal itself, the last two days of Always Amazin' offer a nice rundown

of reasons to be fearful. What worries me is everyone seems to be

forgetting that Mike Piazza is old and has broken down repeatedly the

last two seasons, making this not your typical backup-catcher

situation. If Piazza's [insert body part here] explodes on Memorial

Day, Ramon Castro or Joe Hietpas are not names you want to see in the

lineup for months at a stretch.

In ex-Met news, Roberto Alomar hung 'em up, saying that “I played a lot of games and I said I would never embarrass myself on

the field. I had a long career, but I can't play at

the level I want to play, so it's time to retire.”

Now, if he'd said that in March 2003, refunding our money and

apologizing to our fans that hey, it didn't work out, I might wish him

well. We all know that in our uniform, he wasn't the superb baseball

player he'd been. OK, at a certain point that happens. The spitting

thing will be remembered more than it should be — if John Hirschbeck

forgave him, good enough for me. Put those two things aside and you're

still left with the fact that as a Met, Alomar was a bad teammate who

didn't play hard. On the first score, there was the unforgiveable day

in San Juan when he and his little friend Rey Sanchez blamed Jae Seo (a

rookie!) for a play they blew. On the latter, there were the endless

lollipop throws on the pivot, costing us far too many double plays.

Then, when word came Robbie might become a White Sock, he miraculously

started hanging in there on the pivot instead of tiptoeing into

left-center. Incredible!

Robbie will make the Hall of Fame. But he'll never get that 3,000th

hit. And no one will ever discuss him for more than a minute in New

York City without noting that on baseball's biggest stage he was

revealed a backstabber and a jaker and a quitter.

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