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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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A Marvelous Mess in Cincy

Now that was a fun game.

A mess, to be sure — a big, brawling, unpredictable, crazy game, with lots of reversals and no guarantees, particularly if you were a Reds pitcher asking your defense to get a freaking out already — but a fun mess.

For four innings Jonathon Niese looked untouchable, coolly sawing Reds apart with his cutter, but in the fifth the wheels came off, along with both axles and the transmission, and then the gas tank went up and the airbags deployed and I think something bad might have happened with the cupholders. Meanwhile, poor Johnny Cueto could barely breathe for all the daggers in his back — Joey Votto, Jay Bruce, Brandon Phillips, Miguel Cairo (twice) and Edgar Renteria all betrayed him, leading to the rather startling line of 5 IP 6 R 0 ER. When the Reds had an all-hands meetings at the mound, I was generally curious what the infielders said to Cueto. “Eight guys behind ya” probably wasn’t uttered, considering that four of the five Reds present had demonstrated clear ineptitude, with Ramon Hernandez the lone holdout, and only because Laz Diaz decided a catcher’s interference call needed peer review.

The Mets, meanwhile, turned in one of those games that give you delusions of grandeur. Hats off to Terry Collins, who moved smoothly down the line of JV relievers, getting just enough from Manny Acosta, Ryota Igarashi, Pedro Beato and finally Tim Byrdak to assemble four innings of one-run ball without calling on Bobby Parnell or Jason Isringhausen. And hats off to the Mets’ impressive collection of useful players — guys who aren’t stars and might not even be regulars, but who seem to find a way when it matters.

(Momentary digressions: Yonder Alonso might be the best baseball name I’ve heard since Stubby Clapp — and i don’t think he’s Canadian. And old age has given Miguel Cairo an odd resemblance to Popeye, down to the comma eyes and puffy cheeks and ill-advised slapstick.)

But back to useful Mets. There was Justin Turner spraying balls around the park, even if he was a little too enthusiastic on the basepaths. (“Memo from Turner to Reds re Tonight’s Game: FUCK YOU!” I announced, purely to entertain myself — I have nothing against the Reds and had pretty much forgotten they existed before this series.) Daniel Murphy, the mighty Irish Hammer, collected three hits, raised his average to .313 and played three and a half hours at first without cutting off a potential out at home or putting a crushing block on his own team’s closer. (“Erin Go FUCK YOU!” I bellowed happily as Murph wielded his shillelagh to great effect.) Jason Pridie’s ringing double (if it were an indie song we’d have called it plangent) down the right-field line after Niese spat the bit turned a momentary Reds lead back into a Mets lead so fast you wondered if you’d imagined the bad stuff. (Sorry, I had no for-the-heck-of-it profanity regarding Pridie.) Ronny Paulino and his amazingly silly facial hair chipped in a double, with Paulino hooking second base with his fingertips and somehow stopping his considerable momentum. I still don’t know how Paulino did that — it was like one of those movie scenes where one character falls off a cliff and another character grabs him and pulls him up (after a dramatic speech), all with one hand.

But that’s not a bad description of this year’s Mets. I’m not quite sure how they aren’t lying broken at the bottom of the cliff, but the evidence is irrefutable: There they are, holding on to tree roots and thinking about their next move. And now they’re windmilling their feet like Wile E. Coyote and hurling the villains sent to dispatch them over the edge and WHOA! They’re back up on the mountain! But wait — here comes the rest of the posse, and the Mets … OH NO! The Mets are out of bullets! They’re looking at each other in consternation as the horses race toward them! Looks bad for our heroes — but then it did in the last chapter too, and I’ve got a funny feeling that they just might think of something.

Tune in tomorrow night for the next thrilling chapter!

The Happiest Recap: 097-099

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” 97th game in any Mets season, the “best” 98th game in any Mets season, the “best” 99th 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 097: July 23, 2005 — METS 7 Dodgers 5
(Mets All-Time Game 097 Record: 22-27; Mets 2005 Record: 50-47)

Speed, it is said, doesn’t slump. Still, speed needs to get on base to really be appreciated, even if there was no disregarding the promise of one of the speediest Mets ever.

Some so-called baseball experts were willing to do so anyway where young Jose Reyes was concerned as the 2005 season got underway. His first two major league campaigns indicated two things about the kid who came up to the Mets just shy of his 20th birthday two Junes earlier:

One, he could run; two, he couldn’t run if he was hurt.

Injuries literally hamstrung the promising Reyes in 2003 and 2004, limiting him to 69 games in his rookie season and 53 during what was supposed to be his first full year. Still, a .307 average in ’03 and 32 steals in the shortstop’s 122 career games to date indicated Jose was a pretty special prodigy. Healthy entering 2005, it figured the best of Reyes was yet to come.

His hamstrings weren’t killing him as the season got going, but an allergy to bases on balls loomed as something of a problem, particularly among the statnoscenti who looked at OBP with a more discerning eye than they might have applied to less tangible qualities like “natural talent”. When Reyes played every game but one in April yet didn’t walk once, it was taken a red flag. He ended the month batting .260, but getting on base at a clip of only .267. It was apparently troubling enough to provoke Rob Neyer, then of ESPN.com, to declare in an online chat that the 21-year-old Jose was “one of the very worst everyday players in the majors”.

Soon enough, Jose Reyes began to walk, though not that much. The hitting, however, was improving — seven triples in May — and the running was happily unencumbered — resulting in a dozen steals in June. And as July 2005 unfolded, it was clear a breakout month was in progress.

Fast-forward, then, to a Saturday at Shea against the Dodgers, when Jose Reyes truly takes flight.

In the first inning, after the Mets find themselves down 3-0, Reyes bunts his way on. Two pitches later, he steals second. Former teammate Jason Phillips, now the L.A. catcher, throws the ball into the outfield in a futile effort to nab him. Fresh off his 33rd steal of the year, Jose is on third. A moment later, he’s in the dugout, driven home by Mike Cameron’s infield single.

The Mets are on the board with a Reyes run. It might not be called that just yet, but that’s clearly what it is. Jose Reyes has raced around the bases, and for the rest of the day, it will be as if Belmont has come to Flushing.

In the third, Reyes singles. Cameron bunts his way on, and Reyes dashes to second. Carlos Beltran (as he was prone to do in 2005) bunts them over. Jose scores on a Cliff Floyd groundout and ties the game at three.

In the seventh, with the Mets down 6-5, Marlon Anderson pinch-hits for Pedro Martinez, who has uncharacteristically struggled all afternoon. Anderson walks. Reyes doesn’t. Instead, Jose triples into the right field corner to drive home Anderson and tie the game. Two batters later, Jose scampers across the plate with the go-ahead run on a Beltran single.

In the eighth, Reyes does his best GEICO impression when, with two out and Miguel Cairo on third, Jose singles to left for the insurance run. The Mets lead by two. Reyes then gets a jump on Dodger reliever Duaner Sanchez and swipes his second bag of the day, his 34th of the year.

It winds up a very good 7-5 win for the Mets, the first game they’ve captured after falling behind by three runs all year. It’s also a good day for the speed game, as the Mets steal five bases altogether, with Beltran, Cameron and Cairo each purloining one apiece. And it’s a great day for Jose Reyes: no walks, but 4-for-5, three runs scored, two RBI, the two steals and that particularly electrifying triple in the seventh. That one made everybody sit up and take notice of the youngster whose legs are sound and whose skills are stunning.

“When I’m finished,” an impressed Martinez marveled, “I’ll get the best seat to see him play. I’ll pay whatever price to see him play.”

ALSO QUITE HAPPY: On July 20, 2011, SNY sent its broadcast team onto Citi Field’s Pepsi Porch and effervescent Met things followed. Carlos Beltran’s game-tying two-run homer landed just to the left of Gary Cohen, Keith Hernandez and Ron Darling in the fifth inning. Five frames later, Angel Pagan launched a fly ball that Cohen warned was “headed toward us” in the first row of the soft drink overhang before it clanged off the Subway billboard directly beneath them. Pagan’s Porchfront shot turned into the decisive blow of a 6-5 extra-inning Mets win.

While the popular announcing trio got a right field fan’s eye view of the victory over the Cardinals, catcher Josh Thole saw what it was like to play ball as a dad. One night after his wife gave birth to their first child, son Camden, Thole came through with a two-run double that halved the Mets’ early 4-0 deficit and the RBI single that knotted the game at five in the eighth. Josh also did a decent job of handling R.A. Dickey’s tricky arsenal behind the plate, though he tipped his helmet and mask back home in recognition of what Kathryn Thole had just delivered. “Going out there catching a knuckleball is still tough,” he said, “but it doesn’t seem like anything she went through.”

GAME 098: July 25, 1994 — Mets 7 CARDINALS 1
(Mets All-Time Game 098 Record: 26-23; Mets 1994 Record: 46-52)

A Mets fan could have been forgiven for wadding up the proverbial towel as prelude to throwing it in as the 1994 season careened toward a premature ending. After propping up spirits that had sagged following the debacle of 1993 (59-103) with a decent accounting of themselves in April and early May (18-14), the ’94 Mets reverted to previous season’s form, both on the field — dropping 29 of 44 — and off — Dwight Gooden earning a suspension from Major League Baseball for violating the terms of his drug aftercare program. Toss in the inevitable impasse toward which baseball team owners and baseball players were headed come August, and anybody emotionally invested in the Mets needed a very good reason to find something especially encouraging about this team and this year.

One very good reason materialized just as the season appeared to be getting away completely. Its name was Rico Brogna.

Every season is bolstered when it encompasses a pleasant surprise. Rico was 1994’s. His existence, never mind potential, was news to even the most vigilant of Mets fans, coming over as quietly as he did at the tail end of Spring Training in a swap of failed No. 1 draft picks. Brogna was the Tigers’ in 1988, but hadn’t gone anywhere in Detroit, so they traded him for Alan Zinter, the Mets’ top selection from 1989 (who wouldn’t see the majors until 2002). New York still might not have heard a word about Rico — a .244 hitter at Norfolk, albeit with some pop — had David Segui, first baseman during the first half of the season, not pulled his right hamstring the night of what turned out to be Gooden’s final Mets win.

With little fanfare, Brogna arrived on the Met scene in late June, and by the middle of July was establishing himself as the best reason to watch a team whose patchwork personnel (including Roger Mason, Kelly Stinnett, Luis Rivera, Doug Linton, Jim Lindeman, Goose Gozzo, the second, diminished coming of Kevin McReynolds and yet-to-be stellar Jeff Kent) had thus far resisted generating widespread appeal. Rico Suave, as the back pages tabbed him, wielded a hot stick and showed off a glove keen enough to make everybody forget Segui and hark back instead to the heyday of Keith Hernandez. The rookie’s hailing from not altogether too far from Flushing — Watertown, Conn. — didn’t hurt his burgeoning Shea popularity, either. Most importantly, Brogna’s presence in Dallas Green’s lineup coincided with a Met re-reversal of fortunes. His batting average soared over .300 while his team started climbing toward .500.

It wasn’t much, but it was something for a season like 1994. The daily negotiating updates provided ample evidence there’d be no playoffs for anybody, casting a shadow across the middle of the summer. Then again, labor peace could miraculously break out and it was unfathomable to conceive of the Mets playing anything resembling a big game anytime soon. Thus, when they were granted an opportunity to shine on something approximating the national stage, Mets fans were motivated to pay perhaps a little extra attention to their team’s otherwise obscure activities.

Those who did didn’t regret the decision, for the occasion turned into Rico Brogna’s night to shine.

The Mets played the Cardinals on Monday Night Baseball the last Monday in July, but it wasn’t Monday Night Baseball in the traditional sense. In the ’70s and ’80s, MNB meant a coast-to-coast prime time audience, maybe even Howard Cosell adding his bombastic benediction to certify a humble baseball game as a Big Event. In 1994 and 1995, it meant The Baseball Network, a jury-rigged MLB-run operation that sought through some fiscal formula to regionalize what had been a weekly national telecast…sort of like the NFL, but with no guarantee that fans of a given team would have a shot at seeing that team in action.

New York, for example, would be given the Mets game or the Yankees game, but not both. This did not please the fans of the team that was left out. Because The Baseball Network was granted exclusivity on its nights, you couldn’t turn to, say, SportsChannel to watch the Mets if ABC was showing the Yankees. (Same deal in other two-team markets.) The bottom line was the July 25 Mets-Cardinals game on The Baseball Network would air in areas that cared most about the Mets and the Cardinals…which wasn’t all that different from the way a typical Mets-Cardinals game might air, but instead of being on some pissant cable outlet, it ran on a network affiliate.

To inject the broadcasts with a little extra zest, an announcer who generally covered one team would be paired with an announcer from its opponent, giving viewers a taste of voices they didn’t ordinarily hear on television. One of the fringe benefits of The Baseball Network was Bob Murphy did a few of its games, his first TV appearances since 1981. The Mets-Cardinals game at the end of July, however, was assigned to Murph’s former radio partner, Mets telecaster Gary Thorne, and Cardinal color man Al Hrabosky.

They wound up co-hosting, live from St. Louis, The Rico Brogna Show.

With as much spotlight as the 1994 Mets were going to garner, the young man from Connecticut twinkled. Brogna sizzled at Busch, going 5-for-5, making him the first Met to register five hits in one game in six years. His biggest hit was a two-run double that keyed a five-run fifth, giving Bret Saberhagen all the support he needed to cruise to a complete game 7-1 win. Rico came into the game batting .333. He came out of it batting .377.

“I guess he’s what you would call a manager’s delight,” Saberhagen said.

“It’s probably a night that I’ll remember for quite a while,” the first baseman allowed, humbly adding, “Some of the balls found some holes.”

It was also a night Mets fans would want to cling to longer than they might normally some random Monday night from Missouri. Though the calendar said it was the last week of July, the season was ending all too soon for these modestly resurgent 1994 Mets. Only fifteen games remained (the Mets would win nine of them en route to a reasonably respectable 55-58 record) and then — curtains. The season was over on August 11. Millions of baseball-lovers would righteously claim betrayal and bitterness that billionaire owners and millionaire players would conspire to take away the game for which they lived.

In the long, dark emotional winter that set in amid the heat of summer, however, Rico Brogna left Mets fans who tuned into Channel 7 that Monday night with a lingering memory of a baseball game to cherish…and the kind of ballplayer (7 HR, 20 RBI, .351 BA in 39 games) they could look forward to once the sport came to its senses and back to its diamonds.

ALSO QUITE HAPPY: On July 28, 1979, Dave Kingman learned you can go home again and do something nobody on the home team had ever done there, even if he had to do it as a visitor. The once-revered, later jeered slugger, returned to Shea Stadium on a Saturday and belted three home runs in one game for the Chicago Cubs. When Kingman became the second Met ever to hit three home runs in a game, in 1976, he didn’t do it at home. Nor did the first, Jim Hickman. Nor would any Met in the 45-year history of Shea Stadium. Kingman, however, was the third opponent to turn the hat trick at Shea, joining Richie Allen from 1968 and Pete Rose, who did it in 1978. Kingman’s ex-Met pedigree may have made his feat easier to swallow for the 11,359 attending his homerpalooza, but what really helped was a) each Kingman dinger was a solo shot and b) the Mets prevailed 6-4 on the strength of a pair of two-run homers — one from Lee Mazzilli, the other off the bat of John Stearns — plus a then-club record three stolen bases by Frank Taveras.

GAME 099: July 30, 1985 — METS 2 Expos 0
(Mets All-Time Game 099 Record: 26-23; Mets 1985 Record: 58-41)

A familiar scenario was playing itself out this Tuesday night at Shea Stadium, though its familiarity only made it more welcome every time it unfolded.

Dwight Gooden pitched. Dwight Gooden won.

It was getting to be habit. A most happy habit, the prospect of which drew better than 45,000 to Flushing. These were Mets fans yearning to become immersed in this force of habit, not to mention the force of nature Gooden had grown into.

Doctor K was 6-3 in late May. Two months later, he was 15-3 and going for his tenth consecutive win. If successful, No. 16 would tie a 16-year-old franchise record set by — appropriately enough — the Franchise. Tom Seaver won his final ten decisions of 1969. For Gooden, nine in a row felt like only the beginning in 1985.

The beginning of this attempt at ten straight was about as airtight an effort as one could imagine.

The Expos sent up Tim Raines to lead off. He struck out.

Vance Law batted second. He struck out.

Andre Dawson was the third-place hitter…and the third batter struck out by Dwight Gooden in the top of the first.

The score, as generally expressed by Bob Murphy, was Expos nothing, the Mets coming to bat, but a three-up, three-down fanning of such decisive nature was enough to make anyone watching think Montreal was already trailing. The visitors saw ten pitches. All were strikes. One they managed to foul off

“Tonight’s game is a mismatch,” Keith Hernandez concluded, as related in his (and Mike Bryan’s) seasonlong diary, If At First.

To be fair, there was another pitcher involved, and he didn’t give up much for a while. Bill Gullickson matched zeroes if not strikeouts with Gooden but came up a little too high and tight for Met tastes in the fourth when he brushed back his former batterymate Gary Carter. Carter may have been the best Expo ever, but he wasn’t exactly a beloved ex-Expo in his first year as a Met.

Gullickson, meanwhile, was a headhunter going back to his rookie season. Mets fans who had been coming to games since before Gooden made them de rigueur again remembered him all too well. On July 4, 1980, in the second game of a doubleheader at Shea, the big righthander was having a difficult time with the Mets, so he responded to his own shortcomings by throwing at Mike Jorgensen’s head. The Mets, aware of Jorgy’s injury history from a previous beaning, took exception and fought the invading Canadians on the spot. Five years later, however, their descendants didn’t lose their cool.

That’s because they had the coolest customer in the game going for them. Gooden calmly struck out his former teammates, Herm Winningham and Mike Fitzgerald, to start the fifth and then faced his opposite number, Gullickson.

The Doctor gave the other hurler a little career advice: If you want to be a headhunter, you might consider going into executive recruiting — but you don’t throw at my catcher. At least that’s what Gooden seemed to be saying as he threw a pitch clear over Gullickson’s head.

That merited a warning from home plate ump Frank Pulli. No further bouts of unforeseen wildness were unleashed from Dwight’s right arm. Having sent his message, he struck out Gullickson to end the top of the fifth for his seventh K of the night.

Gooden was all but impenetrable through five. “Against Dwight, every inning is the eighth,” Hernandez wrote. “Time is running out with his first delivery.”

If you subscribed to that theory — and in 1985, you had no reason not to — you knew Doc would inevitably outlast whatever Gullickson or whoever could come up with. And sure enough, in the home sixth, Wally Backman led off with a single, stole second with one out, moved to third on a Carter grounder to the right side and, after Darryl Strawberry was intentionally walked, scored on a George Foster single.

There. Dwight Gooden had a one-run lead. It was pretty likely enough, but just to be on the safe side, Foster drove in Strawberry in the eighth to make it 2-0. Dwight finished the game in rather pedestrian-for-him fashion, teasing flyouts from Dawson and Hubie Brooks and a groundout from Dan Driessen in the top of the ninth. Just like that, Gooden had his record-tying tenth consecutive win: a five-hit complete game shutout, garnished by ten strikeouts. He was 16-3 with more than two months left in the season. His ERA was 1.65. His strikeout total was 173. And his reputation was only growing larger.

“Dwight is a pitcher who comes along once in a lifetime,” Davey Johnson said after this latest triumph. “He is in total control at all times.”

Except maybe for that pitch over Gullickson’s head. Ah, it probably just got away.

ALSO QUITE HAPPY: On July 27, 2000, the Mets faced one of those states of emergency that befalls a baseball team now and then across the course of a season: they required an emergency starter. Rain had lashed the New York area the night before and suddenly Bobby Valentine’s club found itself faced with an unscheduled daytime doubleheader. Called upon to take the impromptu start was 22-year-old Norfolk Tide Grant Roberts.

He was not ready for his closeup.

Making his major league debut at Shea this Thursday afternoon, Roberts found himself pounced upon by the Expos — four runs in the first, three more in the second. The Mets, in turn, found themselves trailing 7-2. Yet seven innings later, they found themselves anew, 9-8 winners, thanks to a comeback onslaught that entailed 15 hits in toto. The win was sealed when Matt Franco singled off Steve Kline in the bottom of the eighth to break an 8-8 tie; it was the third M. Franco hit of the day. Also contributing mightily: Todd Zeile (3-for-4, including the game-tying single in the eighth), Benny Agbayani (4-for-5, 3 RBI) and Pat Mahomes, who gave up no hits across 4⅔ scoreless innings of relief.

In the nightcap, the Mets took a much easier route to a sweep, with Mike Hampton pitching a seven-hit complete game. By then, rookie Roberts was literally bound for Norfolk, flying back to the minors, where he’d be marooned until recalled in September. “It didn’t work out the way I wanted it to,” admitted the emergency starter whose veteran teammates combined to rescue him from his shaky first brush with the big time.

The Daniel Murphy Action Figure

You gotta love Daniel Murphy. He really doesn’t give you much of a choice.

You wanna get down on Murph sometimes. You wanna scold him, rap him gently on the snout with a rolled-up newspaper, admonish him off the furniture. “Murph! Don’t stand there by first base! That’s where the first baseman stands!” Then you remember you can’t stay mad at him because it’s not his fault he’s Murph, or that it wasn’t until after you adopted him that you realized he didn’t come with a position.

So we let Murph wander around the diamond. We let him think he has a position — or maybe we just try to convince ourselves he does. Murph’s not a third baseman, which for the moment is OK because we have a real one again (though you could argue how real “rusty” David Wright is defensively). Murph’s not a second baseman, though no one ever is around here. In case anyone’s forgotten, boy is he not an outfielder.

What about a first baseman?

Daniel Murphy?

Sure, why not?

As a fielder, Murph’s a helluva hitter. We saw that Monday night from Cincinnati in the seventh inning of a game that flirted with frustration early and disaster late but got put in the books as rewarding and entertaining, thanks in part to many Mets, but primarily Murph.

• Murph got himself thrown out at third, running from second on a ball hit to the pitcher. Overaggressive? Well, look at it this way: at least he didn’t get himself left on base.

• Murph interjected himself in the midst of a potential 8-2 putout when he decided to cut off Jason Pridie’s bullet of a throw from center instead of letting it possibly hit its target inside Josh Thole’s mitt. The decision permitted a Reds run that might have scored anyway. Or it might not have had the throw gone through. We’ll never know. Murph certainly didn’t when he grabbed the ball.

• Murph made an outstanding barehanded grab of a sharp grounder that appeared headed down the right field line and then an, uh, acrobatic lunge for the first base bag that only could have killed Jason Isringhausen while forcing Paul Janish. It’s not like it actually did.

Mostly, Murph delivered the big hit of the night for a club that had been crying out for a big hit for more than six innings. The Mets had runners on in the first, the second, the fourth, the fifth and the sixth. Mike Leake saw to it they — to the consternation of a highly effective R.A. Dickey — had nothing to show for it.

In the seventh, Jose Reyes singled with one out and Justin Turner  — after perhaps being robbed of an extra-base hit when Leisurely Laz Diaz didn’t hurry himself into the outfield to make the most foolproof fair/foul call he could — did the same, sending Reyes to third. Carlos Beltran, still a Met, sac-flied Jose home to make it 1-1. Wright singled to put two on with two out.

And then the Daniel Murphy Action Figure did what all the commercials say it can.

It sprung into action!

Hitting action!

Murph doubled to right (but not so far right that Laz Diaz guessed it foul) and brought home Turner and Wright for a 3-1 lead. Then Jason Bay forgot to ground to short and doubled instead. The Mets were up 4-1, a margin that could withstand Murph’s version of fundamentals on Pridie’s throw. Tim Byrdak got his man Jay Bruce ten months after the fact (better now than last September from a Met perspective), Bobby Parnell took a respite from his youthful inexperience and Izzy…well, Murph didn’t kill him on that putout at first, and loading the bases only made him stronger. Our golden-years closer struck out Brandon Phillips and the Mets were .500 yet again.

A team that wins exactly as many as it loses is the epitome of you never know what you’re gonna get, which suits the Daniel Murphy Mets just fine. As with their left fielder second baseman third baseman first baseman, the point isn’t necessarily winning or losing. It’s taking the thing out of its package and playing with it, ’cause it’s amazing just how much fun you can have if you do that.

But be careful not to cut yourself opening it, ’cause I’m pretty sure the Daniel Murphy Action Figure doesn’t come with a warranty.

***

Action of a more novel sort from our blolleague Caryn “Metsgrrl” Rose, who has published a book about something that isn’t baseball at all. If you love music, check out B-Sides and Broken Hearts, here.

Growing Pains

Let’s revisit two days ago’s rather optimistic Mets recap post, shall we?

(You don’t want to? Tough. I don’t particularly want to either, but I’m driving this train.)

Bobby Parnell may be learning to be successful without his best slider, but nothing a pitcher can learn will get him through days when all he has is his worst slider. Parnell sidelined his fastball to throw flat helicopters to Logan Morrison and John Buck, and the resulting home run and double turned an inspiring Mets comeback into a discouraging Mets loss.

Daniel Murphy may be a pure hitter whose potent bat can outweigh his suspect glove, but it’s tough to outweigh an afternoon in which you drop too many flying things that you get your hands on.

As for the rest of you Mets, well, too many balls through the wickets, too many missed cutoff men, too many messes.

Dillon Gee, on the other hand, burnished his growing legend. It was obvious soon after the start of today’s game that Gee was essentially unarmed: He couldn’t command his change-up or curve, leaving him with nothing but his thoroughly average fastball, and even that seemed to have a mind of its own, flying everywhere except where Gee wanted it to go. It happens to every pitcher sometimes, and generally leads to disaster and an early exit.

But Gee, somehow, hung in there despite a lot of grimacing and fretting, even when his teammates betrayed him in the fourth: A dreadful Jose Reyes error turned two outs and none on into first and third and none out and Murphy dropped a foul pop. Cruelly asked to get six outs in an inning in which getting one seemed uncertain, Gee somehow did, keeping the Marlins at bay and walking into the dugout with a battered, vaguely startled expression. He then found himself after a shaky start to the fifth (the Marlins got the leadoff runner on in each of the first five innings), gave way to a surprisingly effective Manny Acosta, and was watching when David Wright slammed a two-run homer over Soilmaster’s left-field agglomeration of random boarded-up football crap for a thoroughly unexpected 4-3 Mets lead.

Which led to Parnell, and disaster — soaring anthems souring into minor chords and collapsing into squalling and stilled cymbals and fighting in the studio while the engineer goes out to smoke a cigarette down to the filter.

These things happen, particularly with middle relievers learning to be closers and guys whose gloves can’t be hidden. (Which isn’t a problem in that stupid beer league the senior circuit never should have acknowledged as part of baseball.) I’m not backing off my hopes for the Mets’ long-term health, or abandoning the good scenarios I see for players who have made strides this year. They have made strides; they’ll make more. But some days they go backwards and inexperience proves fatal — and on days like that, it’s hard to paint rosy-colored scenarios. This one got away, and it hurt.

The Soundtrack of Your Life

Perhaps with more indisputable zeniths, I wouldn’t be so quick to recall the transitory peaks of life as a New York Mets fan. Whether it’s a 9-6 record in 1978 or 42-42 in 1980 or 53-38 in 1991 or 59-37 in 1984, those instances when the Mets got as good as they were going to get in a given year tend to burn brightly for me. Sometimes they can be measured by the best winning percentage the Mets could calculate for themselves in the heart of a baseball season. Sometimes, though, it’s about a more intangible sensation.

In 2007, the Mets rose their highest in late May — 33-17 after Jose Reyes and Carlos Delgado spooked Armando Benitez out of Shea Stadium — but there was another moment, exactly a month later, that I cling to just as much when I want to remember what was good about a year that wound up as historically dispiriting.

The Mets had been meandering through June for about three weeks when they reignited to what we considered their usual standards. They swept Oakland a three-game set at Shea, took two of three from St. Louis and then hit the road to Philly. I followed them there for the day-half win of a day-night doubleheader on a Friday, hauled ass back to Long Island that evening (the sweep secured as I arrived home) and then slept far too little before turning right around and back to Philadelphia. The Mets won my Saturday game, too. They won eight of nine at that point. I was 5-1 in this span.

Metwise, I felt on top of the world. You know the feeling, don’t you? The Mets are rolling and you’re sure they’re never going to stop. That’s how it was at 9-6 in 1978, when expectations were pretty darn low, and how it was at 59-37 in 1984, when expectations were shooting sky-high, and that’s how it was at 33-17 in 2007, when expectations were being met the way they were “supposed” to be post-2006. Then June fell into shambles for three weeks, and we all grew a little uneasy. Along came the 8-1 stretch, with two of the wins over the team we lost the pennant to the October before and another three versus the team making noises about taking our division away and, well, all was right with my world.

After boarding a northbound NJ Transit train near Princeton (thanks to my friends the Chapmans, who gave me a lift back in general direction of New York), I was giddy. I was too giddy to let go of 8-1, to let go of 5-1, to let go of just having watched the Mets win on “foreign” soil twice in a little more than 24 hours. So I didn’t let it go. I pulled out my iPod and listened to my Mets playlist, the first of many I’d go on to make via iTunes over the years. It was the most rudimentary, least imaginative of them, but it got the job done.

Doesn’t matter what the first fifteen tracks were; it was the sixteenth and final song that whipped me into a frenzy: “Takin’ Care Of Business” by Bachman-Turner Overdrive, the Shea victory anthem throughout 2006 and now 2007. I had pulled the iPod out of my bag so I could play it upon the last out in the bottom of the ninth, standing in the shadow of Harry the K’s. Pedro Feliciano grounded Carlos Ruiz into a 6-4-3 double play to end the game, and I pressed the appropriate button. I scolded myself briefly for being presumptuous to have the song cued up, but we were up five runs and it didn’t seem like a Mets win without BTO blasting “TCB” tidings.

On the train, I gave the song a double play of its own, which I regretted as soon as I did it. All the Mets had built this Saturday was a four-game lead over Atlanta and a six-game bulge over Philadelphia. I am, I thought, getting greedy. I’m gloating. As I allowed Randy Bachman and Fred Turner to finish their business and contemplated my the potential consequences of my actions.

No matter how much I am enjoying this, I have to stop playing “Takin’ Care of Business”. Any more triumphalism, and the gods will be angry at me for celebrating a single victory in the middle of the season far too heartily, with way too much smugness. Just get out of the Philadelphia market with another win and enjoy that. Do not screw with the Mets’ karma.

It’s true. I really do think in those types of terms.

Self-chastened, I twirled away from my “Amazin’” playlist and wheeled the iPod dial to a fairly new song of which I had been growing quite fond throughout June:

“Rehab” by Amy Winehouse.

So I listened to “Rehab”. And I listened to it again. And again. And again. And by the time I pulled into Penn Station, I was completely in love with it. After one train ride, I had my favorite song of the new millennium. It exploded through my ears and into my soul, filling me with breathless excitement and unironic adrenaline. It was funny, it was defiant, it was ominous. It was as self-aware a pop song as I’d ever heard. She wasn’t going to rehab. Let the chips fall where they may.

Four years later, they fell rather predictably, and, of course, what a shame they did. There were many kudos for “Rehab,” but never a followup for the album it came from. Amy Winehouse was a brilliant singer and songwriter. Getting through life, however, proved too much for the lady.

Upon the announcement of her death Saturday, several hours before the Mets bowed to Gaby Sanchez and the Marlins, I was transported to that other Saturday when I was riding New Jersey’s rails in a mood that was anything but black. The more it sunk in that there’d never be any more Amy Winehouse, the more I was back on that train from Princeton Junction to Penn Station. I had just seen the Mets beat the Phillies, 8-3, to remain on the kind of roll that you couldn’t have convinced me would end anytime soon. You surely couldn’t have told me that the 2007 Mets would meet their definitive end exactly three months later…and that fanwise, I’d be the one who would need to go to rehab.

June 30, 2007. Amy Winehouse was singing and the Mets were winning. I’m pretty certain I haven’t loved a song or my baseball team quite so much since.

All's Wright With the World

How many duck-and-cover games have the Mets played in Soilmaster Stadium, anyway? And how many of those ended with some fleet, scrappity Marlin hitting a ball just past the first baseman’s glove, or just through the drawn-in infield, or just hugging the third-base line, or just catastrophic enough in some unanticipated way to spell doom for the Mets?

It didn’t escape me that Emilio Bonifacio was perfectly cast as the latest in that long line of spoilers, but for some reason I figured we had this one, despite Mike Pelfrey pitching like Mike Pelfrey and the Marlins clawing back more often than a movie serial killer. Maybe I was just in a good mood. Or maybe it was that the Mets, for once, had added a presumably capable player to the lineup instead of being deprived of one.

Yes, David Wright was back, and looking every bit as thrilled to be back as you figured David Wright would look. And he played pretty well too — his pair of opposite-field RBI doubles were very welcome, even if some ducks were left paddling serenely on the pond in between those at-bats. Plus it was pretty funny watching him succumb to peer pressure and display the Claw or the Spotlight or whatever that hand gesture is.

But Wright wasn’t the only source of positive vibes. Tonight I realized that at some point in the past couple of weeks I stopped thinking of Daniel Murphy as an enigmatic player on a hot streak and started thinking of him as what he actually might be: a pure hitter who’s good enough with the bat that his average (at best) defense is more than aceptable. And I found myself nodding my head at Terry Collins’ postgame discussion of how Bobby Parnell’s learned to use his fastball to make his slider an effective weapon even when he’s not perfect with it. (Witness the one he used to erase Bonifacio — the location wasn’t great, but the change in speeds and the surprise were enough to freeze Emilio.) Parnell seems like he’s gaining confidence by the day, and could take over the closer duties after a little more mentoring (and five saves) from Jason Isringhausen.

Which is where I began floating off into a reverie. Suppose the Mets re-sign Jose Reyes — as I loyally/stubbornly/crazily think they will. To Jose, add a healthy Wright and Ike Davis, the decent-enough Angel Pagan, whatever we can get out of Jason Bay and another year of bringing Josh Thole along in tandem with a veteran at catcher. Plug Murphy in at second, with late-inning help from Ruben Tejada. Right field comes from a prospect who replaces Carlos Beltran, or perhaps Lucas Duda emerges, or if all else fails something can be made up out of hopefuls and platoons and spare parts. That’s not a bad lineup. (Oh, and here’s betting they eliminate the Mo Zone with Wright’s sanity in mind.)

On the pitching side, you’ve got Jonathon Niese, Dillon Gee, R.A. Dickey, Johan Santana and a fifth starter. (I don’t want to talk about Pelfrey, because he’s horrible and I can barely stand to look at him any more. If you’re in a more rational frame of mind, there’s a great discussion of Pelf and his future here.) Parnell closes and the middle relief is the same crapshoot everybody deals with. That’s not a terrible staff.

Would that team make the Phillies quake in their boots? No — but it would be a pretty good squad with mileage left on the odometer, several Omarpalooza contracts off the books, and the chance to take a next step forward and be truly formidable even as the Phillies find themselves spending too much money on players who aren’t aging well. (On Opening Day 2013 Ryan Howard will have the range of an old car up on blocks and five years left on his mega-contract. Good luck with that one.)

Watching your team lose a baseball game can make you think nothing will ever go right again, so I should be careful about even daring to think positive about this team, with its uncertain finances and horrific luck staying healthy. But I can’t help myself, and right now I don’t want to be talked out of it.

The Happiest Recap: 094-096

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” 94th game in any Mets season, the “best” 95th game in any Mets season, the “best” 96th 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 094: July 24, 1984 — METS 9 Cardinals 8 (10)
(Mets All-Time Game 094 Record: 31-18; Mets 1984 Record: 57-37)

Sometimes trades don’t work out. Sometimes they work out very well. And once in a while you’re fortunate enough to be reminded a particular trade could not have worked out better.

Nobody in New York had any complaints about the Keith Hernandez trade of June 15, 1983, a year after it happened. The only person in these parts who might have any problem with it when it occurred was Keith Hernandez himself. In If At First, he (with Mike Bryan) wrote, “In 1983, it wasn’t easy being the Mets. You can read a losing team a mile away — on the field, in the dugout, everywhere […] The Mets deserved and received no respect, and here I was, coming over from the world champions to a team with four last-place finishes in the previous six years, and the other two years next-to-last. Banished. Shipped to the Siberia of baseball.”

Thirteen months later, Siberia had morphed into something more readily resembling Nirvana. The Mets were a first-place club and Shea was the place to be. The reasons were many, but no single individual’s contributions loomed larger than Hernandez’s. With the second half of the Mets’ renaissance 1984 season well underway, Keith was  batting above .300, driving in key runs regularly, nursing a trio of young starting pitchers (and a rookie catcher) through their first full season in the bigs, making the region around first base impenetrable for batted balls, earning All-Star status for the third time in his career and establishing himself as one of the franchise’s true icons. To Mets fans waiting for someone like him, Keith Hernandez had long ago ceased to be a former St. Louis Cardinal. “Mex” was all New York Met.

Lost in the rearview mirror to most was the primary player on the other end of the Keith Hernandez trade, Neil Allen. Allen and Rick Ownbey were the bounty Frank Cashen gladly dispatched to Whitey Herzog to obtain Hernandez. As of June 1983, Ownbey was considered a top pitching prospect while Allen had been one of the leading relievers in the National League for several years…though 1983 hadn’t been one of them. Neil lost his late-innings assignments to Doug Sisk and Jesse Orosco, making him a dispensable piece of Cashen’s rebuilding efforts. Herzog may not have been dying to add Neil Allen to his defending world champs — he wanted to be rid of Hernandez (“I deserved it,” Mex allowed upon Whitey’s Hall of Fame induction in 2010, attributing their strained relationship to himself not having “the best of attitudes”) — but he found a way to make the most of the former fireman. Herzog installed Allen in his starting rotation and Allen rewarded his new manager’s confidence with five wins in his first eight starts, including three complete games, two shutouts and a pair of impressive victories over his old club. Hernandez, the Met, was 0-for-8 in those two contests versus Allen, the Cardinal.

That was 1983. By 1984, while Hernandez starred in New York (and Ownbey toiled mostly in the minors), Allen had returned to the Redbird bullpen, filling a supporting role behind Bruce Sutter. He did so with generally unspectacular results. On July 23, the Cardinals came into Shea to begin a three-game series with the Mets. Herzog inserted Allen into a 3-3 tie in the ninth and left him in there the rest of the way. Neil allowed no hits until the twelfth, when he eventually gave up the game-winning single to Wally Backman.

The next night, a Tuesday, the Mets and Cardinals were at it again, and scoring was far more plentiful, thanks in no small part to Keith Hernandez.

In the bottom of the third, Keith lofted a fly ball to left field that brought starting pitcher Bruce Berenyi home from third, part of a three-run inning that put the Mets up 3-0.

In the bottom of the fourth, after the Cardinals had posted a four-spot of their own, Keith singled Mookie Wilson in from third, helping to build a four-run Met response. The Mets now led 7-4.

In the bottom of the eighth, as the Mets trailed 8-7, Keith brought Jerry Martin around from second on a two-out single to knot the score at eight.

In the bottom of the tenth, Herzog once again called for Allen, who chalked up two quick outs but then allowed a single and a steal to Wilson before walking Backman. With runners on first and second, Hernandez stepped up. The 36,000-plus at Shea recognized the game within a game immediately: It was the guy the Mets traded versus the guy the Mets traded for…the guy who had made their Mets a first-place team.

And Keith Hernandez kept the Mets a first-place team. He singled up the middle, past Allen, to deliver Wilson with the winning run. Given opportunity after opportunity to remind Whitey Herzog who got the best of the Keith Hernandez deal, Keith Hernandez just kept delivering. Keith collected four RBI, one each in four separate plate appearances.

“I always hit better with men on base,” Hernandez said after the 9-8 win that increased the Mets’ N.L. East lead to 3½ games. “You won’t last long hitting third in a lineup if you don’t produce.”

Keith Hernandez hit third in the Mets’ lineup through 1989, including two postseasons and one world championship. And Allen, who Herzog sold to the Yankees a year after Hernandez beat him in that tenth-inning showdown? He preferred to remember the good times in Queens when approached by ESPN’s Mark Simon in 2011:

“The New York fans made me. From the day I arrived, they were nothing but great. I feel now that I helped the Mets get a championship by getting them one heck of a first baseman. I always tell myself that I must have been doing something right for the Mets to get someone like that.”

ALSO QUITE HAPPY: On July 12, 2008, it took a veritable team effort to achieve what celebrated individuals like Tom Seaver, Nolan Ryan, Dwight Gooden and David Cone had done on their own. Pedro Martinez (a pretty celebrated individual himself) looked sharp against the Colorado Rockies on a Saturday afternoon at Shea, allowing no hits through three innings. Bothered by a sore groin in the fourth, however, Martinez allowed a single to Brad Hawpe and was removed from the game as a precaution against further injury. Pedro was succeeded on the mound by Carlos Muñiz, Aaron Heilman, Scott Schoeneweis and Billy Wagner. None of them gave up a hit to any more Rockies, leading to a five-man one-hitter, the largest such combined one-hit victory in Mets history…or just one bad Hawpe away from the franchise’s first no-hitter. The 2008 Mets’ staff, bullpen and all, was having a particularly good week. The 3-0 win was the Mets’ fifth in a row in which they permitted three or fewer hits, a modern major league record.

GAME 095: July 24, 1970 — METS 2 Dodgers 1 (10)
(Mets All-Time Game 095 Record: 26-23; Mets 1970 Record: 51-44)

For every runner who ever danced off third to distract a pitcher with a game on the line, Tommie Agee has a question:

Why are you just dancing? Why aren’t you running?

Tommie Agee ran this particular Friday night, in a game against the Dodgers when the score was tied at one in the bottom of the tenth and, apparently, Tommie wasn’t in the mood to hang around all night.

Jerry Koosman and Bill Singer pitched as if hardly anybody was going to score for a very long time, each of them going nine, each of them giving up just a run apiece. Extra innings was handed over to the screwballers, Tug McGraw for the Mets, Jim Brewer for L.A. Tug pitched a swift 1-2-3 top of the tenth. Brewer’s bottom of the frame, however, loomed as more complicated.

Gil Hodges liked what he saw out of Tug’s arm because he left him in to bat, leading off the tenth. McGraw must have known a screwball when he saw one, because he singled off of Brewer. Now the order would turn over and traditional leadoff hitter Agee found himself in the unusual position of being asked to bunt a pitcher to second. Agee bunted, but not all that effectively. Six-time Gold Glove first baseman Wes Parker snared Tommie’s bunt and fired it to second,  where Dodger shortstop Billy Grabarkewitz attempted to force McGraw. But the plan became Mission: Impossible when the first four letters of Billy’s last name proved something of a misnomer. Grabarkewitz could not grab the ball, and his drop of Parker’s relay meant McGraw was safe at second and Agee was on at first.

At this point, Gil, smelling a win, removed McGraw for Al Weis. And Brewer, smelling redemption, picked off the pinch-runner.

And Agee? He stole second.

So now the Mets  have a runner on second — one who’s stolen 22 bases on the season — with one out. Buddy Harrelson is at the plate (and has been the whole time Weis and Agee were doing their respective things). And Buddy will continue to stand there as Brewer uncorks a wild pitch. It doesn’t get very far from catcher Tom Haller, but it had enough distance to allow Agee to zip to third.

After all that activity, Buddy strikes out. But Ken Singleton walks. And Donn Clendenon, pinch-hitting for Mike Jorgensen, also walks. Now the bases are loaded, and Cleon Jones is at bat. He works the count to 1-1 when…

…when he hears his Alabama amigo Agee shouting, “LOOK OUT! LOOK OUT!”

Tommie Agee has decided to steal home. He’s watched Brewer’s long windup, seen the pitcher was paying him no mind and figured he could make it. He had tried something similar in the playoffs against Atlanta the October before. At that time, Jones didn’t see him coming and fouled a liner that nearly took off Agee’s head.

Not this time, though. Cleon faked a swing and Agee slid home ahead of Haller’s tag, inciting “the capacity crowd at Shea Stadium” to a fine froth of “standing and roaring,” per Bob Murphy. The Mets won 2-1 on Tommie Agee’s second steal of the inning, his second steal of home of the season, the first and only time a Met has ended a game by stealing home.

“I was almost 80 percent sure I could make it,” Agee estimated. “If [Brewer] had just looked over at me, I couldn’t have gone.”

Hodges had another take on playing the percentages: “Ninety-nine and nine-tenths of the time, you always steal home on your own. And I’ve never given the sign for the other one-tenth. It was a very nice time to be safe.”

ALSO QUITE HAPPY: On July 23, 1965, something that occurred 1,904 previous times occurs for the final time, though it can’t be confirmed for a little while longer that it will never happen again.

On a Friday night, the Mets are where they’ve been since they were born, in last place. Progress is slow for New York’s expansion beloveds, but goodness knows they’re trying. They get to the tenth inning at Shea, tied at two with the Phillies. With one out, the Mets’ first great hope, Ed Kranepool, singles. Chuck Hiller follows with a single of his own. Then it’s up to Johnny Stephenson, he who struck out to end Jim Bunning’s perfect game against these same Phillies a year earlier. Facing Jack Baldschun, Stephenson singles to right. Kranepool barrels home with the winning run. Mets win 3-2. And congratulating his players is the man who’s been there for every all-too-rare Mets win, manager Casey Stengel. That night, Stengel will go home after leading his club to its 175th win ever and look forward to managing another game the next day.

He’ll never be able to do that again, for the next game is played on the heels of Old Timers Day. After the festivities (and the Mets’ 404th-ever loss — to Bunning, no less), Stengel, the embodiment of old-time baseball, goes out on the town with his comrades from days gone by for the Old Timers’ party at Toots Shor’s. Casey’s no wallflower when it comes to having a few. He’s been in baseball for more than fifty years. He knows his way around. But on this Saturday night/Sunday morning (by now), he can’t do it anymore. He loses his footing getting into or perhaps out of a club employee’s car and breaks his hip. Stengel winds up in the hospital in no condition to manage the Sunday doubleheader at Shea nor partake of the 75th birthday cake he was to be presented.

Soon enough, it will become apparent that Casey Stengel, after 3,766 games and nearly as many legends, is finished as a major league manager. Thus, that Friday night walkoff win — with two Original Mets (Jim Hickman and Chris Cannizzaro) and two Miracle Mets (Kranepool and Ron Swoboda) in the lineup — will go down as his 1,905th and last victory…not counting those he accumulated in the postseason nor his most enduring triumph: creating a positive, public face for his Amazin’, Amazin’, Amazin’, Amazin’ New York Mets.

GAME 096: July 18, 2001 — METS 4 Marlins 3 (11)
(Mets All-Time Game 096 Record: 26-23; Mets 2001 Record: 44-52)

Leave off the plural from the phrase that would soon become the title of a book and movie about a nefarious energy concern. And forget about those supposed geniuses who ran Enron into the ground. Early in the new millennium, Bobby Valentine is the smartest guy in the room…any room. On this Wednesday night, the room was Shea Stadium and nobody else stood a chance in a battle of wits.

In the midst of the 2001 season, the Mets were mostly marching in circles, but at least their general was always thinking. The people for whom he worked thought enough of him to honor him before this game for having lately won his 1,000th game as a major league manager. Most of those wins to date came for the Texas Rangers, but well over 400 came as he helmed the Mets.

Bobby V thanked one and all for the honor, and showed why he had gotten as far as he had in the bottom of the fourth inning, when the Mets and Marlins were tied at one.

Todd Zeile led off by singling. Rey Ordoñez moved him to third on a one-out ground-rule double. Valentine’s opposite number, Marlin skipper Tony Perez, ordered his infield to play in as Kevin Appier batted. Appier chopped a ball to shortstop Alex Gonzalez. Zeile, having broken on contact, found himself in a rundown while Rey-Rey raced to third…the same base to which Zeile was being chased back toward by Florida catcher Charles Johnson. In an instant, there’d be an impromptu Players Association meeting on third: Zeile, Ordoñez and Johnson — he’s the one bringing the ball.

Here’s how T.J. Quinn reported the get-together in the Daily News:

Johnson touched Zeile, whose foot appeared to be an inch from the bag, but third base umpire Kerwin Danley appeared to be watching the base and did not make a call.

After Johnson tagged Zeile, Zeile put his foot on the bag and Johnson tagged Ordoñez. Danley told Zeile he was out and Zeile went back to the dugout.

Perez was not satisfied. He thought Johnson had effected an inning-ending double play. Per his request, the umpires huddled and agreed. Both runners were called out.

Quinn cited Rule 7.03 — “if two runners are on the same base, the lead runner is entitled to it and the following runner is out once he is tagged” — and explained, “the only way they both could have been out is if Ordoñez was tagged out while they were both on the bag and Zeile subsequently abandoned the base.”

If a relatively obscure baseball rule was involved, however, there was no way Valentine was not going to a) know it and b) work it.

Quinn:

Once both men were called out and the Marlins ran off the field, Valentine rushed out of the dugout, arguing vehemently with the entire crew that there was no way they could both be out. The umpires huddled again, and this time they declared Zeile was entitled to go back to third because Danley told the wrong runner to leave the base. In the words of crew chief Charlie Reliford, it was Danley’s error.

Perez’s dissatisfaction returned and increased exponentially. He argued not only to no avail, but enough to get himself ejected. Valentine, meanwhile, resumed his post in the Met dugout, accurate and about to be triumphant, for once everybody got back to business, the next batter, Joe McEwing, doubled and scored Zeile for the 2-1 lead.

All courtesy of Bobby V, smartest guy in the room.

Out of confusion, only Bobby Valentine managed to remain cocksure. “Abandoned the base” became the buzzphrase of the night, followed by “comeback”. In the bottom of the ninth, with the Mets trailing 3-2, Gonzalez threw away a Mike Piazza grounder, which allowed Desi Relaford to score from second. And in the eleventh, McEwing scored from first on Tsuyoshi Shinjo’s double to win it 4-3.

No doubt that was Valentine’s idea, too.

ALSO QUITE HAPPY: On July 27, 1984, head-to-head pennant pressure returned to Shea, and who better to relieve pressure than the Doctor? True, this “reliever” was a starter and the doctor in question was 19 years old, but Dwight Gooden had already earned his Doctor K sobriquet in this, his rookie season…and nobody was more qualified to begin the most crucial series the Mets had played in more than a decade. The Doctor did not disappoint, as he led the first-place Mets by the second-place Cubs, 2-1, on a rollicking Friday night at Shea.

It turned out to be a high-water mark for the 1984 Mets, who moved 22 games over .500 and 4½ games up for the first and only time all season. The 51,102 who showed up anticipant and left ecstatic couldn’t have known the Mets wouldn’t keep up their blistering pace (the Cubs would win the final three games of the series and take first by early August) but they were certainly prescient if they figured they’d be seeing more and better from Doc, who struck out eight in eight innings as he raised his record to 9-6. Over the final two months of 1984, Gooden would record eight more wins and strike out 114 batters — with at least nine K’s per start in each of his final nine starts.

And So We Came to the End

Nevertheless, we will tire of Carlos Beltran. Let me be the first to welcome him to Flushing and show him the door. Not for at least five years, I hope, but it’ll happen. He or his swing will slow down. The strange breezes and thunderous flight path to LaGuardia will get to him. He won’t lead us to the promised land nearly enough and his salary will become unmanageable. He will get booed. Not now, but eventually. It always happens.

That’s Greg, from the second-ever post on Faith and Fear in Flushing. Seven years is a long time, in baseball years or the more mundane variety. But even a long time turns into a short time, and then trickles down into its final days. And now that we stand near the end, we can see that everything Greg predicted came true. Even sooner than we thought, in fact.

That first year was poor by Beltran’s standards, and by the impossible standards of $119 million deals, and he was booed. It wasn’t until his delayed curtain call early the next year that peace was reached between player and fans. He put up a monstrous year in 2006 — one of the best individual performances in Mets history for one of the best teams in Mets history — but it got tainted by an unhittable curve ball at the worst possible time. Then came two more wonderful seasons in which the team stumbled at the end despite Beltran’s best efforts, and then injuries and worse things. There was the shameful farce of the Mets not being able to speak with one voice on Beltran’s knee surgery, then trying to blame the player for their inability to get their act together. That was followed by his employers throwing him to the media wolves with an unseemly glee for not visiting Walter Reed, only to discover Beltran had a previous engagement with his own foundation, which builds schools in Puerto Rico.

So yeah, a lot of stuff happened in those first six years.

Yeah, some in the crowd tired of him.

Yeah, he slowed down.

Yeah, things got to him.

No, he didn’t lead us to the promised land nearly enough.

Yeah, his salary was seen as unmanageable.

Yeah, he got booed.

But there was a seventh year — and one of the many nice things about that seventh year is that it’s swept a lot of that nonsense away, forcing all but the most rabidly small-minded fans to admit what’s long been true: That Carlos Beltran is one of the greatest position players to ever wear a New York Mets uniform. (His career WAR of 32.1 is second in club history, behind only Darryl Strawberry.) When his reflexive naysayers predicted he wouldn’t yield center field in 2011, Beltran snuffed the fuse on a media controversy by volunteering to go to right. He’s been a leader and a mentor. He’s been durable. And he’s carried the team as it’s been shorn of one bat after another. It’s been a good enough year to shut up the yahoo choir, which in New York City is no easy trick.

Somehow those seven years have turned into 10 or 11 weeks, which combines with the logic of payrolls and prospects to turn into the very real possibility of 10 days: The Mets don’t return home until Aug. 1, which means Beltran probably won’t be with them when they do. (Yes, there’s been talk of the Mets trading him and then re-signing him, and Beltran has said the right things about that. But if you were Beltran, would you come back to an organization that’s treated you this shabbily?) I understand the logic for trading him, and if Beltran becomes a Giant or a Red Sock or an Indian or a Phillie or a Brave I’ll be philosophical about it, particularly if he yields a good prospect or two. The alternative is polite December words about New York and its fans, which won’t be much good for the rebuilding process.

But all that’s to argue about and worry over when it happens. Today was about taking a last look at him in our park. That was why I went to Citi Field, despite conditions being more appropriate for a Mercury Mets game. That’s why I sat in the molten sun of the Pepsi Porch with my friend Will watching the Mets do not a lot against Jake Westbrook and the Cardinals. (They at least had the decency to lose in a tidy 127 minutes.) But the game was secondary. Uppermost in my mind was Beltran, and being able to say I said farewell to him as best I could.

Beltran didn’t do much today — but then one Jose Reyes triple aside, nobody did. I watched his deceptively easy glide in right, and smiled at the growing constellation of sunflower hulls surrounding him in the grass, and stood and cheered when he came to the plate, and worriedly did the math in the late innings to figure out if he’d come up again.

He did, and in what might have been his final home at-bat, Mets fans who knew what was happening mostly stood and applauded long and loud. But we were outnumbered by day-campers, who were more interested in Spongebob than a potential change of eras. And all of us, campers and faithful alike, were in an advanced state of mummification by then.

So no, Beltran didn’t win it in a walkoff. I wish he had. But I wished a lot of things for Beltran that never happened. I wish he’d sent one up the gap off Adam Wainwright and been carried off the field by his giddy teammates, who refused to let his feet touch the ground until Detroit. If that’s too much to ask, I wish he’d hit a long drive that was caught, rather than been frozen by an unhittable curve and have to hear about it from talk-radio sluggers. None of those things happened, and Beltran’s final home game may well turn out to be a run-of-the-mill loss.

But he was out there at the end, in the new position he’d volunteered to play, during a scorching day game after a night game, doing his best. He didn’t get the standing ovation he deserved, but those of us who knew what was going on applauded. But that’s always been the case. And if that’s Beltran’s epitaph, at least it’s a fitting one.

Angel Pagan's Proper Goodbye

I like hellos. I appreciate goodbyes. Those are the two interpersonal ceremonies I stand on.

Hellos aren’t hard to come by. You’re seeing somebody as planned, you say hello. You’re seeing somebody for the first time in a long time, you say hello. You’re meeting somebody for the first time ever, you say hello. Granted, you can feel swarmed by hellos when introductions are plentiful and you’re reasonably certain that everyone you’re hello-ing is someone you’ll never see again, but that’s part of the social contract. It’s nice.

Goodbyes, however, seem to be seeping away from our common discourse. I’m surprised at how often during the past few years I’ve spent innings or hours or evenings in the company of people who disappear before I can say goodbye. To be fair, sometimes I disappear before they can say goodbye. I don’t think anybody means anything by it. I know I don’t.

Life moves fast and all that — far faster than it did in Ferris Bueller’s analog day off. Who has time to put a period on a sentence when we jump from ellipse to new paragraph to next page, and that’s taking into account that we hardly bother with paper anymore? Maybe there’s a generational shift at work here. Maybe Facebook and Twitter and their perpetual, multiheaded dialogues have warped the concept of boundaries. Maybe finite conversational transactions are simply going the way of men’s fedoras. Maybe people just have trains to catch. I know I do.

I bring this up for two primary reasons:

1) I didn’t get to say a proper goodbye to the people with whom I immensely enjoyed Wednesday night’s game.

2) I immensely enjoyed Wednesday night’s game because Angel Pagan showed us what a proper goodbye consists of.

My agenda first: Thanks to Jeff, Dylan, David, Lyle and, well, the stream of people whose names I’ve already forgotten but seemed pleasant and pro-Met, which is all I ask of anybody, whether I’m at a Mets game or anywhere. Though texts have been exchanged and closure has been obtained, I thought you guys (the ones whose names I know) were following me to the car I had in mind on the Super Express. Why you didn’t read my mind, I’m not sure, but the doors were closing and Woodside was waiting and this seems to happen to me a few times per season. Sorry I didn’t get to shake everybody’s hand — though I surely relished high-fiving them minutes earlier.

As for the Mets, it is to their credit that they held off on their goodbyes as long as they did. This was one of those games, when it was 4-0 in the middle of the third, that you could sense was in danger of slipping into oblivion. So many nights you tell yourself an early 4-0 deficit isn’t insurmountable. So few nights do you actually believe yourself.

Wednesday, it was OK to believe. It was OK to believe R.A. Dickey would straighten himself out from his various jams. It was OK to believe Josh Thole — having just said hello to Camden Thole on Tuesday night — would greet a couple of big pitches with big swings. It was OK to believe Carlos Beltran would know how to milk his not-long-enough goodbye in powerful Pepsi Porch fashion. It was OK to believe Pedro Beato could bid adieu to Albert Pujols in three pitches and that Jason Isringhausen could persevere across 34 pitches. It was even OK to believe Gerald Laird’s safety squeeze that put the Cards up 5-4 in the eighth wasn’t a dagger to the Met heart. Not every St. Louis catcher is necessarily a lethal weapon.

And it was definitely OK to believe in Angel, a Met vouched for by everybody who knows him as the finest of young men, yet when he’s in one of those slumps to which he has a hard time saying “farewell” — or at least “smell ya later” — belief gets strained. Thus, when Angel (to whom I’d like to believe Carlos told, “son, you may have to be the man of the outfield around here soon”) transcends doubt and transforms it into affirmation, and suddenly a long, scary night filled with visions of Pujols, Holliday and Berkman batting again and again and again becomes truncated into Mets 6 Cardinals 5 in 10 innings because Angel Pagan goes yard…

…then, good night for now and I look forward to seeing you again real soon.

Last Train to Beltran

I haven’t enjoyed too many Citi Field nights more than I enjoyed Tuesday’s. You know you’re on the literal right track to a fine evening when your LIRR conductor announces that “for tonight only,” you won’t have to change at Jamaica for Woodside. All the dominoes fell favorably from there.

Stay on for Woodside and you…

• Get the Shea…I mean Mets-Willets Point connection across the track at Woodside

• Don’t get checked for a ticket, so — in transitspeak — you’re saved both a Metrocard swipe and a ten-trip punch.

• Meet up with two-sport blogger extraordinaire Matthew Artus (late of Always Amazin’, lately with Amazin’ Avenue, plus with the soccer) in plenty of time to secure BobbleIke, quite possibly the only Ike we’ll see ’til next year.

• Enjoy a ringside Promenade seat for Dillon Gee’s four-some innings of no-hit threatening.

• Shake off dissipation of potential no-hitter when the Mets actually begin to cash in their own bounty of hits for a couple of runs here and a couple of runs there.

• Analyze the efficacy of Tony La Russa’s insistence on batting his pitcher eighth and remaining baffled despite our (and Kyle Lohse’s) best efforts as to why if it’s so bleeping genius, why hasn’t anybody else adopted it?

• Boo Yadier Molina.

• Wonder why Daniel Murphy is so mad at his batting helmet.

• Welcome back Jose Reyes with open arms, smoking bats, ready gloves, healthy legs, contract extensions — welcome him back with everything we have, really.

• Stare agog, agape and aghast as Lance Berkman drills a pothole in the Shea Bridge, but that’s almost all right, because nobody’s on and it kind of gets us past the idea that Gee should have stopped those two balls up the middle that cost him his no-hitter, like we were really going to see a no-hitter, but as Matt admitted, “I was thinking no-hitter from the second inning.” Anyway, Berkman’s shot was a sight to behold, as long as it came in a losing cause.

• Be joined in our section (right in front of one of our several weird, incomprehensible, yelling neighbors who wasn’t particularly invested in either the Mets or the Cardinals, he just liked yelling weirdly and incomprehensibly) by Matthew Silverman, who drops by for the late innings.

• Settle down in our newly reconfigured bullpen with Bobby Parnell and Jason Isringhausen making us all most comfortable.

• Put it in the books, or in my case, once I get home, The Log II, the steno pad in which I record the essential details of every game I’ve ever been to at Citi Field, just the way I used to at Shea Stadium.

• Make an eastbound train at Woodside that requires no changing at Jamaica. If you ride the Long Island Rail Road on any line but Port Washington, you understand what a luxury that is.

The seamless commuting, the no-resemblance Ike, the pair of Matts, the ultimately harmless Bridge job, the return of Jose and of course, of course, of course that 4-2 win all get filed under why we count off the days in winter until it’s spring. We do it so we have summer nights like this one. Amid what amounted to an infomercial for baseball, however, something nagged at the Metsopotamian soul:

We were probably watching the beginning of the last series Carlos Beltran ever plays in a Mets home uniform.

If we were — and it’s tough to doubt, considering that the Mets are on the road starting Friday and through the trade deadline — then what a way to begin to go out, for him and for us.

First off, I’m impressed most not that he went for 3-for-3, smacked two doubles, reached base five times and showed no ill effects from the flu he was sweating out during the previous few days.

I’m most impressed that he showed up for work on the heels of a reported 105-degree fever. Either impressed or horrified.

I don’t know if he showed his face Saturday, but I saw him on the bench Sunday and Monday. Maybe coming to Citi Field to take advantage of its convenient I.V. drips was better for him than turning up his bedroom AC to full blast and trying to forget how sick he was by seeking out reruns of Match Game ’75 on the Game Show Network, but geez: a 105-degree fever? In this heat? The players have a strong enough union so they get a couple of sick days, don’t they?

Carlos Beltran doesn’t take sick days, not willingly. Do you realize that with Josh Thole on paternity leave, the only Met position players to spend every moment of this season on the active roster are Beltran, Murphy and Scott Hairston? And as evidenced by his “oh, by the way” streak of reaching base in 25 consecutive games, I’d say Carlos is the leading candidate for Met Employee of the Month, no matter where he ends July.

This is who Carlos Beltran has been for the bulk of seven Met seasons, even the two that injuries curtailed into veritable half-years — even during the first one, back when he was still trying to dash to third while carrying the weight of outsized expectations on his shoulders. He didn’t meet them in 2005. He exceeded them in 2006. He stayed ahead of them in 2007 and 2008, for the most part. He did what he could with them as lack of physical well-being dictated in 2009 and 2010.

In 2011, at least now that July 31 is coming into view, the expectation is he’ll be traded sometime in the next eleven days. It’s one of the few expectations I’d prefer Carlos Beltran not meet. He shattered what little was thought in store for him this spring. Beltran was projected to be a part-timer and a fairly gimpy one at that. There’s no gimp in this man. There’s no quit in this man. What concerns me is there will be no Met in this man’s uniform when the Mets come home from Miami, Cincinnati and Washington.

I get it. I understand the financial realities. I see the benefit of getting something in a trade now as opposed to nothing when he leaves later, and I grudgingly accept there is no next year where this team and this increasingly pricey free agent to be are concerned. I also maintain no illusions that even as the Mets scrap and claw, their Wild Card chances are probably too remote for even Lance Berkman to reach on the fly. Beltran 2011 isn’t Reyes 2011 in terms of allocating future resources.

But Beltran 2011 is a joy in whatever’s left of the present. And the vision of Beltran in a Mets uniform, putting every one of his five or six tools to brilliant use, just keeps looking better and better in the rearview mirror of the mind. When I summon a mental highlight package of No. 15 for whatever reason I might in the coming years, I’ll make a note to ask the truck to include the night he went for 3-for-3, smacked two doubles, reached base five times and showed no ill effects from the flu he was sweating out during the previous few days. That what Carlos Beltran did on quite likely the second-to-last night I got to see him play in a Mets home uniform.

Why do we count off the days in winter until it’s spring? We do it so we have summer nights like this one, so we can watch players like that one.