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Greg Prince and Jason Fry
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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30/30 Meets 37 14 41 42

Howard Johnson, Ryder Chasin and the shirt heard ’round the world.

Howard Johnson could hit home runs and steal bases in tandem (if not simultaneously; the rules don’t allow that) like no Met before him and no Met after him. Only Darryl Strawberry could do it — 30 home runs and 30 stolen bases in the same season — like HoJo at approximately  same time as him, and Darryl did it “only” once, in 1987. Johnson did it that year, two years later and two years after that. You don’t see 30/30 much anymore, and since he was eased out from his role as Mets hitting coach, we haven’t seen HoJo at all lately.

But we do see HoJo here, posing alongside the official Faith and Fear t-shirt, making him the third 1986 Met to take in the retired numbers (even though no 1986 Met has had his number retired…which is another story for another day). For bringing Mr. Johnson into the FAFIF fold — alongside Mr. Strawberry and Mr. Knight — we have our buddy Ryder Chasin to thank. Ryder and his dad Rob recently met up with the man of steal/power not at a Ramada Inn or a Hyatt, but at a sports memorabilia shop in Connecticut where Howard Johnson was briefly lodging (or at least appearing).

Ryder, longtime readers might remember, was the young man who invited Stephanie and me to join him at his Bar Mitzvah two Novembers ago at the Acela Club after reading the book version of Faith and Fear in Flushing. We’ve stayed in touch since, returning to Citi Field with Ryder and Rob on the second Tuesday night in August twice, each occasion resulting in a rousing one-run victory and a lot of fun for all.

Aside from graciously introducing our line of apparel to another Mets great, Ryder’s kept busy editing his high school paper’s sports section; throwing a nasty, tailing fastball — it certainly took care of the “Padre” at the Hershey’s Dunk Tank; figuring out what had been plaguing Jon Niese; and growing tall enough so that Mike Pelfrey might soon be going eyeball to eyeball with him (at which point I hope Ryder can straighten out the relatively Big Pelf).

HoJo’s ring, in good hands.

Oh, and Ryder’s also been checking out 1986 World Series rings. The one he’s holding here is HoJo’s. Howard’s a great guy for trusting a 14-year-old with such a valuable piece of jewelry…or, perhaps, given his exploits of 1987, 1989 and 1991, HoJo knew that if Ryder tried to make off with it, he could always steal it back.

That’s purely hypothetical, of course. People who wear the FAFIF t-shirt are honorable folk.

Stupid Reality

The last two nights, the Mets offered us a stirring reminder that while the playoffs may be out of reach, there’s still plenty of baseball to be enjoyed, whether you’re out at Citi Field, parked in front of the TV or wandering around with the radio as your companion. They played scrappy, fundamentally sound ball, authoring two late-inning comebacks against the Padres and leaving us all whooping and hollering like rising a game over .500 was our ticket to October.

But baseball will humble you, whether you play it or manage it or try to construct teams for it or just live vicariously through the people who do all those other things. And tonight, well, it was humbling.

The Mets, as is their habit, came back from an early deficit to put a scare in San Diego. (And then did it again in a several-bridges-too-far ninth.) But they’d gotten themselves into that early deficit by not delivering in the clutch, by making physical and mental errors, by getting lousy pitching, and by generally looking like a team of office guys playing softball with a keg at second. We’re looking at you, Dickey and Baxter and Pagan and Turner and basically everybody. Typifying the night, regrettably, was Ruben Tejada not sliding into home in the fourth, turning a Jason Pridie sac fly for a run into a mind-boggling third out. Asked by Terry Collins if he’d seen Justin Turner telling him to slide, Tejada said he had, leaving Collins understandably nonplussed. I flashed back to the ancient story of the hitter who ignored Charlie Dressen’s bunt sign, resulting in a blown suicide squeeze, and afterwards told his flabbergasted manager, “I didn’t think you meant it.”

At least Tejada turned in some admirable work elsewhere. Bobby Parnell was awful whether pitching or fielding, re-establishing a deficit once the Mets tried to claw out of it, and by then the game was basically down to whatever pleasures one could gleam from random sights and sounds. On the radio, there was Howie Rose taking the factoid about the last time the Mets had two eighth-inning comebacks in a row and spinning it into a great reminiscence about Danny Napoleon and how first-year-player rules of the time crippled his development. (Somewhere Casey Stengel is yelling, “Vive la France!”) On SNY, there was a good trivia question: Which four NL teams have never had a batting champ? (Us, the D-Backs, the Brewers and the Astros.) I found myself wondering why on earth Collins has one of those four-color pens, and if he’s the first person in history to find a use for green. (Emily and I decided the pen probably lets Terry click it about 14,000 times a minute to burn off excess energy.)

And what the heck kind of name is Tekotte, anyway?

These are the things you wonder when baseball turns humbling again. That, and when the next game is — the one that hopefully will wash away all traces of this one.

And that, at least, is where the good news comes in: Unless you’re a night owl, by the time you read this it won’t be so far away.

Overheard in the Winning Clubhouse

“Woo! We win again! Way to go, Ruben!”
“Thanks, Ronny. I’m just glad it was quiet enough out there for me to concentrate on working that go-ahead bases-loaded walk.”
“I know what you mean. I don’t know if I could have walked to load the bases for you if the fans were making a lot of noise.”

“Hey, are you guys talking about how quiet it was in the eighth inning when we put together that three-run rally that won the game?”
“Sure are, Justin. Great, wasn’t it?”
“Oh man, totally! I can just relax and listen to the pitches when our fans make almost no noise whatsoever.”

“Fans? What fans?”
“Good one, Nick. Looking around the stands tonight, I’m pretty sure we have almost no fans.”
“Yeah, it’s better that way. No pressure. You know, I was doing pretty well in Buffalo, where nobody came to see us. It felt just like that in the eighth when I lifted that game-tying sacrifice fly. Very minor league — in a good way.”

“Lucas, nice bunt! I didn’t know you could lay ’em down like that.”
“Gotta tell ya, it wasn’t easy making contact with that guy in Section 106 yelling LET’S GO METS! the whole time I was up.”
“Yeah, what was that about? I heard a few people doing that without the scoreboard directing them to. Don’t they know we’re trying to concentrate? Glad they stopped. The silence is…what’s that word R.A. uses? Conducive! The silence is so conducive to quietude. Something like that.”

“Um, David, can I ask you a question?”
“Sure, Mike. Go ahead.”
“Well, I grew up around here. I went to games at Shea Stadium as much as I could when I was a kid. I idolized the Mets, and playing for the Mets is a dream come true for me.”
“That’s wonderful, Mike.”
“Yeah, anyway, I thought I’d ask you since you’ve been here longer than anybody…”
“What, Mike?”

“Well, when I was a kid coming to Mets games we made lots of noise. We got all excited during games like this one and we had every reason to believe we were helping the Mets.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And you know, I thought that’s the way it was supposed to be.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And, well, I’m real happy we won tonight, and I’m happy the guys are happy, and goodness knows I’m just happy to be here…”
“Uh-huh.”
“But it’s weird that it’s so quiet at Mets games nowadays and everybody in our clubhouse seems to have just gotten used to it.”
“Uh-huh…”

“David? You all right?”
“Oh, sorry Mike. You just got me thinking about what it used to be like at Shea.”
“I know. I played there once, in high school, but you got to play there for real for like five years.”
“Yeah, I sure did.”
“How did you like it?”
“Like it? I loved it! I loved it for all the reasons you said. It was loud and passionate and crazy, and when we were winning, it was like we had a tenth man on the field with us. During that first game of the Dodger series in the playoffs, when Paulie tagged the two runners at the plate, I could hardly hear myself breathe. But that was all right. I was in my third year in the big leagues and I figured that was the way it was supposed to be.”

“So what happened?”
“Whaddaya mean?”
“Why isn’t it like that anymore?”
“Look around. There’s no Shea anymore.”
“Yeah, but it’s still the Mets and we’re still basically in the same place. Doesn’t anybody care about us? I mean we’ve had all the injuries yet nobody quits. We win from behind late in the game two nights in a row. I think Mr. Horwitz said that hadn’t happened quite that way since like 1965.”
“I dunno, Mike. I dunno. It’s gotten awfully quiet the last few years. That I do know.”

“Say, what are you guys talking about?”
“Oh, hey Izzy. Nice pitching tonight. One more for 300.”
“Yeah, I guess. I’m just glad you kept the rally going.”
“Excuse me? Mr. Isringhausen?”
“What’s with the ‘Mr. Isringhausen’?”
“Iz, I think the kid is starstruck.”
“Starstruck for an old relief pitcher? Seriously, Dave, how much you pay him to say that?”

“Mr. Isringhausen, you gave me an autograph when I was a kid.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I came to a game when you were a rookie. I was like ten years old and you were just up from Norfolk. I waved my program at you and Pulse and Jerry DiPoto and you all signed it. I called out, ‘Hey, Izzy!’ and you signed it.”
“If you called me Izzy then, you can call me Izzy now.”
“Damn…‘Izzy’. I’m in the same clubhouse with Jason Isringhausen.”
“Seriously, Dave, what is this costing you?”
“The kid’s for real, Iz.”
“Geez.”

“Mister…uh, Izzy, maybe you can tell me. I was remembering for David what it was like when I came here as a kid, and it was always so noisy…”
“No, it wasn’t.”
“Huh?”
“It wasn’t. When I was a rookie, it was mostly dead. Same thing the next year. We sucked and it was dead.”
“That’s not how I remember it.”
“Well, maybe for you when you were ten. And I’m not saying some fans didn’t cheer us or whatever, but I came up during lean times and we couldn’t draw flies most nights.”
“No way! I came here this one Sunday, on cap day, and…”
“Well, sure, cap day or whatever, we’d draw. But on a Tuesday night like tonight when it rained late in the afternoon and we were playing some team that wasn’t in it, like the Padres, and we weren’t in it…”
“Mr. Collins says we’re not out of it yet.”
“Sure, kid. Anyway, all I’m saying is the Mets may have had some great teams who played in front of some big crowds — like when I was injured or once I was traded — but there’ve been a lot of dull nights around here. When the team’s not going anywhere, sometimes the fans don’t show up. It’s just the way it goes. Besides, not everybody makes as much money as we do or gets comps.”

“Yeah, but I’m sure we made a lot of noise when we did show up. I made a banner once that said IZZY FOR PREZIDENT, with a ‘z’.”
“I don’t remember that, but thanks.”
“You’re welcome. And me and my friends paraded it around the field level until an usher told us to sit our butts down already.”
“Now that you mention it, I guess I do remember there being a little more excitement around the Mets at Shea, even when we weren’t very good.”
“And you guys were good! You had Huskey! And Brogna! And Tim Bogar!”
“Yeah, we weren’t so bad there for a little while.”
“I was at this one game, you were losing like 9-2, but you got a couple of runners on and you made it 9-4 or something, and we were screaming.”
“’Cause the DiamondVision told you to?”
“I don’t think so. We just screamed because we were Mets fans, y’know? We figured that’s what we were supposed to do.”
“Hey kid, that game where it was 9-2 or 9-4 or whatever — did we come back to win?”
“I don’t think so. The Mets never seemed to win when I came to games.”
“Yeah. Me neither.”

“Anyway, I’m a Met now, and it’s awesome and all. It’s awesome that my family can come and see me, and it’s awesome I come to work and see Mookie Wilson, and it’s even awesome that the planes fly overhead in and out of LaGuardia, but…”
“But what, kid?”
“But here the team is, playing its heart out, and hardly anybody shows up and those who do show up don’t seem to get very excited when we’re in the middle of a comeback like tonight. I heard the one guy sitting in the right field seats — him and his buddies — yelling LET’S GO METS! and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why nobody was joining in.”
“I couldn’t tell ya, kid. I’m just pitching until I can’t. I like coming through the players’ entrance. Y’know what I mean?”
“I guess I do.”
“Anyway, hang in there, kid. I gotta go ice.”
“Sure thing, Izzy!”

“Wow, David. Jason Isringhausen just talked to me! I can’t wait to tell my dad.”
“Uh-huh.”
“David? Seriously, you want me to get the trainer or something? You look like you’ve got something caught in your eye.”
“No, Mike. I’m fine. Just thinking about that Dodger series. That’s all.”

***

The New York Mets are offering half-price tickets in all sections for Wednesday night and Thursday afternoon. Details here.

The Happiest Recap: 109-111

Welcome to The Happiest Recap, a solid gold slate of New York Mets games culled from every schedule the Mets have ever played en route to this, their fiftieth year in baseball. We’ve created a dream season that includes the “best” 109th game in any Mets season, the “best” 110th game in any Mets season, the “best” 111th game in any Mets season…and we keep going from there until we have a completed schedule worthy of Bob Murphy coming back with the Happy Recap after this word from our sponsor on the WFAN Mets Radio Network.

GAME 109: August 6, 1983 — Mets 4 CUBS 1
(Mets All-Time Game 109 Record: 19-30; Mets 1983 Record: 43-66)

The designated hitter be damned. A pitcher should be capable of helping his own cause. One Met moundsman demonstrated that capability like none before or after him.

In the first two decades and change of Mets baseball, eighteen home runs had been hit by Mets pitchers. A couple of those swingin’ hurlers were more prolific than others. Don Cardwell, for example, hit one home run per year from 1967 through 1969. Tom Seaver homered every year between 1970 and 1973, producing three round-trippers in 1972 alone. Jack Hamilton once blasted a grand slam, albeit in a loss. Tug McGraw and Skip Lockwood came in from the bullpen to pitch before going over the fence from the batter’s box. Pete Falcone enjoyed a truly complete game in 1981, going the distance to throw a shutout and going yard to increase his winning margin.

But nobody did what Walt Terrell did this Saturday afternoon at Wrigley Field. It bears repeating: Nobody did what Walt Terrell did this Saturday afternoon at Wrigley field.

Walt Terrell, after all, repeated his feat.

Terrell, a rookie righty who was half of what the Mets got back from Texas for Lee Mazzilli the year before (Ron Darling was the other half), matched up with 40-year-old Ferguson Jenkins. The career gap between them on the mound was a mere 279 wins entering play — and Fergie, despite an eight-year exile in the DH league, led Walt 16-0 when it came to home runs hit. Jenkins once slugged six in one season, 1971.

If Walt wanted to start making up ground on a likely Hall of Famer, he’d better get going on all fronts.

So he did, in the top of the third of a scoreless game. After Ron Hodges singled to lead off the inning, Terrell whacked a Jenkins delivery clear over Wrigley’s ivy to help himself to a 2-0 lead. A pitcher hitting a home run — always a thrill, especially to the pitcher who hit it. The 25-year-old Terrell liked the feeling so much, he decided to experience it again.

One inning later, Jenkins hit Brian Giles, who stole second. With two out, Terrell came up and, just as he had in the third, Terrell went deep. The Mets’ starting pitcher hit his second home run of the game, another two-run shot. Terrell now led Jenkins 4-0 and trailed him homerwise by only fourteen.

Terrell’s fame was instantly slugging but his cause, like that of all baseball players who conducted their business sixty feet and sixty inches from home plate, was pitching. Walt remembered that and concentrated on making his lead stand up. He did it well, surrendering only a sacrifice fly to Ryne Sandberg before departing with one out in the eighth. Carlos Diaz finished the game for him, a 4-1 victory in which the starter drove in all four Met runs.

Only eight National League pitchers have matched Terrell’s single-game, two-homer performance since 1983, including one ex-Met, Mike Hampton, and two who did it against the Mets: Derek Lilliquist and Dontrelle Willis. No Mets among the fifteen pitchers who have homered since Terrell — not even Dwight Gooden, author of a franchise-best seven career pitcher home runs — has concentrated his power so effectively inside of one game.

For Jenkins, the role of the opposing batter might have been relatively novel — he also gave up a dinger to Craig Swan, in 1982 —  but the result wasn’t. Fergie allowed 484 home runs in his 19-season career, third most in baseball history. He also totaled 284 wins when he retired after the 1983 campaign. Jenkins, like the pitcher just ahead of him on the home runs given up chart (Robin Roberts) is enshrined in Cooperstown. You have to be a pretty good pitcher for a very long time to give up that many homers.

And Terrell? He had to be a pretty good hitter to take that good a pitcher, even one in his twilight, over the wall twice in one game. Mets fans giddily expecting to go on a power trip every time Walt batted were sated soon enough when, three starts later, the kid tagged San Diego reliever Gary Lucas for a three-run shot. That gave Terrell three home runs in one season, tying Seaver’s team record.

It also marked Walt Terrell’s final major league home run. He pitched until 1992, but mostly in the American League, where pitchers haven’t been asked to help their own cause with a bat since 1972. Thus, Walt’s true home run legacy where the Mets are concerned isn’t so much the two in one game or three in one year, but the 192 smacked by Howard Johnson between 1985 and 1993. The Mets acquired Johnson for Terrell in December 1984, and HoJo ranks third on the franchise’s all-time home run list, behind only Darryl Strawberry (252) and Mike Piazza (220)…and 189 ahead of Walt Terrell.

ALSO QUITE HAPPY: On August 6, 1989, two sluggers bookended the extraordinary efforts of one workhorse middleman. The Mets were in this Sunday afternoon marathon at Shea versus the Expos because Darryl Strawberry belted a leadoff home run in the seventh inning off Kevin Gross to knot the score at one and didn’t let Sid Fernandez’s eight stellar innings (1 ER, 5 H, 10 SO) go to waste. They won it because Kevin McReynolds hit a leadoff home run seven innings later off former Mets farmhand Steve Frey. But the 2-1, 14-inning victory owes something big to Jeff Innis, who inherited a one-out, bases-loaded mess from Randy Myers in the top of the tenth. With no margin for error, Innis popped up Tim Wallach and grounded Andres Gallaraga to short, keeping the game tied. Fellow unsung relievers Don Aase and Jeff Musselman held the fort over the next four innings, making possible McReynolds’ walkoff exploits.

The nearly five-hour triumph gave the Mets a three-game sweep of the first-place Expos and was their fifth win in the six games they’d played since acquiring Frank Viola at the trading deadline. With the 1988 American League Cy Young winner on board, the Mets had moved from seven to four out in less than a week.

GAME 110: August 4, 1998 — METS 7 Giants 6 (10)
(Mets All-Time Game 110 Record: 25-24; Mets 1998 Record: 59-51)

Sometimes it’s not enough to hope for a Mets win. Sometimes you have to remind the Mets not to lose, particularly on a night when their worst instincts seem destined to get the best of them.

Take this Tuesday night at Shea, against the Giants, a game in which the Mets battled from behind and came close to blowing one from ahead with apparently equal gusto.

First, the charge uphill: Down 4-0 in the sixth, the Mets loaded the bases against Mark Gardner. Dusty Baker replaced his starter with lefty specialist Rich Rodriguez, a move Mets fans would come to dread when Rodriguez materialized in a Mets uniform, but that wouldn’t happen for another two years. For now, it was great news, as attested to by a two-run Todd Pratt single, a Tony Phillips RBI base hit and an Edgardo Alfonzo groundout that tied the score at four.

On came Turk Wendell, who was just beginning to climb the Mets bullpen food chain. After pitching in mostly low-leverage situations through the season’s first four months, Bobby Valentine handed Turk the tie and Wendell won over a crowd that was conditioned to grow antsy any time it saw a Met reliever. Turk retired Shawon Dunston, Ellis Burks and Barry Bonds in order in the seventh, and — after Carlos Baerga and Luis Lopez drove in runs off the downtrodden Rodriguez — did the same with Jeff Kent, Charlie Hayes and Joe Carter in the eighth. Wendell left the game with two perfect innings strung onto his animal-teeth necklace, a prospective win on his record and emerging cult-hero status as everybody seemed to notice at once the way he slammed the rosin bag down before taking on each batter.

A win would have been a great reward for an outstanding middle-relief performance, but Turk was going to have to settle for being the reliever at whom Mets fans didn’t snarl their discontent. By the time Wendell’s line was in the books, the usual suspect was eliciting the usual Shea reaction.

John Franco…as much a part of the Shea scenery by 1998 as the Home Run Apple and puddles in the parking lot. And just that afternoon, the Bensonhurst boy was rewarded for his long and mostly meritorious service with a two-year contract extension worth $6.15 million…or about $6.15 million more than anyone with any kind of short-term memory in Flushing would have fronted him at that moment in time. Johnny was enduring a tough summer, having blown three saves and taken five losses in July as the Mets were scratching and clawing for every possible win in their quest for the National League Wild Card.

Nobody’s perfect, but when you’re a closer who’s noticeably imperfect, and your team’s every game carries pennant race implications, your imperfections tend to get noticed. Franco’s sure were. At the press conference announcing his new deal, the longest tenured Met, per Steve Popper of the Times, “had talked of his ability to withstand the boos”. Hours later, in the ninth, Brooklyn’s favorite son found himself with a chance to avoid eliciting more of them.

No dice.

Franco retired his first batter but gave up a double to fellow Brooklynite Rich Aurilia. J.T. Snow drove him home with a single, and now it was 6-5. Dunston (also of Brooklyn) forced Snow at second for the second out. Then Franco finally got some good luck, picking Dunston off first base. John Olerud fired to Rey Ordoñez to complete what was about to be the third out and…as previously reported, no dice. The best defensive shortstop in the National League dropped the throw, keeping Dunston on the basepaths. After walking Ellis Burks, Franco gave up a bloop single to Bonds, and the game was retied.

Boos ensued.

“It’s a tough city,” Franco reasoned. “They only want the best.” But for Franco, lucrative contract extension or not, his fortune was the worst: “You pick a guy off, and your Gold Glove shortstop makes an error. What else can go wrong?”

One might mention there was that leadoff double, the succeeding single and the walk to Burks to bring up Barry Bonds, but closers who aren’t closing have to create their own logic. Or as Franco put it, “It’s almost to the point that I’ve got to laugh about it.”

The Mets didn’t score in their half of the ninth, and southpaw Dennis Cook — unlike lefties Rodriguez and Franco — was impenetrable for as extra innings began. The home team then took its best shot against another accomplished reliever who’d suffered his brushes with infamy: Jose Mesa, he who, as an Indian, gave up the tying run in the ninth inning of the seventh game of the previous fall’s World Series against the Marlins.

If Mesa and Franco could empathize with one another out of professional courtesy, who could blame them? Still, it seemed Mets hitters were showing their opponent a bit too much sympathy in the way they seemed to go out of their way to try and avoid adding to Mesa’s misery.

Phillips singled to lead off the Mets’ tenth and took second on a wild pitch. Fonzie walked. Olerud managed an infield single to load the bases. Nobody was out. Surely, the Mets were poised to win.

Except Mike Piazza grounded to Aurilia at short, who threw to Doug Mirabelli at home to nail Phillips for the first out.

And Brian McRae grounded to Snow at first, who threw home to Mirabelli to nail Alfonzo for the second out.

Two batters. Two bases-loaded situations. Two force plays at the plate. It was almost to the point where you had to laugh about it.

Lenny Harris was the Mets’ last hope for immediate redemption. If he didn’t come through against Mesa here, there’d be an eleventh inning, but, honestly, if he didn’t come through against Mesa here, it would mean the Mets blew the most golden opportunity this side of “plastics” in The Graduate. And lord knew John Franco wasn’t going to be alone among the booed at Shea Stadium.

Mesa and Harris extended this comic drama as far as they could. Three balls to Lenny. Then two strikes. Then?

Fastball. Inside. Ball four. Harris goes to first and everybody else moves up a base — most notably Olerud, who trots home to make the final 7-6 Mets.

“I sure am proud of that group,” Valentine said in the euphoria attendant to any kind of walkoff success. “That was a heck of a win.”

Even better, it wasn’t a heck of a loss. Or something begging far worse adjectives.

ALSO QUITE HAPPY: On August 6, 1975, the luck of a legendary baseball man considered — Lou Gehrig notwithstanding — as lucky as they came had finally run out. Yogi Berra’s nearly four-season tenure as Mets manager came to an end when the Mets were swept a doubleheader by Montreal, both by scores of 7-0. Tabbed to replace him in the short term was well-regarded first base coach and former Met shortstop Roy McMillan, looked to as just the leader to guide the team from its dog days dismay and back into the N.L. East race. Given that the Mets were mired in third place, 9½ behind front-running Pittsburgh, McMillan could use all the luck he could get.

That and some scoring this soggy Wednesday evening at Shea. The Mets trailed Montreal 4-2 in McMillan’s debut as skipper when they exploded for seven runs in the bottom of the sixth. The first big blow was a three-run triple from Del Unser, with Felix Millan and Ed Kranepool contributing run-scoring doubles immediately thereafter. The Mets went up 9-4 and appeared headed toward giving Roy a 1-0 record when the same relief pitching that undermined Berra reared its inconsistent head in the top of the ninth. Bob Apodaca came on to protect the five-run lead and allowed two singles, a ground ball mishandled by shortstop Mike Phillips and consecutive walks, the second of them to Pepe Mangual with the bases loaded. All of a sudden, it was 9-6, there were Expos on every bag, there was nobody out and…

…and the rain the teams were playing through grew too steady to ignore. The tarp was ordered onto the field, the players retreated to their clubhouses, and, when the weather didn’t clear up after an hour and fifteen minutes of mandatory waiting, the game was called a 9-6 final in favor of the Mets. Shea may have been all wet, but Roy was undefeated. Yogi himself on his best days couldn’t have been more soaked in serendipity.

GAME 111: August 7, 1971 — Mets 20 BRAVES 6
(Mets All-Time Game 111 Record: 17-32; Mets 1971 Record: 57-54)

They called Atlanta Stadium — later Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium — the Launching Pad. On this Saturday night in Dixie, there was an obvious reason for the nickname: it was the ballpark that launched the 1971 Mets into the record books.

In an era when NASA still counted down to moon launches at Cape Kennedy (née Canaveral), the Mets took the reverse tack in the first inning: not so much 3-2-1…but lifting off with 1…2…3 runs to get their exploration of line score space going against Braves righty Ron Reed. An error by Brave shortstop Marty Perez on Bud Harrelson’s leadoff grounder was just the nudge the Mets needed to start soaring. Agee singled, sending Harrelson to third. Agee stole second. And then the Mets orbited their average 1971 per-game run total of 3.6 via a Cleon Jones single, an Ed Kranepool sac fly and a Ken Boswell double that right fielder Mike Lum leapt and batted down at the fence before it could shed its booster rocket and become a two-run homer.

Nice effort, though one is tempted to say Mike needn’t have bothered.

Because of the right fielder’s effort, the Mets were limited to three runs — not an inauspicious start, but not necessarily ostentatious. And once Lum nicked Nolan Ryan for an RBI single in the bottom of the first, you would have guessed both teams would avail themselves of the offensive amenability of the Launching Pad.

You would have guessed wrong. The top of the second proved the only glare rockets would give off at Atlanta Stadium would be of the blue and orange variety.

This is how the Mets blasted off toward double-digits:

Jerry Grote singled.

Nolan Ryan bunted him to second and was safe at first.

Harrelson bunted them over and was also safe at first.

Wayne Garrett lifted a fly ball to Sonny Jackson in center to make it Mets 4 Braves 1, as Grote scored and the other baserunners moved up.

Jones was intentionally walked to set up a double play. Except it set up an RBI single for Cleon, increasing the Mets’ lead to 5-1.

Ron Reed handed the ball to manager Lum Harris who handed it to lefty reliever Mike McQueen who threw it four times out of the strike zone past the righthanded Donn Clendenon, inserted by a run-ravenous Gil Hodges to pinch-hit (or, technically, pinch-walk) for lefty Kranepool..

That made it 6-1 Mets. And that was as close as the Braves would be until Sunday, because McQueen didn’t miss the strike zone with the next batter, Boswell. Didn’t miss his bat, either. The only thing McQueen’s pitch of greatest consequence missed was a landing spot within the chummy confines of Atlanta Stadium. Ken struck it but good, blasting it off the right field foul pole for a grand slam that brought the moon, the stars and the heavens down on the Atlanta Braves.

Mets 10 Braves 1 in the top of the second. A long night was at hand for at least one of those teams.

Sometimes somebody gets that big a lead and things settle down. Sure enough, a combination of Ryan, McQueen and complacency transpired to keep the score unchanged through the fourth. But come the fifth, the Mets’ bats grew restless once more. After two outs, Grote singled, Ryan singled, Harrelson walked and Garrett singled to drive in two. 12-1, Mets. Mike McQueen’s evening ended and Steve Barber’s began…but not happily, as Agee singled home another to make it 13-1, Mets.

Nolan Ryan needed just three outs to qualify for the win, assuming the Mets didn’t blow a twelve-run lead. Only the most nervous Mets fan would have considered that a possibility, but Ryan wasn’t sharp. Earl Williams singled in Hank Aaron and Zolio Versalles belted a three-run homer to cut the Braves’ deficit to 13-5. Under just about any other circumstance imaginable, Hodges would have pulled Ryan, but Nolan had some cushion with which to work. He got the next two outs and would go eight.

Besides, the Mets got back most of what their pitcher gave up when they batted in the top of the sixth. Grote drove in one and Tim Foli, having taken over short for Harrelson, singled in two more. The Mets finished their half of the inning up 16-5. Ryan gave up another run in the bottom of the sixth, but Clendenon answered with a two-run homer in the top of the seventh to give the Mets a comfortable 18-6 lead.

Comfortable? More like luxurious. But what about historic? A record was at hand if the Mets could grab it. Seven years earlier in Chicago, the Mets famously put 19 runs on the Wrigley Field scoreboard. If it wasn’t famous enough for simply being 19 runs or for the notion of the perpetually cellar-dwelling 1964 Mets of all people scoring 19 runs, it took on the stuff of legend when the story got out that somebody called a newspaper somewhere and asked a) if it was true the Mets had scored 19 runs that day and — once that was confirmed as fact — b) did the Mets win?

The Mets were futile enough to be funny back then. By 1971, however, they weren’t particularly amusing or terribly exciting. They offered generally superb pitching and reliable defense most nights, but rarely the kind of hitting that would send fans scurrying to their phones to verify their run totals — or, for that matter, enough hitting to make large run totals seem not all that newsworthy. A 9-20 July knocked the Mets out of contention for the first time in three years, making them, by objective standards as they groped about the .500 mark, a fairly run-of-the-mill operation.

“Everything considered,” Leonard Koppett would write just a couple of years later, “1971 was probably the least satisfying year the Mets had ever experienced. Not only were the mini-rewards of the pre-championship days no longer possible, but also the status of champion was officially gone.” By Koppett’s reckoning, “The Mets moved into complete ordinariness.”

Against this drab backdrop, the Mets aimed for the extraordinary, just as they had done for more than six months two seasons before; just as the U.S. space program had done that very same season. The Mets and man landed on the moon in 1969. For this one night in Atlanta, the Mets were shooting for it again.

In the ninth inning, it was still 18-6 when the Braves’ Bob Priddy got two quick outs. But then mission control transmitted word of one final rally to make this Metropolitan score truly astronomical. Clendenon walked. Boswell singled. Ken Singleton singled. The bases were loaded and the stage was set.

Grote grounded to Versalles at third…and the former American League MVP booted it. In came Boswell. In came Clendenon. The Mets had their 20th run — their most ever. The 20-6 win went into the Mets record book and, like Neil Armstrong’s American flag, stayed planted there long after NASA stopped scheduling lunar excursions.

One big night for the Mets. One giant leap for Ken Boswell.

ALSO QUITE HAPPY: On August 5, 2007, the Mets’ starting pitcher was aiming to win his 58th game in a New York Mets uniform. Doing so would pull him to within one victory of tying Rick Reed and Craig Swan for eleventh place on the all-time franchise win chart. That alone probably wouldn’t have motivated this lefthanded hurler as he prepared for his Sunday night start against the Cubs at Wrigley Field. What really stoked T#m Gl@v!ne was the 242 wins he piled up as an Atlanta Brave between 1987 and 2002 (16 of them against the Mets) when added to the 57 he’d accumulated while under contract to New York since 2003. Put them together in the 21st season of an illustrious career, and you could figure out T#m Gl@v!ne was going for his 300th win.

Warren Spahn, also known best as a Brave, already had more than 300 wins on his résumé when he joined the Mets for a short stint in 1965. Homegrown Mets Tom Seaver (White Sox) and Nolan Ryan (Rangers) would each attain a 300th win after departing their original club. Gl@v!ne, then, became the first man destined to try to reach 300 while collecting a paycheck from the Mets.

T#m missed out in his first attempt, in Milwaukee — when Gl@v!ne’s reliever successors couldn’t hold a 2-1 lead on his behalf — but accomplished his personal goal in Chicago, when he left with one out in the seventh, ahead 5-1, and the Mets’ bullpen overcame its self-destructive tendencies. Spahn and Seaver threw complete games for their 300th wins, while Ryan went 7⅔, exiting with a big lead in Texas. The record will show Gl@v!ne’s milestone victory was earned on 6⅓ innings of six-hit pitching, and that he required Guillermo Mota, Pedro Feliciano, Aaron Heilman, Jorge Sosa and Billy Wagner to finish up for him.

But a decision is a decision, and when Wagner got Mike Fontenot to ground to Ruben Gotay for the final out, the Mets prevailed, 8-3, and T#m Gl@v!ne indeed notched his 300th win. The 23rd 300-game winner in baseball history would add three more Met wins to his bottom line in 2007 — the last of them on September 8 — before returning to Atlanta to finish his career with a lifetime mark of 305-203.

Mets 1, New York Times 0

I saw this New York Times piece on my iPad and spent the next couple of hours trying to keep my blood from boiling.

I love the Times, but Jim Luttrell’s post is tone-deaf about Mets fans specifically, baseball fans in general, and ignores the actually interesting currents and tribes of the city in favor of shaking a tin cup for the permanently shallow and professionally bored. From the assumption that Mets fans check out once there’s no chance of the postseason to the invitation for readers to submit cutesy Lettermanesque items, the target audience is fair-weather fans, brainless NYC drones and snarky douchebags without portfolio, none of whom I have the slightest interest in reading about or hearing from in the paper of record.

Besides, those deluded enough to still go to Citi Field last night saw a whale of a ballgame — and were reminded that this year’s Mets team just keeps somehow finding a way. On Sunday the season flat-lined as the Mets lost Jose Reyes and then Daniel Murphy in the finale of their series with the Braves. Yet for all that, they came roaring back, tying Atlanta before succumbing to Chipper Jones for what only feels like the 58,000th time. But they fell short, and listening up in Maine, I just shook my head. Nine games out. Murph gone for the year. Back to baby steps for Reyes. Now it’s really over.

Tonight, after the Mets Pelfrey’d a 4-1 lead into a 4-4 tie, I figured they’d roll over and die. They’d lose to San Diego, then start losing two of three and three of four. And I thought to myself that I wouldn’t particularly blame them. Eventually even the best-motivated bunch has to conclude that’s five or six snakebites more than a reasonable person ought to bear. (I think one reason for my fury with the Times was their juxtaposition of the Getty Images snap of an anguished, white-faced Murphy being helped off the field with silly comment-trolling. Murph was one of the real feel-good stories of the year, and now his year was turned to ashes, too.) And indeed, things got worse as the potentially useful Pedro Beato continued to struggle and the singularly useless Ryota Igarashi continued to pitch like he normally does, landing the Mets in an 8-4 hole going to the bottom of the eighth.

But there were pleasures to be had after that anyway.

Like seeing Mike Baxter take his first swing as a Met and line a ball to deep left, where it clanked off Kyle Blanks’ glove for a gift double. Baxter’s from Whitestone and grew up a Mets fan, so he had people in the park by the dozens, and SNY caught them practically levitating with happiness — a nice moment even if we never hear from Mike Baxter again. After Ronny Paulino added a sac fly it was 8-6, and hey, youneverknow.

Like seeing David Wright, recently recovered from A FREAKING BROKEN BACK, spearing the third out of the top of the ninth with a headlong dive into foul territory despite the game being pretty clearly meaningless, at least as far as the Times is concerned. Still down by two, and prodigal son Heath Bell was coming in with chip still firmly on shoulder, but there’s a reason they play 27 outs, so we’d see.

Like seeing Jason Pridie hang in there for a tough at-bat against Bell, followed by an even better at-bat by Justin Turner, whose response to wearing the goat horns has apparently been to play even harder. Then Wright spanked a single up the middle and what the hey, it was 8-7. They’re going to kill me, I thought, imagining Jason Bartlett spearing a sharp Lucas Duda grounder behind second and turning it into a game-ending double play. But then the Mets had already done more than I’d expected — if they lost, I knew I’d be disappointed, but I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be mad.

Like seeing Duda — a hulking kid who seems painfully shy, doesn’t really have a position and has committed the cardinal sin of admitting to struggling with his self-confidence — get a bit lucky, rolling one past Bell lunging this way and Orlando Hudson sprawling that way to score Turner and Wright for a 9-8 win and a happy dogpile and a face full of whipped cream.

The Mets aren’t going anywhere this year — we know it and they know it and just in case any of us momentarily forget it, the baseball gods will remind us by trotting out back fractures and rolled ankles and old shoulder injuries and new shoulder injuries and hamstrings and high slides and who knows what else. But despite their open October calendars, these Mets keep scratching and clawing and biting and kicking. They win more than we think they can; when they lose, they often make us proud to be their fans anyway.

And so it turns out there are pleasures left to be had in this bizarre, star-crossed season.

You might even call them reasons someone who loves baseball might continue to go see it played somewhere.

You know what? Let’s not tell the New York Times.

Asking Terry Collins the ‘Tough’ Questions

This is what it sounded like during Terry Collins’s postgame press conference Sunday, where the primary subject was the status of Jose Reyes and Daniel Murphy:

“Terry, have you ever seen this many injuries on one team?”

“Terry, this is tough, isn’t it?”

“Terry, can you believe how many injuries your team has had?”

“Terry, your team has had to overcome a lot of injuries. How are you going to overcome these?”

“Terry, aren’t these injuries tough?”

“Terry, your team is going to have to regroup. They’ve done it before, but can they do it again? It’s really going to be tough, isn’t it?”

“Terry, so many injuries — have you ever seen anything like this?”

“Terry, you’ve had to keep your team together through a lot of tough injuries. Now you’re going to have to do it again. How will you do that? It’s gotta be tough.”

“Terry, you’ve lost some of your key players before, and now you’ve lost two more — and you lost a tough game. Is it tough?”

“Terry, the injuries…have you ever seen anything like them and where do you go from there?”

I’m not sure what else there was to ask, but I do know there was no chance there’d be any answer beyond some version of, “No, I haven’t seen this many injuries; yes, this is tough; we’ll have to see what happens next.”

So I’m not sure why the same essential question needed to be asked over and over. It’s just what those guys do, I guess. Then they ran to David Wright’s locker and repeated the exercise.

Best to Jose and Daniel for speedy recoveries. Best to Terry on figuring out how to get through the rest of the season with a continually depleted roster. And to those who cover the team, good luck coming up with a second-day angle — you can start by not asking everybody else if they’ve ever seen anything like this.

You know damn well they haven’t.

Powerful Stuff

I’d forgotten how great home runs could be. Seriously. Saturday night was a perfect illustration of why they’re such superb creatures when they’re on your side. The Mets hit four home runs. Nothing showy — two guys hit one, one hit two; two came with nobody on, the other two with one on.

Four swings. Six runs. Talk about the efficiencies of the market.

Seeing as how three of the home runs were mashed by players who have no track record as sluggers, the powerful output was a reminder of how enjoyable a random clout can be. Justin Turner and Josh Thole — members in good standing of the Jolly Taters club for one night — are Mets who might hit one out more often if they played in more amenable surroundings. Jason Bay, too. Bay has a track record for home runs, though it would be more comforting had he converted his records to MP3 files so they would play more readily these days, but he’s on his version of a tear, so we’ll just enjoy that for now.

This wasn’t a Citizens Bank Park-style explosion (like the night the Mets hit seven there on April 19, 2005, the most a Mets team ever popped in one game). It wasn’t some kind of one-Met epic display (last seen at Coors Field on May 12, when Carlos Beltran became the most recent Met to put three over a fence). Though it lopped off a losing streak, it didn’t signal overwhelming deliverance from an arid desert where a certain kind of home run would grow only for the enemy (the grand slam bonanza of Bay and Beltran in Detroit on June 28). And it wasn’t exactly homer or bust, either, the way it was the last time there were four Mets homers at Citi Field (May 7, 2010: two by Ike Davis, two by Rod Barajas, including a most necessary walkoff blast from the latter).

These, against Atlanta, were four home runs hit as part of a nutritionally balanced offensive attack.

In the very same game in which Turner homered twice and Thole and Bay homered once apiece, there were three doubles; there were four stolen bases; there were two singles by the…if you’ll excuse the expression…previously slumping Jose Reyes. There were sixteen hits, all told, and there were five runs batted in without the aid of a home run. Seeing as how the Braves scored seven times themselves, the Mets couldn’t have won solely via power surge. But they also couldn’t have won without their four dingers.

It was just nice to have those arrows in the quiver. I’m not sure why Citi Field suddenly decided to loosen up and permit such frolic, but I’m glad it did. I dig triples as much as the next fan, yet I detest the Mets playing in a ballpark pretentiously built to enable them at the expense of the ordinarily attained home run. Triples instead of home runs: talk about lowering your sights — the Mets can’t afford to give away that many bases one bag at a time. Besides, Lance Johnson once collected 21 triples in a season with Shea Stadium as his home park; Jose Reyes came up with 17 receiving his mail in the same place.

Meanwhile, most nights (Friday night, for example) David Wright booms a ball toward the heavens and then soldiers into second base because, well, balls that would go out of any other park in captivity remain captive to Jeff Wilpon’s cutesy-poo blueprints. Let’s make our ballpark triple-friendly! And while we’re at it, let’s let Wright’s power stroke go largely to waste.

But that’s most nights. For one night, for Saturday night, Citi Field played like a regulation facility, and the Mets played like they knew how to take advantage. For one night, no matter the reported stem fatigue incurred by the center field Apple, it was a lot of fun.

Hope there’s more where that came from.

***

Thank you to those kind enough to express concern, curative suggestions and best wishes where my headaches are concerned. I was subject to another attack after Saturday night’s game — sort of like Tommy Hanson during Saturday night’s game — and found relief in a dose of some powerful stuff I keep handy. I have cobbled together a pretty good idea as to why these episodes have returned after a relatively long absence (it has nothing to do with either Wilpon) and will take steps to prevent them as best I can. But, again, I just wanted to say thanks for caring.

Fantasies & Delusions

What was farther out of the realm of possibility: that the Mets would make a stand against the Braves or that I’d be there to see them attempt it?

Not long ago both happenstances seemed reasonably reasonable. My part should have been a breeze: I made plans to see Friday night’s game with a friend who happens to possess one of the greatest Mets minds ever; I picked up the tickets the other night; we set a meeting time by the Apple; and…ohmigod I am in such pain.

My merry way to Citi Field was interrupted by the return of that early 2000s sensation, the cluster headache, something I used to contract all too regularly but in recent years has faded from my recurring concerns. For whatever reason, el diablo that used to periodically invade mi cabeza chose this afternoon to rematerialize — perhaps it knew Fiesta Latina was at hand.

I tried to delude myself that this wasn’t a cluster headache, a.k.a. a suicide headache. For all I know, it was something else altogether. It felt as if a nail was being drilled into my left sinus, it was accompanied by simmering nausea and, in an unprecedented twist, it came with a steady stream of perspiration dripping from my forehead (which was, for the record, as pale as any three members of ABBA). Yet I wasn’t fevered and I didn’t have any kind of stomach virus that I could detect. All told, it was awful, but I had those tickets, I was meeting my friend to go to a game with him for the first time all season, there was a Jose Reyes banner with my (or Jose Reyes’s) name on it, thus I went into self-delusion mode.

I’m fine…

I’ll be fine…

I’ll take a later train and maybe I’ll leave the game early if I absolutely have to…

I won’t eat anything, obviously…

And when I get home, I’ll take that special migraine pill my doctor gave me a sample of a few months ago if I’m still feeling in as much pain as I am right now and have been all day…

Yes, I’m fine. I can go to the game.

Suitably self-deluded, I stood up to leave for the LIRR — and I realized I had as much chance of getting to the Apple as the Mets did of getting back in the Wild Card race they were never really in. Hence, I communicated my regrets to my friend via voice mail, text message and e-mail and gave into reality.

I took the special pill.

Boy, was it special.

It, like LL Cool J’s mama, circa 1991, all but knocked me out from roughly the second to the seventh inning. I have to say “roughly” because I had no concept of time as expressed by innings. And I say “all but knocked me out” because I was intermittently alert enough to absorb three elements of the broadcast on my television:

1) The Los Mets uniform tops, which were a definite improvement over past editions but not necessarily something I want to see again, lest I recall the Friday evening my forehead was soaked and I had to place an unexpected call to Ralph Milliard on the big white phone.

2) “Major medical!” Oy, with the CGI duck and pigeons already. Like I didn’t already know from major medical in my state.

3) Constanza. I just kept hearing the name Constanza. Every time I managed to open one eye, I kept seeing Constanza. Thought about my friend Mark whom I left to his own devices at the Apple and how he more than anybody I know was likely making hay with Constanza. If we have to ditch the blue and orange softball tops, the Braves have to ditch Jose Constanza. He will also always remind me of how low I was feeling.

As will the final score, something I saw come together as I emerged from my vapors and comprehended what was and wasn’t going on.

What was going on was a Braves victory.

What wasn’t going on was the post-Beltran 2011 Mets, to whom I apologize for recently placing unrealistic if modest expectations upon as much as I apologize (again) to Mark for standing him up at the Apple. The Mets were fun while they lasted, but they stopped lasting once they noticed Carlos was missing from their ranks. I drank the same Alderson-enhanced Kool-Aid as everyone else and signed off on the deal for business reasons, yet as I made like a less Balabusta version of Johnny Cammareri’s mother in Moonstruck

The breath had almost totally left her body. She was as white as snow. And then she completely pulled back from death and stood up and put on her clothes and began to cook for everyone in the house. The mourners. And me. And herself! She ate a meal that would choke a pig!

…and focused on the potential rally in the bottom of the eighth rather than my rapidly receding headache, I couldn’t help but think a team with any kind of playoff aspiration doesn’t trade its veteran slugger who, his San Franciscan incarnation notwithstanding, can still slug. It keeps him and keeps going and gives you as a Mets fan something worth watching besides novelty jerseys and ubiquitous AFLAC commercials.

I know, I know, it had to be done, all hail Alderson and his forward-thinking genius, but damn I miss having an extraordinarily dangerous hitter in the middle of the lineup. My playoff fantasies were pretty limited to begin with, but now they’ve utterly vanished. When Murphy was on second and Wright was on first in the eighth, and Pagan flied out and Bay grounded out while Beltran was taking BP or stretching or whatever he was doing on the other side of the continent, I had my moments of clarity:

• Our season, save for 51 games in which baseball will be played — and will be kind of fun because it’s baseball but will be less fun because there will be less to play for — is over. (Throw the impending non-returns of Davis and Santana onto that conclusion as well.)

• I hope the Alderson-enhanced Kool-Aid is spiked with something as strong as Maxalt and that it’s time-released so that in a couple of Augusts, instead of congratulating our GM for cleverly giving up on a longshot season, we’re intensely invested in a contending team that includes Zack Wheeler pitching and Jose Reyes playing shortstop — and I also hope the proceeds from the crisp pair of bookmarks that my Friday night tickets became go to the Re-Sign Jose fund, no matter how many triples Jose Can’t-Stand-Ya robbed him of while I, if not my team, rallied from the depths of despair.

This was one of those headaches (and then some) from which you’re sure you’ll never recover. That’s why they’re known as suicide headaches. But hours later, I’m feeling better physically if not Met-aphysically. I really couldn’t have gone to this game, no matter how much I wanted. I wondered if it was a postseason game if I could have or would have pushed myself to the train no matter the headache, the sweating, the nausea and the paleness. How sick would a Mets fan have to be to miss a playoff game?

Then I stopped wondering about it because, in 2011, that’s a purely hypothetical problem.

The Happiest Recap: 106-108

Welcome to The Happiest Recap, a solid gold slate of New York Mets games culled from every schedule the Mets have ever played en route to this, their fiftieth year in baseball. We’ve created a dream season that includes the “best” 106th game in any Mets season, the “best” 107th game in any Mets season, the “best” 108th game in any Mets season…and we keep going from there until we have a completed schedule worthy of Bob Murphy coming back with the Happy Recap after this word from our sponsor on the WFAN Mets Radio Network.

GAME 106: August 4, 1966 — METS 8 Giants 6
(Mets All-Time Game 106 Record: 25-24; Mets 1966 Record: 48-58)

If you can’t beat your nemesis, at least deprive him of another win at your expense…and then beat his successor. No better advice was dispensed in 1966 and there was no better font of wisdom on the subject than the bat of Ron Swoboda.

The larger point, one supposes, is that the Mets couldn’t beat their San Francisco nemesis, Juan Marichal. And “couldn’t” is not an exaggeration when you consider from the time they were born to this, the first year they began to do anything but curl up in the fetal position of tenth place in the National League, they couldn’t do a darn thing with the man his legion of admirers called the Dominican Dandy.

And for the Dandy, pitching against the Mets was like taking candy from a toddler of a franchise.

Marichal versus the Mets, from June 3, 1962 through August 2, 1966: 16-0 in 20 appearances. All of the righty’s decisions against the runt of the expansion litter were, by definition, dandy, at least for him. Really they were closer to TKOs and than decisions. During a period when the Mets were the punching bag for many talented arms throughout the N.L., they were barely sparring partners for the Giant ace. Or if we can avail ourselves of one more boxing metaphor, no responsible governing body would have sanctioned a fight between Juan Marichal and the New York Mets.

But baseball bouts don’t necessarily boil down to what one heavyweight can do. Sometimes he’s got to have help from his corner. This rule held true even in the era of the complete game’s primacy. Marichal was a great practitioner of going the distance, completing 25 of his 36 starts in 1966, second best in the league. There was little reason for Giants manager Herman Franks to think he’d need more than one pitcher this Thursday afternoon at Shea. Marichal carried a perfect game to two outs in the sixth when Dennis Ribant, of all people, broke it up with a single. The Mets’ starter, however, barely had a chance to acclimate himself to first base, as Chuck Hiller flied to left to end the Mets’ mini-threat.

By then, San Francisco led 3-0. And by the seventh-inning stretch, their lead was 5-0, as Ribant was knocked out after giving up a double, a single and a walk, and reliever Darrell Sutherland surrendered an RBI base hit to Willie Mays. Cleon Jones’s run-scoring single in the bottom of the seventh was quickly countered when Tom Haller went deep off the next Met pitcher, Dallas Green, to lead off the eighth (Willie McCovey and Jim Ray Hart had earlier led off innings with homers).

A 6-1 deficit with six outs to go and Juan Marichal on the mound. There couldn’t have been much doubt this game was over for the Mets. Johnny Stephenson’s two-run pinch-homer and Larry Elliot’s RBI single made it close in the eighth, but once Marichal retired Jones with two on and two out, it could be assumed the Mets had had their fun for the day and Juan would be up to 17-0 in a matter of minutes.

After Jack Hamilton pitched a scoreless top of the ninth, Marichal — who posted a rare relief win in the series opener two days earlier — returned to finish what he started. Ken Boyer, however, finished him with a leadoff home run. Now it was 6-5 and Franks had no choice but to remove the Dandy and ask his bullpen to record those last three outs. His first call was to righty Lindy McDaniel, who gave up a single to Eddie Bressoud before grounding pinch-hitter Ron Hunt to short, forcing Bressoud at second. Stephenson, who had remained in the game to catch, singled, putting two on with one out.

Franks could brook no more of McDaniel and replaced him with lefty Bill Henry. Wes Westrum responded by removing Hiller and sending up righty slugger Ron Swoboda to pinch-hit. Swoboda had blasted 19 home runs as a rookie in 1965 but had slowed down as the season ended and had failed to resume his powerful pace once 1966 began. His three homers in the first half of his sophomore season were hardly emblematic of a player nicknamed Rocky, but things had been turning for Swoboda of late. Most notably, he broke a 2-2 tie in the tenth inning at Candlestick on July 20, a game the Mets went on to win, 3-2, after spending most of it losing to Marichal.

Rocky didn’t hit that home run off the Dominican Dandy, however. He hit it off Bill Henry.

Now they met again, 15 days later. Not only was the game on the line, but so was the Giants’ position near the top of the National League. If they could beat the Mets, they’d be tied for first with the Pirates and open up a four-game lead on their archrivals, the Dodgers.

But first they’d have to beat the Mets, something that seemed a foregone conclusion while Juan Marichal was pitching. Marichal was gone now, and the fate of the game was in Bill Henry’s hands.

That is before it jumped off Ron Swoboda’s bat.

Lindsey Nelson set the stage:

So, here we are in the bottom half of the ninth inning, the Mets trailing by one run, have runners at first and second, one man out. Ron Swoboda’s batting for Chuck Hiller. Bill Henry has relieved Lindy McDaniel on the mound.

“Juan Marichal is still the pitcher of record on the winning side for the Giants — to this point. Ron Hunt the runner at second, Johnny Stephenson the runner at first. One man out.”

Henry threw the first pitch high. Swoboda swung anyway for strike one. Rocky took the second delivery for a ball.

The third, by the reckoning of the Times’s Robert Lipsyte, “was thrown with the stuff that dreams are made on.” Swoboda hit it high to left, where it soared to the left of the 371 marker…and over it.

Lindsey at the Met mic:

“Deep to left, it’s going, going, gone for a home run, the Mets win the ballgame! The Mets win the ballgame as Ron Swoboda hits a three-run homer! Ron Hunt is coming on to score! Johnny Stephenson is coming on to score! Ron Swoboda is coming on!

“For him, his eighth home run, and the Mets win the ballgame!”

Ron Swoboda came on, all right, and didn’t the visitors from the West know it? Lindy McDaniel took the loss. Bill Henry was saddled with the infamy. Juan Marichal’s dual excellent records — 17-4 on the season, 16-0 against the Mets — remained untouched, but although their ace was off the hook, the Giants were clearly knocked for a loop. They did not reach first place that Thursday, and when the year was over, they finished second, 1½ games behind L.A. Give them back those two swings Swoboda took against Henry, and the 1966 pennant quite possibly flies in San Francisco.

Not Rocky’s problem. He had no problems after clinching the 8-6 win for the Mets. The 22-year-old Maryland strongboy — “stronger than dirt” according to one Shea banner — decided this game was “just like a fairy tale. It was a storybook game. Holy cow!”

The Mets weren’t done eliciting expressions of wonderment for the year, either. “That was just one of the many thrills for the 1966 Mets,” Nelson gushed when narrating the team’s annual highlight film, “as things at Shea Stadium started to get better…and better…and better.” Coming in next-to-last and losing 95 games wouldn’t have satisfied an outfit like the Giants, but the Mets had never not finished in tenth and had never piled up fewer than 109 defeats, so yes, things were getting better…and better…and better.

And best of all, where their encounters with the Dominican Dandy was concerned, the Mets finally hung a loss on Marichal on July 4, 1967, beating him and San Francisco, 8-7, raising their record to date versus the eventual Hall of Famer to a spiffy 1-19.

ALSO QUITE HAPPY: On August 1, 1999, the Mets and Cubs threw everything and everybody they had at each other for thirteen Sunday afternoon innings, including a couple of arms the Mets had just come up with for throwing. Al Leiter struck out 15 Cubs over seven innings at Wrigley Field and was in line for a 3-2 win until Henry Rodriguez belted a first-pitch, leadoff homer off Armando Benitez to start the bottom of the ninth. From there it was all arms on deck, which worked reasonably well for Bobby Valentine, who had just received a pair of trading deadline reinforcements.

To protect a 4-3 lead in the bottom of the tenth (an edge engineered by Rickey Henderson), Bobby V allowed Benitez some latitude, but was rewarded with back-to-back walks of Manny Alexander and Mark Grace. His next pitcher rapidly became Billy Taylor, a veteran righty so new to the Mets that his catcher, Todd Pratt, had to meet him for the first time on the mound. The introductory conversation, per Tank, went something like this:

“What’s up dude? What do you have?”
“Sinker, slider, changeup.”
“OK, let’s go.”

With the bare minimum of familiarity ensured, Taylor — picked up from Oakland in exchange for Jason Isringhausen and Greg McMichael — took on his first official task as a New York Met: face Sammy Sosa, he of the 66 home runs in 1998, 40 so far in 1999 and two the day before off Octavio Dotel and Dennis Cook. Talk about your quick how-do-ya-do’s. But Taylor, with 26 saves in two-thirds of this season as an Athletic, was no shrinking violet, showing Sosa his credentials by grounding him to first for the second out. Valentine then ordered his new righty to walk the dangerous Glenallen Hill to set up a force at any base and told Taylor his day was done.

In came lefty Dennis Cook to take on Rodriguez, and the plan looked like a success when Cookie teased a grounder to first baseman John Olerud for the final out…except the surehanded Olerud, who anchored the most airtight defensive infield of all time, let the grounder tick off his glove for a run-scoring error to knot the game at four.

The Mets and Cubs would continue to pitch at each other. Chicago skipper Jim Riggleman used eight arms to hold the Mets in check, while Bobby deployed seven. Among them was his newest lefty, Chuck McElroy, yet another deadline transferee. McElroy fit the description of “well-traveled” as few others have; he came up with the Phillies in 1989 and went on to pitch for the Cubs, the Reds, the Angels, the White Sox and the Rockies before alighting with the Mets on July 31 after Steve Phillips sent Brian McRae and Rigo Beltran to Colorado to get him and Darryl Hamilton. Chuck’s maiden Met outing spanned the eleventh and the first two-thirds of the twelfth and it was as successful as could be: five up, five down, before Valentine removed him so Pat Mahomes could take on (and retire) Sosa to end the twelfth.

Mahomes was paid to be the Mets’ long man in 1999, but his hidden value was in his offense, a pretty good skill to hone if you want to pitch multiple innings out of the ’pen. Sure enough, it would be Pat’s bat coming to the fore in the top of the thirteenth when Mahomes singled home Roger Cedeño with the go-ahead run. The hit raised Pat’s season average to .400 and accounted for his third run batted in in ten at-bats.

“I always hit well in high school,” the reliever noted.

When he returned to the mound to preserve the lead he personally built, the first two outs came easy, but then Mahomes gave up a double to, believe it or not, the opposing pitcher, Scott Sanders. But then he struck out Jeff Reed to give the Mets a 5-4 win in thirteen, keeping the team within a half-game of the Braves for first place.

“This is a pennant race,” McElroy assessed. “And if you make a mistake, the next guy is going to come in and pick you up. That’s a good feeling. It’s how we won the game today.”

GAME 107: August 4, 1962 (2nd) — METS 3 Reds 2 (14)
(Mets All-Time Game 107 Record: 26-23; Mets 1962 Record: 28-79)

The team that was regaled for, among many other oddities, having traded an ineffectual backup catcher for himself — Harry Chiti for Harry Chiti — doubled down and attempted to clone one of its least successful players.

Well, not exactly, but it makes a better story that way, and sometimes it seems the whole point of the 1962 Mets was to produce anecdotes that could be told repeatedly for the next half-century (usually by first-hand witness Ralph Kiner).

In most of the telling, the Mets lose, which makes mathematical sense given the club’s final record of 40-120, but now and then — say, 40 times — the strangeness worked out just fine.

Need proof? Never mind Harry Chiti (technically purchased from the Indians and sent back to Cleveland after batting .195 in fifteen games). Just ask the two Bob Millers.

Surely you’ve heard of the two Bob Millers. One was the righty with the middle initial “L” who’d been with the team all season and had yet to rack up a “W”. That Bob Miller, 23 years old, was 0-7 after 23 appearances. And then there was the lefty with the same first and last names whose middle initial was “G,” spent most of the previous four seasons at Double-A and Triple-A and just wanted to go home once the Mets dealt Don Zimmer to Cincinnati to nab him, his 21.94 ERA and Cliff Cook in May. This second Bob Miller, pushing 27 and suddenly exiled from the defending National League champs, was convinced to hang in there, refresh his left arm at Syracuse and accept a callup to the bigs in due time.

Miller II, if you will (a.k.a. Lefty Miller; also a.k.a. the Bob Miller to whom Casey Stengel didn’t mysteriously refer to as “Nelson,” which is what he sometimes called Bob L. Miller), became a Met for real in late July — and really became a Met by absorbing a loss in his first appearance as a Met and pitching in nothing but losses in his first four games as a Met.

That was Bob G. Miller’s tough luck. Bob L. Miller’s tougher luck was the 0-7 record and what was befalling him in the nightcap of this Saturday doubleheader at the Polo Grounds. Righty Miller was pitching well — allowing only two runs to lefty Miller’s old team, the Reds, in seven innings — and righty Miller was, naturally, losing. His teammates felt so bad about his fate that they waited until the bottom of the eighth to tie the score on a Charlie Neal triple and a Frank Thomas sac fly. By then, Willard Hunter was the pitcher of record for the Mets. No way Miller could win.

But at least he couldn’t lose, which for a 1962 Met pitcher was a victory unto itself.

The game went on a good, long while after it was knotted. Hunter would depart in favor of Ken MacKenzie, another element of the 1962 Mets’ legend. MacKenzie became famous for earning the only winning record on that godforsaken pitching staff, going 5-4 while serving as (allegedly) the lowest-paid member of his Yale graduating class. MacKenzie’s legend was made complete by Stengel’s timeless advice that whenever he took the ball, he should look at the opposing batters and “make like they’re the Harvards.”

MacKenzie gave Stengel 4⅔ scoreless innings, but when it came to the game’s bottom line, he made like Bob L. Miller and got nothing tangible for his yeoman work, save perhaps for an encouraging “Boola Boola” from his manager.

Probably not, actually, as Ol’ Case had to figure out who would pitch after MacKenzie departed for a pinch-hitter in the thirteenth. If he was looking for “Nelson,” he was going to be disappointed, as “Nelson” — Bob L. Miller, that is — was out of the game. The next best thing, of course, would be the next Miller in line.

So Casey went that way, with the other Bob Miller. And the other Bob Miller went after his former teammates in grand style, setting down the Reds 1-2-3 in the top of the fourteenth. That made him the pitcher of record entering the bottom of the inning, which was a good thing to be, because Thomas chose that instant to clobber a Moe Drabowsky pitch for a leadoff home run, making the Mets 3-2 winners…making the Mets doubleheader sweepers, for that matter, as Roger Craig had won the opener.

For the first time all season, the winning pitcher was Bob Miller. OK, so it was a Bob Miller, specifically the relatively new Bob G. Miller rather than the long-beleaguered Bob L. Miller. Seeing as how Bob G. Miller was at least keeping it in the proverbial family, it’s doubtful Bob L. Miller minded all that much that he couldn’t be the first Miller on the 1962 Mets to notch that elusive W.

This was the first time both Bob Millers pitched in the same game. It would happen four more times in 1962, but it would never again result in a win for the Mets.

Maybe that’s why they never got around to rechristening the Polo Grounds Miller Park.

ALSO QUITE HAPPY: On August 1, 1997, there was a lot of not over ’til it was over happening at the Astrodome between the only two National League franchises to ever employ Yogi Berra. You might even say it got early late as the Mets and Astros kept trading leads and creating brand new ballgames as the game got on in innings.

It was a fairly sedate 1-1 affair when Lance Johnson reached Billy Wagner for the go-ahead single in the top of the eighth. But staked to a 2-1 lead in the bottom of the eighth, Greg McMichael set up nothing but disappointment for the Mets when he allowed a leadoff single to Ricky Gutierrez and a two-run homer to Craig Biggio. Decided advantage Astros, 3-2.

But for how long? Hard-throwing Wagner hung around to nail down the final three outs in the top of the ninth, but neglected to get two of them. Two singles, a passed ball and a walk brought Carl Everett to the plate and he singled in a pair of runs to give the Mets a 4-3 lead. On to the bottom of the ninth, where John Franco…oh, forget it: a walk, a sacrifice bunt, a strikeout and an errant infield throw (third baseman Edgardo Alfonzo’s) tied the game at four.

Yet another brand new ballgame, handed to yet another relief pitcher to start the tenth. For the Astros, it’s Lima Time, as Jose Lima comes in to try and keep the Mets off the board. But for the Mets, it’s rally time, as Johnson and Bernard Gilkey walk and Alex Ochoa singles to load the bases with nobody out. Lima Time ends and the Jose Cabrera era commences.

The Mets enjoy the Jose Cabrera era: Todd Hundley singles in the go-ahead run and Alfonzo makes up for his error by doubling home a pair. Jason Hardtke piles on with a sacrifice fly and the Mets take a formidable 8-4 lead to the bottom of the tenth. Their new pitcher, Cory Lidle, makes things interesting, giving up an RBI single to Bill Speiers, but not painful. The Mets come away 8-5 victors.

GAME 108: August 5, 1988 — Mets 3 PIRATES 2
(Mets All-Time Game 108 Record: 21-28; Mets 1988 Record: 65-43)

For a second consecutive weekend, an upstart band of Buccaneers attempted to board the good ship Metropolitan and make ye first-place mateys walk the plank, or at least give ground in the National League East. And for a second consecutive series opener, it was the Pittsburgh Pirates who found themselves stumbling into the drink.

The Mets and Pirates had faced off at Shea just days earlier, and the Mets’ faces were the ones beaming after taking three out of four — and that result, mind you, was achieved without one of the signature New York players of the era. For this encore four-game set at Three Rivers Stadium, this heretofore injured player was healed and ready to do battle.

And was Keith Hernandez ever ready to sink the Buccos.

Hernandez had been out most of the previous two months with a torn hamstring — one he tried to come back from too soon and thus reaggravated. Copping to a coat of rust and a case of nerves, a physically sound Mex stepped to the plate in the top of the first for his first at-bat since June 23 and — with Wally Backman on first — produced a ringing double. Darryl Strawberry followed with a sac fly to left and the Mets were up, 1-0.

Ron Darling kept the Mets ahead by that lone run until the fifth when the other first baseman in the game, Sid Bream, took him over the Three Rivers wall to knot the score at one. But on this night, only one first baseman was going to be in the spotlight, and it was the one who had been the toast of New York since becoming a Met a half-decade earlier.

This, like so many nights in the 1980s, was a night for Keith Hernandez.

In the top of the seventh, Bob Walk gave up a one-out double to Wally Backman and punched his own ticket out of the game. Jim Leyland replaced Walk with lefty specialist Dave Rucker. It was a good percentage move, considering the next batter was the lefty Hernandez.

But hadn’t Keith Hernandez made a career of foiling the Dave Ruckers of the National League?

BAM! Two-run homer for Keith, putting the Mets up 3-1. R.J. Reynolds would answer in part in the bottom of the frame with a solo homer off Darling, but when these Mets had all their pieces aligned, there was no credit for partial answers. Darling and Myers held off the Pirates from there and the Mets won, 3-2. That Pirate ship, trying so hard all summer to prove itself stout, was beginning to take on water. Pittsburgh fell five back and would sink to seven behind before salvaging the Monday night finale of the four-game series.

The Mets didn’t quite bury the Bucs at sea this weekend but they didn’t have to. They showed their closest opponents they had the heart of their order back. After the Friday night game, Keith said returning to action after being out so long made early August feel like Opening Day all over again. For the Mets and their sporadic offense, it was more than that. Finding HERNANDEZ inked into the three-hole of their lineup card…hell, it was practically Christmas morning.

ALSO QUITE HAPPY: On August 9, 1986, the Montreal Expos were reminded that running second to the ’86 Mets wasn’t worth very much, whether expressed in American or Canadian currency. Les ’Spos were already well out of what little race there had been when the Mets traveled north for a weekend in Quebec, but on this Saturday night, at least they could take solace that they were giving a decisive beating to the first-place Mets, leading the prospective champs, 6-1, after seven. But in 1986, even Youppi knew you didn’t count pre-hatched chickens…not when the Mets were so capable of raiding your hen house.

In the top of the eighth, the Mets put a seven-spot on the Stade Olympique scoreboard, capped by a three-run homer from Mookie Wilson. Just like that, the Mets were up, 8-6. The Expos, however, didn’t go down easily. Luis Rivera delivered a sacrifice fly and Wallace Johnson came through with an RBI triple to tie the game at eight going to the ninth.

No matter. These were the 1986 Mets.

Jeff Reardon walked former teammate Lee Mazzilli to start the inning, and the recently reupped Mazz (rescued from exile in Pittsburgh) scored the go-ahead run when ex-Expo Gary Carter grounded a two-run single up the middle. Jesse Orosco took good care of the 10-8 lead, pitching a scoreless ninth. With two-thirds of the schedule played, the Mets’ had their 73rd win and increased their margin over Montreal to…let’s say umpteen plus one.

How the Mets Got a Rainout

INT. CITI FIELD — NIGHT

Several dejected Mets are sitting around the clubhouse, half in and half out of their uniforms.

JUSTIN TURNER
God. We’ve lost four in a row, and the last three have absolutely sucked.

R.A. DICKEY
I know. Things were going sublimely in Cincinnati. I felt like we stood on the cusp of a great undertaking. And now we find ourselves betwixt and between, star-crossed wayfarers on an uncertain course.

DANIEL MURPHY
I hate the Marlins.

TURNER
I hate that we’re .500 again.

DICKEY
It’s peculiar. A subpar record can be a motivator. A solid record can reinforce success. And yet mediocrity leaves us adrift.

MURPHY
We need a night off to stop our losing streak. We need a rainout.

VOICE [off-stage]
I can get us a rainout.

Johan Santana emerges from the steam of the showers, perfectly attired in a gorgeous suit.

SANTANA
Ten thousand bucks says I can get us a rainout tomorrow.

MURPHY
Why are you here? [excitedly] Hey, are you being activated?

SANTANA
No, examined. Lingering shoulder discomfort.

MURPHY
Ugh!

SANTANA
I know. Let’s not talk about it. Ten thousand says it rains tomorrow.

TURNER
Ten thousand? Jeez, that’s steep. How about a hundred?

SANTANA
What is this, the Carolina League? Ten thousand.

MURPHY
You’re on.

TURNER
I’m in.

DICKEY
I find myself curiously drawn to the idea of a wager.

SANTANA
Let’s go then.

The three Mets dress hurriedly as Santana waits impatiently, then follow him through the tunnels under Citi Field.

TURNER
Wait, I know what’s going to happen next! You’re going to take a baseball bat and bang on faucets so all the sprinklers turn on and flood the field! Oh man, I wish I’d thought of that before. I’m going to be out ten thous —

SANTANA
This is the Show, son — that’s primitive stuff. Besides, those thugs in maroon would show up. They’d chase us around the field and we’d easily avoid them and eventually they’d be running along behind us in a row like ducklings. It would be deeply sad.

DICKEY
I concur. There is enough pathos surrounding this franchise at the current juncture.

MURPHY
So what are we going to do?

SANTANA
You’ll see.

INT. — A PIPER CUB AMID THE CLOUDS

DICKEY
Between the majesty of the night sky and partaking of the miracle of flight, my mood is elevated.

BRANDON NIMMO
Um, why am I here?

SANTANA
We’ll get to you in a minute. Murph, Justin, open those bags back there.

NIMMO
I better not be here just for some cheap joke.

SANTANA
Zip it, rook.

Murphy and Turner rip open their bags and recoil.

MURPHY
Ugh! What is this stuff?

SANTANA
Murph’s bag is full of silver iodide. Turner’s is full of dry ice.

DICKEY
A-ha!

TURNER
I don’t get it.

DICKEY
Both silver iodide and dry ice will help create ice nuclei, altering the normal microphysical processes within the clouds. So long as the clouds around us contain supercooled liquid water. They do, right Johan?

SANTANA
I make everything super-cool.

DICKEY
Well then, the introduction of a substance with a crystalline structure similar to that of ice — such as silver iodide — should induce freezing nucleation among existing droplets.  As a backup, the dry ice should expand and cool the air sufficiently that ice crystals will emerge from the existing water vapor. Either way, you’ll get snow, which will melt into rain.

MURPHY
Yeah, totally figured it was freezing nucleation. Just checking, hoss.

Murphy and Turner shake their bags of chemicals out into the night air.

DICKEY
Cloud-seeding. Brilliant.

Santana favors Dickey with a nod.

TURNER
Say, who’s gonna pay for the plane?

SANTANA
Let the bonus baby get it.

NIMMO
I knew it! Look, I haven’t even signed —

DICKEY
Zip it, rook.

EXT. — LA GUARDIA AIRPORT

The Piper Cub glides down onto the runway through a steady rain. Its wheels send up a spray of water.

SANTANA
Oh my goodness, we’ve got ourselves a natural disaster.

MURPHY
Awesome! This is just what we needed!

DICKEY
It is fortuitous. Well, guess I’d better write you a check, Johan. Hey Justin, toss me that pen over there?

MURPHY
Yo, Turns, I need the pen too. Yo! Turns!

Turner holds the pen. He looks at Murphy, then at Dickey, hesitates and throws the pen out the window.

SANTANA
Do I have to fix everything?