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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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While I Was Semi-Away

I admit it, the only parts I heard were the boring parts.

I got a late start on the evening, grabbing my iPhone as I dashed out the door. I fumbled my way into MLB At Bat and noted, with a certain cheerful approval, that it was already 2-0 Mets. Walking to pick up Emily in the top of the second, I heard a modest Mets uprising, with my phone cocked up by my ear and people on the street regarding me with the usual mixture of disdain/interest/envy. (I get the first reaction, but the other two baffle me: The game is on the radio. That’s the whole point. You could be listening yourself if you would part with an extremely modest amount of money and plan slightly ahead.) Willie Harris lined out to end the second, I met Emily and we got a cab, and the Tigers did nothing of note as we coaxed the cabbie down to Red Hook.

At the Good Fork we of course weren’t going to be listening to Mets-Tigers, though my wife made a tacit concession by not objecting to the phone placed on the table between us, silent but updating itself with Gameday highlights, the little batter figurine turning right and left as warranted. The Mets, I kept noticing, kept batting. There were two outs, but suddenly it was 3-0. Then Jose had tripled. Then it was 4-0. Every time I glanced over, the Mets still somehow weren’t out. Then, with Jason Bay up, there was that vaguest of digital-age pronouncements: In play, run(s).

They weren’t kidding. Bay had done something we all thought the Mets had forgotten how to do: He had hit a ball over the fence with a teammate on first and another teammate on second and yet another teammate on third. Hooray Jason Bay! Hooray everybody! My iPhone put up a silhouette of a new batter and a line of dispassionate explanatory text. Confronted with the Mets’ first grand slam in 299 days, I was somewhat more excited. Long ago, I had a Motorola SportsTrax, and in the first days I didn’t know how to use it or what it was telling me with its Artoo-Detooesque bleating and chriping. For some reason we had a work retreat scheduled for a Saturday in lower Manhattan, so around the fourth inning of a Mets day game we were sitting around some conference table drinking bottled water and eating Cosi sandwiches when my little pager went ballistic, whistling and blatting and flashing every part of its LED screen.

“Gentlemen,” I said after peering at the screen for a moment, “I believe that’s the grand-slam noise.”

An inning after Bay’s feat in 2011, the grand-slam noise sounded like this.

Me: Ha. No way.

Emily: What?

Me: Beltran.

Emily: You’re kidding. [appreciative laughter]

By the time we were done and walking back up Van Brunt, the fireworks were over and the Mets and Tigers were just trying to get back to the hotel and their homes (respectively) without aches and pains. (Seriously, how is it that Jose Reyes can go 4-4 and it feels like the undercard?) Perfunctory play-by-play took us as far as a bus stop, where my phone gave a final sigh of expiring batteries and lapsed into silence. I didn’t mind — if ever a lead was safe, it was this one. When I got home, SNY was showing a happy Bob Ojeda and Chris Carlin, and I knew all was well.

Sorry I missed it? Sure, a little. But glad it happened? You bet.

The Other Jose Reyes

Last week I went on a road trip, for a number of reasons: I wanted to get some junk out of our apartment, a problem I solved by selling CDs and sticking my parents with boxes of baseball cards; I wanted to see Gettysburg; I wanted to drive around for a couple of days; and I figured the road might be good for some thinking and career self-counseling.

We’ll see how the last item progresses, but all the others got accomplished. In Virginia, I was thumbing through a fan of long-forgotten cards and had two happy discoveries, minutes before the boxes would have gone into the attic, likely never to be seen again. One was a 2007 Binghamton Mets card for Raul Valdes, whose previous card in The Holy Books had been a Bowman card showing him in a Cubs uniform and identifying him as Raul Valdez. I grabbed that one for transport back to New York, then noticed something else — a 2007 Binghamton card of Jose Reyes. Wearing No. 7 and everything.

No, not that Jose Reyes, the one we’re all voting onto the All-Star team. (You are, right? Get to it.) I mean the other one.

You might remember Jose A. Reyes — the A. is for Ariel, as opposed to the more famous Jose’s B. for Bernabe — in camp with the Mets in 2007 with a bunch of other non-roster catchers. Jose A. was barrel-shaped and catcher-slow, prompting David Wright to joke that “I’m going to go out on a limb here, but I’ll say that the shortstop is a little faster.” Jose A. wore 77, which led to more jokes. They were both from the Dominican Republic, born less than four months apart in 1983, though Jose A. was from Barahona, in the interior, while Jose B. was from Santiago, on the coast. The New York Times had fun with it. We all did.

Jose A. ReyesWhat kept it from being too cruel was that Jose A. himself was a good sport about it, and he wasn’t one of those non-roster guys you knew would never make The Show, because he already had. Jose A. had logged five plate appearances over four games with the Cubs at the end of 2006, including a big-league hit. He was a made man.

Baseball can be cruel in terms of family connections and common names. We first learn this when we’re kids and are flabbergasted to learn that Hank Aaron had a brother; later, when we’re older and have learned something about the disappointments of life, we may wonder if Tommie Aaron might have been happier in some other line of work. Other examples abound. Jose Canseco’s brother Ozzie was also his identical twin, which at the time was a fascinating starting point for arguments about nature and nurture, though pharmacology would now be part of the discussion, too. The Mets employed Mike Maddux as Dallas Green’s designated scapegoat while being regularly beaten by Mike’s brother Greg, but at least Mike was a different sort of pitcher than Greg and forged a respectable career as a pitching coach. Robin Yount played for 20 years, collected 3,142 hits and is in the Hall of Fame; his brother Larry hurt himself warming up for his big-league debut with the Houston Astros and departed, having never thrown a pitch in anger. Sons get it too: Spend a few minutes looking over the career of Pete Rose Jr. and you’ll wonder what Shakespeare or Faulkner might have done with it.

Then there are common names. The two Jose Reyeses weren’t the first such Mets duo, of course: The ’62 club employed two Bob Millers at once, with the traveling secretary rather pragmatically rooming them together. Thirty-eight years later, the Mets pulled the same trick with the two Bobby Joneses. At least those pitchers weren’t light-years apart in terms of notoreity: The Mets have also employed pitchers Bob L. Gibson and Pedro A. Martinez, though thankfully (for their sakes) neither of them overlapped with famous Cardinal and momentary Mets pitching instructor Bob Gibson or Pedro J. Martinez, who requires neither his middle initial nor his last name to be instantly recognizable.

So whatever happened to The Other Jose Reyes?

He was sent to minor-league camp in mid-March of 2007 and didn’t get a call-up — not surprising given that he hit .214 in Double-A. He didn’t play in pro ball in 2008, but I assume he wore a uniform somewhere in the Caribbean, because the Orioles signed him at year’s end and brought him to spring training in 2009. They sent Jose A. to minor-league camp in mid-March and after that there’s no trace of him. He’d had elbow woes with the Orioles, which for a catcher who couldn’t hit much might have been the final straw.

Or maybe Jose A. is still out there in a Dominican league, hoping to catch the eye of some team seeking organizational depth. And why not? He, like his more famous countrymate with the same name and number, is just 28. He knows by now that few positions offer more longevity while demanding less hitting ability than catcher, particularly if you can make the transition to wise old catcher. I hope he’s still plugging away somewhere and lining himself up for a stint as a roving instructor. Or, if the elbow betrayed him, I hope he’s at least happy — happy enough to smile patiently at the 10,000th person who makes a joke about his stolen bases or his impending free-agent riches, and happy enough to talk about his two weeks with the Cubs, when someone else carried his bags and he hit white balls for batting practice, and if you’ll stop being an ass for a moment he’ll show you the ball he hit for an eighth-inning single off Milwaukee’s Derrick Turnbow on Sept. 26, 2006. Drove in two. You could look it up.

The Happiest Recap: 073-075

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 consisting of the “best” 73rd game in any Mets season, the “best” 74th game in any Mets season, the “best” 75th 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 073: July 3, 1990 — METS 12 Astros 0
(Mets All-Time Game 073 Record: 20-29; Mets 1990 Record: 43-30)

This was the Darryl Strawberry we had been waiting for. He took eight seasons to arrive, but boy was he present.

Darryl had been good, sometimes very good since his debut in 1983. His numbers made an occasional case for great. Yet there was always the sense something was holding him back. Call it immaturity or a learning curve or a matter of there being holes in his game as he developed.

By the middle of 1990, there were no longer negatives. He was a superstar in full. And didn’t the Houston Astros know it? Then again, why should have they been any different from the rest of the National League?

The Astros showed up at Shea this Tuesday night in time to learn that Darryl would be gracing the cover of the new Sports Illustrated, a tribute to “The Amazin’ Mets,” which may not sound like the world’s most original coverline, except the word “Mets” was inserted where the word “Mess” was crossed out. A few weeks earlier, SI bemoaned the Mets’ fate. Now they were printing what amounted to an enormous retraction.

Darryl was an enormous part of the instant revisionism that surrounded the 1990 Mets. The most enormous part, really. Their midsummer roll was one of the most unstoppable in club history, a 27-5 stretch that redefined their fortunes and seemed to be writing them a ticket toward the postseason. That was a ways away in June and July, but if any one player seemed capable of carrying them to October, it was Straw. In a 29-game span roughly coinciding with the Mets’ surge, their cleanup hitter launched 15 home runs and drove in 36 runs while hitting .389.

You couldn’t get the guy out. The best you could do was duck and maybe turn and admire what he did to your best stuff. It would have been the sporting thing to do if you were Astros reliever Xavier Hernandez.

Hernandez’s team was already in a hole of someone else’s making when he entered to pitch the bottom of the fifth. Starter Mark Portugal was flash-filleted by the Mets’ scorching bats right away. He got his first Met hitter out in the bottom of the first, and the Mets got him: Dave Magadan singled; Gregg Jefferies singled him to third; Darryl singled Magadan home and Jefferies to third; Kevin McReynolds homered them all home.

Mark Portugal had thrown 16 pitches since retiring Howard Johnson to begin the first and they had netted his opponents four runs. It wasn’t going to be Mark Portugal’s night.

How could it be? He had to face Darryl Strawberry again.

The bases were empty, there was one out, it was still “only” 4-0 Mets, but Portugal may as well have been stranded on an island (or the Iberian Peninsula) given how alone he must have felt on the mound having to divine a way to not have one of his pitches turn to jelly against Strawberry.

Darryl chose his second delivery and then…SPLAT! All the way to the picnic area bleachers over the left field fence, some 425 feet from home plate…an opposite-field shot for Straw. Or, as he might have called it, a stroll in the park.

No picnic for Portugal. The Mets ruined his Third of July a little more when they loaded the bases in the fifth and brought home a sixth run. With the Mets having pounded Portugal to a pulp, Astro manager Art Howe took mercy on his starter and pinch-hit for him in the visitors’ fifth (with ex-Met Alex Treviño). Houston didn’t score and handed their 0-6 deficit to Hernandez.

As Julia Roberts said in 1990’s big flick, Pretty Woman, “Big mistake. Big. Huge.”

On a 1-0 pitch, Darryl Strawberry swung and everybody, Hernandez included, was compelled to look up in awe. Ooh! Aah! Where did that thing land?

It didn’t so much land as crash into the highest obstacle in its path, which in this case was the massive Shea Stadium scoreboard. As described by Joe Durso in the Times, it “carried 450 feet from home plate and struck halfway up the scoreboard against the lighted word ‘Ball,’ where the count on the batter is recorded but where baseballs rarely carry.”

This one — one of the farthest-traveling Shea had ever seen — carried, much as Darryl was known to carry the Mets on his back. He didn’t have to do it all by himself in June and July of 1990, however. He had help. Hell, he had another Daryl. Two batters after Strawberry, Hernandez saw his seven-run deficit grow larger, courtesy of the Mets’ other Daryl.

What? The Mets have ANOTHER one?

In 1990, they sure did, platoon centerfielder Daryl Boston, and he tagged a Hernandez pitch that made its way literally as well as figuratively onto the same scoreboard the first Darryl tattooed. Alas, Boston’s blast merely banged into one of the ads on the lower righthand corner of the edifice (piker), putting the Mets up 8-0…and they weren’t likely coming down. Frank Viola continued to shut out Houston, while the third Astro pitcher of the night, Jim Clancy, found four more runs to give the Mets in the seventh. The Mets held on from there for the 12-0 win.

It was a team effort, but how could you ignore the player in the middle of it all? Manager Buddy Harrelson couldn’t and wouldn’t miss his not-so-secret weapon. Darryl Strawberry, the Mets’ skipper marveled, “is a beautiful thing to watch. He’s like a well-oiled machine out there.”

And in the midst of the Mets’ 27-5 renaissance, he just kept humming along.

ALSO QUITE HAPPY: On June 22, 1997, Bobby Valentine didn’t have a starting pitcher, but the manager of the Mets wasn’t supposed to have a contender on his hands, either. Thus, on a steamy Sunday at Shea, he found both. The contender we knew about. The Mets were hanging right in there with Florida and Montreal for the National League Wild Card lead, and they were asking reliever Cory Lidle to keep them close. Lidle got the call to start because Armando Reynoso was unavailable, having sustained a shot to the knee from a Luis Sojo line drive in the previous week’s Subway Series (which must be what they meant when they said the Yankee hitters were dangerous). Valentine asked Lidle to give the Mets as many innings as he could against the Pirates. It didn’t add up to many, but he had assistance on both sides of the ball.

Lidle was staked to a 4-0 lead, but couldn’t hold it. The Mets got him an extra run, but Pittsburgh knocked Cory out and brought home the go-ahead run in the fifth versus Juan Acevedo. Tough stuff, but the Mets were tougher, scoring four runs in the bottom of the sixth to take a 9-6 lead. Acevedo gave way to Ricardo Jordan, and the spirit of middling middle relief couldn’t quite be shaken. Jordan gave up a run to make it Mets 9 Pirates 7. In the eighth, Greg McMichael became the first Met pitcher of the day to not allow a runner (his own or an inherited one) to score. But John Franco…well, a two-out walk, a steal and a Kevin Young double happened and the Bucs tied the Mets at 9-9.

Not a lot of great Met pitching by their all-relief corps, but you may have noticed there was plenty of hitting. And sure enough, after Takashi Kashiwada held the Pirates scoreless in the top of the tenth, the Mets drew two walks and, with two out, Carl Everett collected his fourth hit of the day — his biggest yet: a three-run walkoff homer for a 12-9 Met victory. Kashiwada was credited with the win, but it was Everett who earned the save.

GAME 074: July 3, 1986 — METS 6 Astros 5 (10)
(Mets All-Time Game 074 Record: 28-21; Mets 1986 Record: 53-21)

It couldn’t have been more patriotic around Shea this Thursday night. Fireworks awaited in the postgame on this Independence Day’s eve, and all of New York was preparing to celebrate the Statue of Liberty’s centennial the next night. The Mets contributed to that sense of red, white and blue with their own version of manifest destiny.

This land was their land. This league, too.

It had been the story of 1986 from almost the word go. Go? The Mets went and couldn’t be hailed down. An 18-1 stretch in April and May elevated them permanently above the N.L. East pack. The Expos lingered within wishing distance for a while, but a six- and then seven-game winning streak had irrevocably separated the Mets from Montreal. Yet another streak — six and counting — was in progress when one of the Mets’ prospective playoff opponents, the West-contending Astros, landed at Shea for a holiday weekend series.

Prospective playoff opponent? Houston was indeed in a dogfight for first with the Giants in their division, but wasn’t it the height of presumption to infer it had anything to do with the Mets? After all, more than half the season had yet to be played.

But no, it wasn’t presumptuous. The Mets held an 11½-game lead over the Expos, much bigger over everybody else. It clearly wasn’t going to recede. They needed a new challenge. Hence, Houston.

Versus Ron Darling, the Astros entered swinging. Ty Gainey and Glenn Davis each drove in a first-inning run and the Mets trailed 2-0 almost immediately.

That would not stand.

In the bottom of the second, lightly used backup catcher Ed Hearn homered off Astro starter Jim Deshaies to put the Mets on the board. Jose Cruz’s sac fly got the run back in the fourth, but Darryl Strawberry’s eleventh home run of the season, with Kevin Mitchell  on base, tied the game 3-3 in the fifth. After that, the two starters traded zeroes into the eighth. Charlie Kerfeld replaced Deshaies — who had struck out eleven — but the Mets didn’t score. Darling went nine but left with the game tied. Kerfeld got out of the ninth as well.

The Grucci pyrotechnics spectacular would have to wait a little while as the Astros and the Mets played on. Sadly for the 48,839 in attendance, Jesse Orosco, picking up for Darling, dampened the skies. With two out, Jesse walked Jim Pankovits. Phil Garner, pinch-hitting for Kerfeld, homered. The Astros led 5-3.

In another year, the Mets fan default attitude might have been “so much for fireworks,” but this was 1986, a year like no other. So what happened next, while not necessarily a lock, couldn’t have seemed all that surprising.

Frank DiPino came on to attempt to close out the Mets in the bottom of the tenth. But the first thing he did was walk Lenny Dykstra, who entered the game as a pinch-runner in the eighth. One way or another, walking a Met leadoff batter wasn’t a good idea. Usually it meant a stolen base was in the offing. This time it meant Dykstra could trot home in front of Strawberry, who whacked the lefty DiPino’s first pitch 430 feet for his second home run of the game. Suddenly it was 5-5, and Shea had more explosive things on its mind than fireworks.

Met momentum stalled briefly as Gary Carter (that night’s starting first baseman) grounded out and Rafael Santana struck out. Ray Knight, who had fanned in his four previous at-bats, seemed an unlikely candidate to regenerate Met momentum. But he did, with the final swing of the game.

“This ball is outta here,” Tim McCarver exclaimed over Channel 9, “this ballgame is over and I don’t believe it! Ray Knight hits a game-winning home run and the Mets have won seven in a row! They are spreading the news that they are, right now, the dominant team in this game…in either league!”

Was McCarver looking ahead, too, and not just to the fireworks display? In case it wasn’t enough that the Mets had just beaten the Astros 6-5 in ten innings, Tim alluded to the undeniable fact that the Mets (now 12½ up on their nearest Canadian rival) had the best record in all of baseball, 4½ games better than that of the best the American League had to offer, the Boston Red Sox.

Why anyone would think a Mets’ 6-5, ten-inning triumph at Shea in which Ray Knight scored the winning run would be of interest to the 1986 Red Sox is another story for another time.

ALSO QUITE HAPPY: On June 26, 1963, the Mets gave a game away, which was nothing unusual given their brief, inglorious history. But then, in stunning fashion, they took it back. To be fair, the Mets did a nice job of burrowing their way into this Wednesday matinee versus the Cubs at the Polo Grounds. Down 4-0 by the middle of the fifth, Duke Snider drove in Ron Hunt with a sixth-inning double and Frank Thomas followed behind him with a two-run homer. Frank was Thomas on the spot in the eighth, driving in Choo Choo Coleman in the eighth to knot the score at four. The Mets pitching staff was doing a heckuva job in the meantime: starting with Al Jackson getting the last out of the fifth and going through his next inning of work, then two from Larry Bearnarth, one from Tracy Stallard, two from Carl Willey and two and two-thirds from Galen Cisco, the Mets actually threw the equivalent of a no-hitter for nine innings’ worth of Cubs outs. That streak was snapped, however, when, with two out in top of the fourteenth and Don Landrum on first via walk, Billy Williams lined a ball to left that Thomas — known as the Big Donkey — got a poor jump on. It took off to distant precincts of the PG outfield and Williams’s hit became a two-run inside-the-park home run, giving the Cubs a 6-4 lead.

If the game had climaxed there, it would have been…not unusual. But the Mets had hung around this long, so they might as well hang in there a little longer. Jim Hickman singled to open the home fourteenth and the Mets seemed to have a rally going when rookie Ron Hunt singled, too, but Hickman, in his haste to make something happen, overran second base for the first out of the inning. After Jimmy Piersall walked, Cubs head coach Bob Kennedy opted to change pitchers, replacing Jack Warner (who’d produced boffo results since entering the game in the ninth) with Paul Toth. Toth was assigned the heavy task of getting out Thomas, who had four hits on the day. The strategy worked, as Frank flied to left for the second out. Toth was then removed in favor of Jim Brewer. Brewer experienced a prohibition on control, walking Sammy Taylor to load the bases for first baseman Tim Harkness.

Harkness had three hits already, including two in his previous at-bats in the eleventh and the thirteenth. Extra innings were apparently Tim Harkness’s kind of innings, the fourteenth in particular. Harkness ended the game right then and there, on a 3-2 pitch, with his first career grand slam, a mighty wallop over the right field wall that gave the Mets an 8-6 win that unleashed delirium among however many hundreds of fans who stayed to the joyous end. Although the numbers were fewer and the stakes absolutely lesser, Harkness was called out by Mets fans who gathered at the foot of the steps to the Mets’ center field clubhouse (as fans were permitted to do in days of yore) and cheered “WE WANT HARKNESS!” until the man of the moment emerged on the balcony to acknowledge their rapture much as Bobby Thomson did a dozen years earlier when the home team at the Polo Grounds was the Giants and the shot that set off shock waves was heard ’round the world.

“We just about had to end it there,” Casey Stengel offered with impeccable logic after deploying 20 players across four hours and eight minutes of baseball, “because I’d run out of men.”

“I couldn’t believe it was me who hit that,” Harkness, a .208 hitter when the day began, confessed. “It doesn’t seem like good things happen to me.” That might have been a blanket statement for the Polo Grounds Mets, but their New Breed of loyalists recognized the good thing that had befallen them and they never forgot it. Witness the stream of reminiscences this game has generated in the past decade at Ultimate Mets Database:

• “Having seen hundreds of games at Shea, Yankee Stadium, Oakland Coliseum, Candlestick Park, AT&T Park, and a few other places, that afternoon in 1963 at the Polo Grounds is still my most memorable and favorite baseball recollection.”

• “I remember listening to that game on my portable transistor radio. School was over for the day, and I was in the playground in front of my building in the projects. I was eight years old and just about to finish fourth grade. When Harkness came up with two outs and the bases loaded, I recall thinking how great it would be if he hit a grand slam. But that was too much to hope for; the Mets were such a bad team in those early days. When it really did happen, you can imagine how great it felt.”

• “I remember sitting on the first base line. The count was full. Everyone in the Polo Grounds stood and started yelling. Harkness swung and you could hear the ball whistle on a line toward the right field wall. It cleared. It sounded like 50,000 people were there.”

• “Playing stickball or baseball we always imagined; last at bat, two outs, trailing by 3 with a full count. It was nearly perfect. I was out in right, standing in a position that would allow a dash to the IND. I was high the entire 2 hour train and bus trip home. I attended ‘game 6’ with my wife and kids but I always rate this 1963 Cub game as number 1 in my Met memory bank. Probably because it is only a memory.”

• “Based on these comments, there sure were a lot of 13-year-olds at that game. I was one of them. What I remember was the pandemonium after the game, in the corridors leading out of the Polo Grounds and down into the subway. Everyone was just chanting ‘Let’s Go Mets’ and the sound was bouncing off the walls. It was so much fun.”

GAME 075: June 24, 1997 — METS 6 Braves 5
(Mets All-Time Game 075 Record: 27-22; Mets 1997 Record: 43-32)

If the Yankees weren’t exactly slain in the first Subway Series ever, the Mets had more than held their own: a win in the Mlicki opener, an unfortunate loss in the middle, a riveting extra-inning affair that felt a bit like a tie in the finale (though, technically, it was a loss). It was an exciting, draining three-game set, and there was some speculation among Met doubters in the New York media that the Mets couldn’t possibly get themselves up for more mundane opponents once they finished playing the Yankees.

But they hadn’t really been paying close attention to the 1997 Mets — and the 1997 Mets were worth everybody’s attention. They proved it in the week that followed the New York-New York production.

First, a four-game set against the surprising Pirates, contenders in the N.L. Central for the first time since they were winning the East five years earlier. But Pittsburgh came off more like pretenders when they encountered this latest iteration of Met magic. In four successive games, the Bucs succumbed four heartbreaking ways — or exhilarating ways, from a Mets perspective.

The Mets blew a 6-1 lead on Thursday, the first night after the Subway Series, but Jason Hardtke redeemed everybody when he drove in the winner in the bottom of the ninth. Bobby Jones, in budding All-Star form, took a 1-0 lead into the ninth the next night, one handed successfully for the final out to John Franco. The day after, it was Edgardo Alfonzo emerging as the clutchest of Mets, turning a 2-1 deficit into a 3-2 lead in the bottom of the eighth with a home run off reliever Marc Wilkins, a margin preserved by Greg McMichael. And, to cap it off, Carl Everett launched a three-run, tenth-inning homer to sweep the Pirates out of Shea.

A four-game winning streak presenting evidence that the Mets weren’t hopelessly distracted by having been in the presence of the Yankees. Now the competition would stiffen again as the Braves came to town. Bobby Valentine, having used his entire bullpen in the Pirate finale, asked Rick Reed to go deep on Monday night, and the righty who came out of something approximating nowhere obliged his manager, beating John Smoltz in a 3-2 dual complete game. So that was five in a row for the Mets.

Could it continue? The Braves may have been in the same division as the Mets, but it was hard to say the Mets were in the same league as the Braves. Atlanta won three straight N.L. West titles before realignment and Rand-McNally figured they belonged in the East. Bad news for the Mets and other co-habitants as the Braves cruised to the first two Eastern Division titles in their grasp in ’95 and ’96 (1994 having had no champ due to strike). The Mets, only recently asserting themselves as a legitimate Wild Card combatant, couldn’t be concerned with first-place Atlanta from a competitive big picture. Or could they? A win on Tuesday night and not only would the Mets keep up with the second-place Marlins, they’d be, somehow, not far off the tails of the perennial powerhouse Atlantans.

The two teams battled to a 3-3 tie through six, the Mets knotting it on a Bernard Gilkey sacrifice fly. But as fast as the Mets got themselves back into the game, they seemed to fall away from it. In the top of the seventh, Jeff Blauser singled in a run against Cory Lidle and 25-year-old Chipper Jones did the same to Takashi Kashiwada. The Braves led 5-3, and Mike Bielecki made it stand up in the succeeding half-inning.

The bottom of the eighth, however, was a different matter, one with a definite Met twist. Carl Everett (a .500 hitter across these six games since the Subway Series) doubled and Carlos Baerga, generally a disappointment since being acquired from Cleveland the summer before, rose up and satisfied every Mets fan on the planet by homering. It was a 5-5 tie, heading to the ninth.

McMichael was Valentine’s choice to keep Atlanta from regaining the lead. The former Brave was up to the task, if barely. Michael Tucker struck out to lead off the ninth but reached when strike three eluded Todd Hundley. Chipper’s groundout erased Tucker, but Jones — being the Jones the Mets were coming to know all too well — stole second. Bobby V ordered an intentional walk to Fred McGriff on a 3-1 count. McMichael struck out erstwhile teammate Ryan Klesko, a fine thing on its face, except Jones and McGriff executed a double-steal to place themselves on third and second, respectively. Another intentional walk was issued on another 3-1 count to another Atlanta batter (another Jones: Andruw) and McMichael was left to face Eddie Perez. He struck out the Brave catcher and left the bases loaded….bases that were loaded on no hits, no errors, no hit batsmen and no unintentional walks, yet the Mets needed 29 gut-check pitches to get out of the inning.

Welcome, per usual, to Atlanta Braves baseball.

But now it was time to show the Braves what 1997 New York Mets baseball looked like: a one-out walk to Hundley by Mark Wohlers; a single by Everett that drove Todd to third. And, finally, Baerga, sneaking a ground ball past Blauser for the single that scored Hundley and clinched the 6-5 Mets win.

Six wins in a row for the unfathomable, indefatigable, contending Mets, and only four behind the heretofore impregnable Braves, not to mention a tiny game-and-a-half off the Marlins’ Wild Card pace. These Mets — “getting to be a group to be reckoned with,” in Valentine’s words — had little in the way of starpower, but everything in the way of resilience. And now, for the first time since 1990, they had a share of a playoff race.

Two of them, technically.

ALSO QUITE HAPPY: On June 30, 1989, the Mets proved they learned something from one of baseball’s most famous managers despite vanquishing his forces two decades earlier. Orioles skipper Earl Weaver was known for preaching a formula of pitching and three-run homers. The Mets mixed his ingredients quite effectively this Friday night in Cincinnati. The pitching came from Ron Darling, who put eight fine innings on the Riverfront Stadium board — six hits, one run — before giving way to Don Aase to complete the 11-1 Met win. The three-run homers were plentiful, too: one from Darryl Strawberry, off Rick Mahler; one from Howard Johnson, off Kent Tekulve; and one from…Ron Darling? Indeed, the Mets’ starting pitcher helped his own cause with a three-run home run off Norm Charlton in the sixth inning, giving himself a 7-1 lead. Of course it was almost old hat for Mr. Darling, considering that in his previous start, against the Phillies, he contributed to his own well-being by launching a home run at Shea versus Floyd Youmans (he got the win then, too). Ronnie clouted home runs in consecutive starts, yet the 1989 National League Silver Slugger for pitchers went to the Giants’ Don Robinson. The surehanded Darling instead had to settle during the awards season for becoming the only Met hurler to win a Gold Glove.

Blood & Pleasure

• The Mets are holding a blood drive on Thursday, July 7, at Caesars Club, 10 AM to 5 PM (enter through the Hodges VIP gate; parking available in Lot G at Roosevelt & 126th). You open up a vein to help save lives and the Mets will thank you with two tickets for a home game in August and a 15% discount in the team store the day of donation. Call 1-800/933-BLOOD for more info.

• If you’re deriving pleasure watching Jose Reyes play for the Mets, treat yourself to one extra game in which he starts and potentially steals the show. Vote Reyes for the N.L. All-Star team. He’s 250,000 votes behind Troy Tulowitzki. Troy Tulowitzki is leading on the backs of Mets pitchers who gave up four home runs to him in April while the Mets were still trying to remember their locker combinations. What’s Tulowitzki done since? Nothin’! What’s Reyes done since? Everything! Go to mlb.com and Vote Reyes as often as the law will allow. Even you who are too cool to do such hometown boosting — be a good Mets fan and support your shortstop. (Voting for Brad Emaus optional.)

• There’s a new sports cartoonist on the Web, and he’s tried his hand at dissecting the Reyes non-negotiations. Check out Gary Finkler’s 7th Inning Sketch here.

• GKR’s celebration of the life of Dana Brand will take place at the Shea Stadium home plate marker prior to the Saturday July 16 Mets-Phillies game. Tickets — for the gathering and the game — available here. I look forward to seeing you there. (And don’t forget the annual GKR Citi Field outing on August 7.)

• Ike Davis (remember him? — good player, fine young man) is scheduled to be taking the figurative field Sunday evening, July 17, at Michael’s of Brooklyn in a charity event organized to help Solving Kids’ Cancer and the Liddy Shriver Sarcoma Institute, both extremely worthy causes. ESPN’s Linda Cohn — big Mets fan — will be emceeing. More info here.

• Mets fan Roger Hess’s climb up Denali to raise funds for the Tug McGraw Foundation in honor of his Mets fan friend David continues apace, June snowfall notwithstanding. Read of his progress and (if you can) make a donation here.

New York Mets Hall of Famer Davey Johnson is a major league manager again. Good for him. Hopefully not bad for us, given that he’s helming the Nationals (helming the Nationals…that would sound better coming out of John Facenda). ESPN New York’s Mark Simon offers a brisk take on the man who came to us in 1984 with a computer on his desk and left us with a gleaming World Series trophy.

Vote Reyes. Whaddaya waiting for? Do it while he’s still wearing a Mets uniform.

Like Tom Terrific Said

One of the formative stories for me as a Mets fan comes from 1969. As it’s told in George Vecsey’s marvelous Joy in Mudville, after the Mets reached 18-18 with a win over the Braves, reporters entered the clubhouse expecting “a wild champagne party,” but found the Mets drinking postgame beers and sodas as usual. According to Vecsey, Jack Lang asked Tom Seaver why the team wasn’t celebrating, to which Seaver replied, “What’s so good about .500? That’s only mediocre. We didn’t come into this season to play .500 ball. I’m tired of the jokes about the old Mets. Let Rod Kanehl and Marvelous Marv laugh about the Mets. We’re out here to win. You know when we’ll have champagne? When we win the pennant.”

Even as a kid, I kind of doubted anyone had actually expected a wild champagne party in May, but I knew that wasn’t the important part of the story. The part that mattered was Seaver’s cool, slightly imperious statement, which struck me then as full of wisdom about leadership, expectations and effort, and I suppose still does.

But this year .500 has become a peculiar measure — a mark the Mets just can’t seem to rise above no matter how hard they try. They’ve been above it for all of four days, back in the first week of April, when their high-water mark was a mighty 3-1. They’ve been at it six times. The first three deserve an early-season asterisk: April 2 (1-1), April 7 (3-3) and April 9 (4-4). Those days were followed by a plunge into dark, cold waters, with the lowest sounding at 5-13 on April 20. Remarkably, the Mets then fought all the way back to .500, re-achieving the meh-gical mark on May 20 (22-22) against the Yankees. They didn’t get back there until June 15 (34-34), and have now regained equal footing on June 26, at 39-39.

Don’t get me wrong: To get back to level against the big, bad Texas Rangers is an impressive feat, particularly considering the Rangers bashed seven home runs in the three-game series while the Mets countered with zero, instead bedeviling the Rangers with about a billion singles. Also helping today: well-timed solid defensive play and horrific umpiring, all of which went against Texas. Listening to the game while gallivanting around the city on various missions, I often couldn’t hear Wayne Hagin (rats) over the sustained booing. Later, I was amused to learn that Terry Collins, apparently perfectly happy to look a gift horse in the mouth, had tried to persuade the umps to eject Michael Young after they ran Elvis Andrus and Ron Washington. A guy who’ll push for that kind of advantage when it’s eleventy-billion degrees in Dallas certainly doesn’t need Jeff Wilpon barging into the clubhouse looking for a buffet to overturn because he’s feeling old school.

So the Mets are back at .500, with an off-day before heading to Detroit. I assume there was no wild champagne party this time either, for all the reasons Tom Terrific had to offer 42 years ago. .500’s nothing, even if it does come with the likes of Justin Turner and Daniel Murphy and Lucas Duda filling in. .500 is a foundation, not a house. Let Jason Phillips and Ty Wigginton laugh about the Mets. I want them to be out there to win.

If they hit .506, on the other hand, I’m breaking out the bubbly. Because that would feel fricking spectacular.

A Great Half-Inning Date

I got fixed up Saturday afternoon with a half-inning: the top of the sixth of the Mets-Rangers game from Arlington. I picked her up right after the bottom of the fifth was done.

“Where you wanna go?” I asked her.

“Nowhere in particular,” she said. “You can just drive around.”

Seemed to be going well. The top of the sixth was more easy-going than any inning I had been with in a while.

“Hey,” I asked, “do you mind if I stop at the bank for a minute? Really, it will only take a minute.”

“Take your time,” the top of the sixth replied. “I’ll wait for you in the car.”

I like a half-inning that’s that agreeable.

“I’ll be right back,” I told her as I parked. “I promise.”

“No rush. I’ll be here.”

I conducted my ATM business as efficiently as I could and I came back.

“Hope I wasn’t gone too long,” I said.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

While I was gone, the top of the sixth had gotten a couple of runs.

“Say,” I asked, as we pulled out of the bank lot, “did you have those before?”

“What?”

“Those runs. I don’t remember you having that pair of runs before we got here.”

“Why, aren’t you the observant one?” the top of the sixth teased me.

“I hope I’m not out of line, but where did those come from?”

“Observant and curious — that’s cute.”

She didn’t really answer my question, but if the top of the sixth wanted to be that coquettish with me, who was I to get in the way?

“Hey,” I was compelled to ask as we drove a little further on. “I don’t mean to be a pain, but I have to make another stop, at the supermarket.”

“That’s OK.”

“Are you sure? I don’t know how long it’s going to take.”

“I swear, I’m fine. Just relax and do your shopping.”

“It’s not really shopping. Just a few things I need to pick up.”

“Whatever. I’ll wait in the car.”

“You will?”

“Why not? It’s a nice day.”

“Yeah,” I said as I found a space at the supermarket. “But you know how lines can be in stores.”

“Look,” the top of the sixth said, “I appreciate that you’re being considerate, but really, you don’t have to keep asking. Do whatever you have to do, I’ll wait out here.”

“Um, OK. I swear I won’t take too long.”

“Whatever.”

The top of the sixth had a great attitude, though I couldn’t be sure if she was as amenable as she seemed. I’ve learned not to expect much from half-innings. I certainly never expect them to stick around. One comes, one goes, it’s the nature of the, shall we say, beast.

Anyway, I go in, I pick up my items, some in appetizing, one all the way over in dairy. I take a quick look at beverages and then cleaning supplies. It’s not taking forever, but it’s a big store. It’s a lot to ask any half-inning to have the patience to put up with that. Plus, they’ve installed these new self-checkout aisles. I never know if they’re gonna work or what.

I scan. I pay. I bag. I gather up everything and I take it to the car.

And there’s the top of the sixth, right where I left her, right where she said she would be.

“You’re still here!” I said.

“Surprised?”

“A little.”

“What — you didn’t believe me? You’re accusing me of lying to you?”

Oh great. Now I’d gone and insulted the top of the sixth. I began to phumpher out an apology when she shushed me.

“I’m just kidding around! Here, I got you these while you were in the store.”

It was five more runs.

“Five more runs?” I was incredulous. “Where did you find five more runs?”

“Well, I had to do something while you were in the store, silly.”

“That’s, what…seven runs? Wow. You’re full of surprises.”

“There’s more where that came from,” the top of the sixth said with a wink.

“Well, we can get going now, finally,” I said. “Geez, seven runs. I feel bad I didn’t get you anything while I was in the store.”

“Just take the seven runs and enjoy them.”

What a caring, giving half-inning. I couldn’t believe my luck as we pulled out of the supermarket lot and headed back in the other direction. We didn’t get more than a few blocks when the top of the sixth got a little more playful with me.

“Oh,” she said. “I think you dropped something on the floor here.”

“What?”

“This!”

It was an eighth run.

“Eight runs? Oh, you shouldn’t have! You’re being almost too generous.”

“Do you have some kind of complex about half-innings that want to make you happy?”

I was afraid I’d hurt the top of the sixth’s feelings and attempted to explain.

“That’s not it,” I said. “It’s just that I’m not used to being treated this well by half-innings.”

The top of the sixth took it all in stride: “Well, I am kind of a rare beauty, aren’t I?”

“Are you ever! I don’t think a half-inning has given me eight runs in over a year.”

“Sometimes you get lucky, big boy,” the top of the sixth said, motioning for me to pull over. “You can drop me off over here.”

“OK,” I said, not wanting to seem too forward (though I was hoping she’d stick around for a few more runs). “I had a really great time with you today.”

“My pleasure.”

“No, the pleasure was all mine.”

“If you say so.”

And just like that, the top of the sixth was gone. But I still had the eight runs to remember her by.

What a schmuck I am — I should have asked her if she has any friends I can hook up with Sunday.

Bracing One's Self (Or Trying To)

Nostalgia is a product of dissatisfaction and rage. It’s a settling of grievances between the present and the past.

That’s Don DeLillo, in the great novel White Noise — and a quote that was uncomfortably top of mind as I watched the Mets make outs and drop balls and get whacked around by the Texas Rangers’ endless parade of sluggers. I thought of it not just because watching gigantic Rangers jog around the bases grew tiresome — it was also because I was still mesmerized by the footage of Jose Reyes in his first big-league game, eight years ago against these same Rangers.

He was the same, obviously, from the enormous grin and the slightly pop-eyed stare to the uniform and the number on the back, the number that at some point stopped being Ed Kranepool’s and became his. But not completely the same: He’s bigger, his arms are wreathed in tattoos, and the hair has exploded into a majestic, Predator avalanche of dreads.

As for the number and uniform, we’ll see. Possibly we’ll see very soon.

Rob Emproto, via my blog partner, makes a very good case for why a farewell to Reyes might be a wise strategic choice. All of us — including Rob himself, I know — can make the emotional case for why, at least in the medium term, it would be a horrible scar for a fan base that has no lack of them. It may come to head vs. heart for the front office and ownership. Or it may not — it may already be a foregone conclusion based on budgetary realities, in which case Sandy Alderson’s job is to maximize the return on Reyes.

If so, it is a task I do not envy him, since — as Gary and Ron noted — that return may be larger in July than it would be with a December IOU cashable next June. July, as Gary and Ron also noted, is suddenly very close.

The Mets are surprisingly OK for a team stripped of David Wright and Ike Davis and Johan Santana. But that won’t blind the front office to the qualifiers attached to that “OK” like barnacles, and it shouldn’t blind us, either. I suppose David could return and Ike could return and Johan could return and Beltran could stay healthy and effective and Gee and Niese and Tejada could continue to develop and Paulino and Turner and Murph and Capuano and K-Rod could remain productive and Bay and Hairston and Harris could see their fortunes turn for the better. All that could happen, but is it likely to? Or is it better to play the odds and turn arms dealer, looking to transform the useful, high-salaried veterans into prospects, or at least depth?

And if that’s the strategy, isn’t Reyes an obvious part of it?

That’s what I was thinking about instead of pondering how much Manny Acosta sucks, and that’s why the sight of Jose in that still-familiar uniform had an unexpected sting. Back then everything about the lithe, shorn young Jose amounted to possibilities, and the half-giddy knowledge that those possibilities were ours to hope came true. Now, the possibilities are different. They revolve around the knowledge that we may be watching the final acts as a Met for the still lithe, decidedly unshorn, still pretty young Jose. He is still ours, but soon — perhaps very soon — he will be someone else’s. Half-giddy has yielded to half-sick.

We know it will hurt, even if it wind up admitting it was a smart move in 2013 or 2014 or some date that seems impossible and science-fictiony now. We know it will hurt, but the hurt is still abstract, still something we hope to avoid.

And this is because we know, on some level, that it will hurt even more than we already fear it will.

* * *

Assuming everybody hasn’t headed for a convenient stairwell to hang themselves, I wrote a guest column for Baseball Prospectus about how technology has struck down distance on a barrier to fandom, with some further ruminations on nostalgia. (I promise they’re far less depressing.) I’d be honored if you’d give it a read.

The Happiest Recap: 070-072

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 consisting of the “best” 70th game in any Mets season, the “best” 71st game in any Mets season, the “best” 72nd 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 070: July 4, 1972 (1st) — METS 2 Padres 0
(Mets All-Time Game 070 Record: 26-23; Mets 1972 Record: 43-27)

Has anybody seen the Mets’ humidor? And if they have, why are there no cigars in it?

So close to lighting up that elusive no-hitter stogie. So close. But no…games with no hits allowed. So who needs a humidor anyway?

You’d think Tom Seaver would have been stocking a humidor by the middle of the 1972 season. Lord knows National League batters (and a few Orioles besides) had gotten smoked by the young flamethrower who was always getting better with age. Here he was, a veteran of 5½ seasons, all of 27 years old, with 105 wins to his credit, going for 106, and something more besides that. Tom Seaver was trying to go where no Met, not even him, had gone before.

Tom Seaver was going for the first no-hitter in Mets history.

He’d been as close as anybody. He’d been closer more often than anybody. By Independence Day 1972 — the occasion for a doubleheader at Shea against San Diego — Tom had rolled up a one-hitter per year every year for the previous three years, and the year before that, he carried a perfect game into the eighth against the Cardinals, an effort that went into the books as a three-hit victory after being broken up by Orlando Cepeda.

Here he was again on this Tuesday afternoon, pitching his way through familiar territory. First inning, second inning, third inning: nine Padres up, nine Padres down. Perfection for a third of the opening game of the holiday twinbill. The first two batters from the top of the first inning, Derrel Thomas and Dave Roberts, reappeared in the fourth and did more or less what they did before. Eleven up and eleven down.

Then Seaver walked Leron Lee. So much for perfection. He walked the next batter, Nate Colbert, directly after. Didn’t seem like a Seaver thing to do, but perhaps Padre starter Clay Kirby has infected the mound. In the bottom of the third, San Diego’s ace lost control. With two outs, he allowed a single to Buddy Harrelson, who stole second. In rapid succession, Kirby walked Wayne Garrett and John Milner to load the bases and Jim Fregosi and Ed Kranepool to unload them. The four consecutive walks provided Tom a 2-0 lead, one Seaver made hold up when he shook off the prevailing wildness and struck out Cito Gaston to get out of the fourth with his no-hitter intact.

The Mets would keep walking, collecting ten bases on balls versus the Padre staff, but wouldn’t score anymore. Seaver just kept throwing strikes from the fifth through the seventh when he retired all nine San Diego batters, four of them on K’s. He had ten on the day thus far. He permitted no more baserunners until two out in the eighth when the wildness bug bit again, with consecutive walks to Larry Stahl and Garry Jestadt. Again, Tom responded, grounding Thomas to second.

Eight innings. Four walks. Eleven strikeouts. No runs. And no hits.

But plenty of awareness. “As that game against the Padres progressed,” Tom reflected a couple of offseasons later, “my teammates seemed to get farther and farther away from me. I couldn’t find anybody to talk to. No one was around. In the eighth inning only the batboy was there, and he was looking at the opposing pitcher.”

Come the ninth, everybody would be looking at Seaver. In 1969, Seaver had famously taken a no-hitter into the ninth at Shea. Got one out then. He got one out to start this ninth, on a grounder by Roberts to Garrett at second. The next batter would be Lee, a .311 hitter when the day started, 0-for-2 today, along with that fourth-inning walk.

Seaver threw Lee a sinking fastball. Author John Devaney (Tom Seaver: An Intimate Portrait) followed its path from there:

Lee golfed his bat at the ball. Catcher Duffy Dyer heard the bat splinter. The ball rose in the air, a hump-shaped lazy looper that seemed likely at any moment to drop into the gloves of Garrett or Harrelson, both of whom were running under it toward center field, gloves outstretched. But the ball hung in the soft summer air until it had outdistanced Harrelson and Garrett. Only then did it come down to plop once on the grass and lie still.

One hit. Then a double play ball to Colbert to seal the 2-0 victory as a one-hitter. For Seaver, for the Mets, it was their ninth one-hitter in eleven seasons of franchise history.

“I wasn’t disappointed after the hit because I knew I had to get Colbert,” Seaver said afterwards. “Now, with the whole thing over, I do feel disappointed.”

Close to a no-hitter, but no cigar. A familiar refrain to Mets fans then. A familiar refrain to Mets fans for how much longer nobody could be sure.

Smoke ’em if ya got ’em.

ALSO QUITE HAPPY: On June 29, 1990, there was no indication that all good things must end. The Mets were going for their record-tying eleventh consecutive win and if they reached it, why was there any reason to think the streak might stop? One more win after that would be twelve. Then thirteen. Then who knows how many? The Mets weren’t losing to the point where they gave the impression they’d never lose. So it was at Shea, as Bobby Ojeda took on the West-leading Reds, a team that had been in first place in its half of the circuit since the season began. But now the Redlegs were running into the Mets and they were probably thanking their lucky stars that geography wasn’t the National League’s strong suit when divisions were aligned in 1969. If Cincy was in the East, they’d be on the verge of being steamrolled by these Mets. It’s just what these Mets were doing on a regular basis at this juncture of 1990. It’s just what they did for the eleventh consecutive game, a Friday night 4-2 win in which Bobby O scattered ten hits and struck out eight Reds before giving way to Jeff Innis to get the last two outs in the ninth. Darryl Strawberry and Mackey Sasser each homered.

Eleven in a row: first achieved by the 1969 Mets, then equaled by the 1972 and 1986 clubs. Two of those three teams put the streak to very good use. 1990 was promising the same kind of utility. Before winning the first of these eleven, the Mets sat in fourth place, seven games in arrears of the Pirates. With eleven of eleven put in the books, the Mets had forged a first-place tie with Pittsburgh, actually leading the Bucs by .003 in the Pct. column.

GAME 071: June 23, 1963 (1st) — METS 5 Phillies 0
(Mets All-Time Game 071 Record: 26-23; Mets 1963 Record: 27-44)

Gary Sheffield hit his 500th home run as a Met. Duke Snider and Eddie Murray hit their 400th home runs as Mets. Gary Carter and George Foster hit their 300th home runs as Mets. Those were considered pretty significant milestones as they were approached, and they got a good bit of attention when reached. Caps were tipped, bows were taken, action was resumed.

Not exactly how it was for another veteran player’s 100th home run. Not as much of a milestone, but oh the production values of this 1963 round-numbered blast.

Jimmy Piersall was one of a kind. As Leonard Koppett recalled in The New York Mets: The Whole Story, “A decade before, as a young Boston infielder, he had suffered, and recovered from, a nervous breakdown. His story was told in a widely read book and a popular movie, and he continued to make headlines by strange behavior as he developed into a first-rate player in the American League. Was he a little crazy, or was he a master put-on? Straight baseball people leaned toward the first views, while more and more evidence pointed to the second.”

Fear may have struck out in the ’50s, but Piersall was still active come 1963, a 33-year-old Washington Senator whose game was falling off as he aged. Naturally, he became a Met — unofficial compensation for Gil Hodges (the straightest baseball person imaginable) being let out of his Met player contract so he could manage Washington. If Piersall’s reputation as a character preceded him to New York, whatever he was known for as a player had pretty much abandoned him.

Piersall was batting .210 in the month since the Mets acquired him, knocking in only eight runs, stealing no bases — one of his specialties in the A.L. — and remaining stuck on 99 career home runs. Not hitting homers gave him plenty of time to think about what he might do once he launched his first as a Met, his prospective hundredth as a big leaguer. Piersall’s goal became to “do something different”.

Boy, did he ever.

In the fifth inning of this Sunday doubleheader opener at the Polo Grounds, the Mets were leading Philadelphia 1-0 primarily on the strength of Carl Willey’s sublime pitching. The Maine native had a perfect game going into the fourth and kept his shutout through the top of the fifth. He would keep his shutout all the way to a most pleasing 5-0 complete game, a two-hitter as it turned out. But it also turned out that nobody would remember this game as the day Carl Willey blanked the Phillies.

This was Piersall’s show, at least once he got hold of a Dallas Green delivery and took it over the Polo Grounds fence. Jimmy did it — he got his one-hundredth home run, not the stuff of the Duke, exactly, but a pretty admirable total.

What he did next was a matter of taste. Piersall turned around and ran to first…backwards. He continued his trot facing the wrong way, until he arrived at home plate, the number 34 on his back greeting the next hitter, Tim Harkness.

“I hit my four-hundredth homer and all I got was the ball,” Snider told Piersall. “You hit your one-hundredth and go coast-to-coast.”

It was different, all right. It was different from Piersall’s original plan, which was to run first to third, then to second and so on, but the umpires told him to forget that idea. It was also the beginning of the end of Jimmy Piersall’s Mets career. Casey Stengel (who, as a player, once doffed his cap to reveal a sparrow) did not particularly care for Piersall’s act even before he stuck his baserunning in reverse. And Piersall didn’t much care for Stengel: “He isn’t a manager anymore. He’s just on display.”

The outfielder was entitled to his opinion, but Stengel was plenty capable of displaying his managerial prerogative of wanting nothing more to do with a showboat, a malcontent and, most significantly, a player who wasn’t producing anything else besides a single home run and accompanying spectacle in forty games as a Met. With his Met average down to .194 in late July, Piersall was released…along with a parting shot from the perpetually self-aware Stengel:

“There only room for one clown on this team.”

Per Snider’s analysis, Piersall literally went coast-to-coast, being picked up by the Los Angeles Angels and sticking with them until 1967. He hit four home runs in parts of five seasons in Southern California, the last of his dingers being dung before they moved to Anaheim, next door to Disneyland.

Thus, there went Jimmy Piersall’s chance to do something really Goofy on a home run trot.

ALSO QUITE HAPPY: On June 29, 1969, Tom Seaver did something as he did everything in his young career: quietly, professionally, methodically. But in doing so, he established a standard no Met would come anywhere near. By throwing a six-hit complete game 7-3 victory against the Pittsburgh Pirates at Shea Stadium — striking out ten Bucs along the way — Tom raised his season record to 12-3…and in doing that, he collected the 44th win of his major league career, all with the Mets. Before the midpoint of the third big league season, he set a new mark: most wins by any Mets pitcher, 44. It was as much a commentary on Seaver’s immediate excellence as it was on how hard it was for even pretty good pitchers to get anywhere in the win column for the Mets before 1969. Al Jackson, pretty darn good as top lefty starter for the Mets from 1962 through 1965, was the previous record-holder, with 43 wins. Those were counterbalanced, however by 80 losses. The L’s had a way of having their way with the W’s on Met pitching ledgers in the team’s first few years. Jackson actually had a second go-round as a Met, in 1968 and 1969, compiling a 3-7 mark mostly in relief. He was a teammate of Seaver’s then, but not when Tom passed Little Al on the win charts — the Mets sold his contract to Cincinnati a couple of weeks earlier. Seaver, meanwhile, went on to raise the all-time record for most wins by a Mets pitcher to 198. Nobody’s come within forty victories of it yet.

GAME 072: June 26, 1964 — Mets 8 BRAVES 4
(Mets All-Time Game 072 Record: 28-21; Mets 1964 Record: 21-50-1)

Records were made to be broken, but first they have to be set. Take runs in an inning, for example. It was a cause for much notice and ample celebration when a last-place bunch of Mets scored ten runs in one inning in a 1979 game against the Reds. Why not take notice and be happy? The Mets broke their single-inning scoring mark. That mark would hold a long time thereafter.

But the mark it broke, one that had been relatively forgotten because it had happened such a long time before? It was set by a club similar to 1979’s — that is, it took a last-place Mets team to score more runs in one inning than any other Mets team had scored before or would score again for nearly a generation.

The Mets might get really bad for a year or more, but they can rise up and bite their opponents hard at any moment, in any inning. For the 1964 Mets, the biting took place in the second inning on a Friday night at County Stadium in Milwaukee. The pitcher was the merely immortal Warren Spahn, appearing in his 693rd game, setting the record for most appearances by any lefty pitcher in major league history. The first hitter was the only slightly acclimated 19-year-old Ed Kranepool.

Ed singled.

Next up was Charley Smith. He homered.

The Mets led 2-0.

George Altman flied out.

Amado “Sammy” Samuel singled to left.

Starting pitcher Tracy Stallard doubled. Samuel went to third.

Jim Hickman drew a walk. The bases were loaded for the Mets catcher, Hawk Taylor.

Taylor singled. Samuel scored.

The Mets led 3-0.

Braves manager Bobby Bragan figured this must not be Spahnie’s night, no matter how historical his presence made it. So out went Warren and in came the more pedestrian Bob Sadowski. He was going to the more effective of the two Milwaukee moundsmen when he got Ron Hunt to ground to third baseman Eddie Mathews, but this future Hall of Famer (factor in Hank Aaron in right, and the Mets were taking on three of them) bobbled the ball, which let Stallard score to give the Mets a 4-0 lead.

And the bases were loaded again.

Joe Christopher stepped up and unloaded them.

A grand slam for the right fielder from the Virgin Islands and an eight-spot for the Mets in the top of an inning that was only one-third done. The scoreboard — so often virgin territory to Met numbers that weren’t zeroes — must not have known what to make of the 8 the visitors had just hung on it.

Comprehending the indignity of having allowed these Mets to build an early, insurmountable lead in a single frame (half of it on a single Christopher swing), Sadowski did the only thing a pitcher in 1964 was conditioned to do.

He frustratedly brushed back the next batter, young Kranepool.

It earned him a fine of $50 from the National League and a warning from home plate ump Mel Steiner. Eddie, unfazed, rose, stood in the box and accepted a walk.

He was the tenth batter of the inning and the ninth to reach base.

That was it for the Mets, however. Smith struck out and Altman fouled to Mathews, who handled it for the final out. The Mets would have to “settle” for eight runs in one inning, six of them charged to Spahn, all of them plenty for Stallard, who cruised to an 8-4 complete game victory.

And as if they felt bad about the whole thing, the Mets allowed the Braves seven runs in the second inning of their very next game.

ALSO QUITE HAPPY: On June 29, 1962, the Mets weren’t very experienced, but on this Friday night in Chavez Ravine, they demonstrated that they knew enough to take what was given them…and run like hell with it. Against Joe Moeller of the Dodgers, the Mets started their evening accepting one gift after another. Richie Ashburn led off with a walk. After Rod Kanehl mysteriously swung and flied to right, Gene Woodling picked up on Ashburn’s cue and walked. Then Frank Thomas walked. Then Charlie Neal walked. The Mets went up 1-0 by not taking their bats off their shoulders.

Ron Perranoski replaced Moeller in body if not in spirit. He walked Sammy Taylor with the bases loaded. He walked Felix Mantilla in the exact same situation. Those successive bases on balls made it 3-0 Mets. Elio Chacon tried to follow his teammates’ example but struck out looking for the inning’s second out. But pitcher Jay Hook — the Mets’ ninth “hitter” of the inning — was more successful just standing there. Jay walked and it resulted in the fourth Met run, every one of them scored the same way. Finally, Ashburn decided to mix it up by swinging; Whitey singled in two of the previous walkers (or walkees) to put the Mets ahead 6-0. That was it for Ron Perranoski to say nothing of Dodger dignity. Phil Ortega came on to get Kanehl for the third out of the inning, the second Hot Rod had to endure. Totals for the top of the first: six runs on one hit, seven walks and no errors. The score: Mets 6 Dodgers coming to bat.

By the time the night was over, the Mets would walk SIXTEEN TIMES, eight of them courtesy of L.A. reliever Stan Williams, en route to a 10-4 victory. It’s still the record for most walks by any Mets team in any one game. Hook himself would walk three times, or one fewer than the number he himself permitted in going the distance. It was the first win the Mets earned against (or were handed by) one of the former National League ballclubs they replaced back home. The Dodgers and Giants had been a combined 13-0 against the expansion Mets to that point in 1962. It was about time one of them sent a baby gift.

Rob's Case for Trading Reyes

The Mets probably wouldn’t have won Thursday without Jose Reyes. They definitely wouldn’t have won Wednesday without Jose Reyes. They likely wouldn’t be as close to .500 as they are in 2011 without Jose Reyes. There’d be little worth watching of the 2011 Mets if not for Jose Reyes.

I sense you’re in general agreement with all of the above. My friend Rob Emproto agrees, too. Rob is as passionate a Mets fan as I know and (along with Mike Steffanos of Mike’s Mets) the most logical. He doesn’t offer any opinion to which he hasn’t given thorough thought and consideration. Rob takes into account statistics, both traditional and advanced, and blends them with accessible, affable, consistently informed common sense. Plus he’s not kneejerk about any of it.

I’m building up Rob here because I want to share some of the conclusions he’s shared with me regarding the prospective future of Jose Reyes and the New York Mets. I’m not sure I fully agree with them, particularly the headline aspect, but because I know from whence they come — and because Rob shows his work (so to speak) — I’m concerned they’re more valid than I care to admit. They make for good, if uncomfortable, reading besides.

This discussion between him and me started with the following inquiry he posed to me and the rest of our long-running, co-dependent Mets e-mail support group.

***

Here’s a hypothetical question for you all: Would you give Reyes $120 million for 6 years if you knew you were going to get six years just like the last six?

Thanks to his Adrian Beltre-like timing, Reyes is probably looking at close to Carl Crawford money, despite what Fred Wilpon said. But the reality is that whoever signs him is probably looking at six similar years. For the sake of argument, let’s carry out his current stats over the whole season and hit’s .340 and wins the MVP. He’s still not showing any new skills. He’s staying healthy, and more than a few more hits are falling in. He wasn’t a bad hitter before; he’s always been pretty good and his numbers consistent. He’s not hitting more home runs or walking more. So you’ve got a very good player who, because of timing, is about to be paid like an elite player.

Let’s throw in a Jimmy Rollins-type aging curve (they are very similar except that Rollins has more power). The next six years gives us one MVP-type season, about one season lost to injuries, and four pretty good seasons like we’ve mostly seen (.290 average, 35-40 steals, something like that).

When you sign him, you’re really counting on your team doing something in the next three years because after that you’ve got a speed player on the wrong side of 30 making a lot of money. So you’re going to have to make up for that in years 4-6 (i.e., being stuck with the contract and possibly needing to make up for lost production).

So my question is, if you’re the Mets, taking into consideration of what they’re likely looking at the next three years, do you give him that money?

***

Compelling question and scenario, I thought. I know the answer I want to know: That I never want Reyes to leave. But I also know I don’t know how to measure what the next six years and all those dollars will bring. Nobody does, but I can’t even fake it. I’ve been in love with Reyes as a player for a very long time, as Rob knows. I also know I’d sure love to see the Mets win what the Giants won last fall. Watching San Francisco put together a title run with whoever and whatever it took in the short-term made me a little less inclined to lean on the eternal attachment one forms to certain players — like Reyes, like Wright — and simply want the moves to be made that would make the Mets champions at least once more in my life, and preferably more often (and soon). Ideally, I want it to happen with Reyes. At this moment, I don’t understand how it could happen without Reyes. He’s our best player, playing the most crucial position.

That’s what I more or less told Rob. That and I have no idea what $20 million a year for six years means in baseball anymore, particularly where this franchise and its ownership flux is concerned.

His reply follows.

***

You have to take a step back and separate emotion and reality (perceived reality, at least).

The Mets are sort of in it on the surface, but not really. CAN they sneak into the Wild Card? If EVERYTHING breaks right, sure. But you can’t compromise the future betting that long shot. And that’s what the Mets ALWAYS do — they compromise the future betting mostly long shots.

This year, they shouldn’t be expected to beat Philadelphia and/or Atlanta (they would have to beat one of them to get into the post-season). They may seem fairly close, but they’re really not that close to either of those teams. Let’s say they find a way to sign Reyes…then what? Now you have Wilpon in the same financial mess minus Reyes’s $100 million, and now he’s got to deal with Wright. Even if he signs Wright after that, is Fernando Martinez going to give us championship-quality play? Is Ruben Tejada or Justin Turner? Will Jason Bay recover? Who will the closer be? What will Johan Santana be? What will ANY of their pitchers be? And they would need ALL that to happen quickly to compete in 2012-13.

Maybe in any other division except the AL East, you can take a chance. But the next three years the Phillies will be OK, and as they decline, the Braves will mature. The Mets are a near-term disaster; the target for us is three years down the road.

It sucks, but they have wasted two of the best players they have ever developed (not to mention Beltran, the best free agent they’ve ever signed, not counting Piazza). Either they never had the money to be ALL IN, or they didn’t have the stomach, but they were never ALL IN. They’ve had bad luck on top of everything.

Not everything they did was the wrong thing. But a LOT was.

Alderson needs to trade Reyes and get two or three good prospects (or at least one blue-chipper). Next year he needs to trade Wright and do the same. He needs to let all the big contracts fall off the table, avoid more big long-term deals, focus on the farm system, and let the young guys they have now (like Ike Davis and Niese and Gee and maybe Tejada and some of the guys that [a friend of ours] gushes over, along with whoever they get in trades) mature. In three years the goal is to have a nucleus you can build around, a strong farm system, and money you can invest to get whatever you need at the time.

If they sign Reyes, you’ve averted a short-term disaster, but they are still going to be behind the proverbial 8-ball the next three years, and then in three years you’ve got a 31-year-old speed guy that you owe $60 million to and we’re back in the same “wait until Reyes’s contract comes off the books” mode. It’s the same hamster wheel we are always on.

I don’t know how much $20 million is to the Mets, and I don’t know how much the Wilpons REALLY have. But we KNOW they lost $550 million, and are getting sued for $700 million more. I just don’t see them throwing around hundreds of millions considering the predicament they’re in. If the Mets were profitable, then maybe, but they are bleeding money by all accounts.

If the Mets were going to go balls-to-the-wall to get the guys they need to surround Reyes & Wright, then definitely sign Reyes. But you know they’re not going to do that. If they sign Reyes, that will be IT. If they sign Wright next year, that will be IT. And that leaves us with the same team we’re treading water with now, minus a few guys who are contributing, with two long-term big money deals added in.

At some point we gotta get off the merry-go-round, and it’s going to be painful.

***

Well, I said, that’s certainly bracing. Then I excused myself to find the nearest onrushing 7 train. No, I didn’t do that, but I told Rob he had just offered a very chilling scenario for any Mets fan.

Instead of easing up, he continued to deliver truths as he saw them.

***

It definitely sucks. It’s years of doing things halfway coming to a head, with Madoff thrown in for good measure.

To think that they have two of the best position players in the game just entering their primes and they’re nowhere close to fielding a championship team — that they may be better off trading these guys — is unthinkable.

A lot of it just bad risks. Nobody saw Madoff coming, but why does almost everything crap out on the Mets? You can’t accuse them of not spending money, but even then they get crapped on. They got one year out of Pedro and two years out of Johan…that equates to MILLIONS of dollars. And there were rumblings about both those guys being injury risks before they got them. Meanwhile the Phillies get Halladay and the Yankees get Sabathia. Throw in a Jason Bay, where the fit between the player and the park was questionable at best, and that’s even more millions combined with an obligation to play the guy through thick and thin. I know there are no sure things, but they need to minimize the risk somehow…maybe pay more for surer things.

Also, their negligence of the farm system has KILLED them. The Phillies traded prospects to get Cliff Lee and Roy Halladay, and the Giants and Rays built championship teams mostly via the minor leagues. The Mets have developed Reyes and Wright, and then Pelfrey, Niese, and Ike Davis, and yet somehow their minor league system was a disaster (there are a few guys coming up…I’d say it’s middling right now).

You look at them and what they’ve done, and there is no obvious flaw. It’s a combination of bad timing and bad organizational cohesion; the pieces never seem to fit together for them. We forget that they were two unbelievable collapses away from winning three divisions in a row, and if they did that, we wouldn’t be talking about any of this stuff right now.

They are always thin on depth; they are never able to hold down the fort through their minor league system; except for Beltran, they never pay the star in his prime; their other signings are risky or fallback guys; the last good minor leaguer they had to trade they turned into Victor Zambrano; they get smitten with guys of questionable character/career motives. And they have been a PR embarrassment on top of that.

This is just a bad organization that was lucky enough to have enough money to put nice lipstick on the pig for a while. It’s been mentioned many times, but look at what Atlanta does. They pay guys big money and long-term, but those guys are Hall of Fame quality (Chipper, Gl@v!ne, Maddux, Smoltz). They’ve developed guys like Brian McCann and Martin Prado and Jason Heyward and Freddie Freeman and Tommy Hanson (and that bullpen). They always seem to get value out of the guys they sign (Tim Hudson and Derek Lowe and Fred McGriff). They are stable up and down the organization (how long was Bobby Cox there?). AND they have an excellent minor league system. Now they were very lucky to have those three pitchers for as long as they did, and they only won once, but that is a fluid, evolving, regenerating organization. They ALWAYS have a plan. THAT’S what you want.

***

One of the phrases Rob used lingered in my mind and bothered me a bit: “wasted”. Did we really waste the tenures of Reyes, Wright and Beltran? Did we not contend for a while? And even when we didn’t, weren’t we treated to several years of three players we loved to watch? How do you measure that?

***

I would say that it was wasted not because we didn’t win, but because of the WAYS we didn’t win. We lost when we were a heavy favorite, and then we blew two big leads late. If they went down three times in a row like they did in ’99, there wouldn’t be too much complaining — they would have gone down proudly. But this team will long be considered a dog…rightly or wrongly.

I mentioned Atlanta in my last e-mail. That dynasty has to be considered one of the biggest “letdowns” in dynasty history. All those pennants and only one championship? With a Hall of Fame rotation like that? Yet you never hear a discouraging word about those teams (the Marlins won twice during that time). But you can’t get away with that in New York.

There is a stench on this team, and they’re never going to get out from under it as long as the Wilpons are here (they need to bring home a championship, and it’s going to be hard to do without help). It’s not all the players’ fault, and to be fair, it’s not all the Wilpons’ fault. It’s just bad chemistry and bad karma. Not exactly a sabermetric explanation, but it’s true.

Some of the injuries were just bad luck, some of them we saw coming, and some were compounded by questionable medical treatment. As far as chemistry, what kind of team blows TWO leads like that? It shouldn’t happen once, let alone twice in a row to the same team. Something was missing.

We could probably write a book dissecting these last five years. But I really think EVERYONE needs a clean slate here…Beltran, Reyes, Wright, Alderson, the Wilpons, and especially the fans.

***

I still wasn’t quite satisfied with how this paved the way out of Queens for Reyes (or Wright). I got what Rob was saying, but I circled back to an earlier point he made about separating emotion from the equation, for what is baseball without emotion? I thought of a few examples of teams whose fans endured stretches without a championship but presumably derived tangible pleasure from watching certain players’ careers thrive in their uniforms.

What about Carl Yastrzemski and the Red Sox? What about Craig Biggio and Jeff Bagwell and the Astros? What about Hanley Ramirez and the Marlins, even (for however many Marlins fans there are)? I don’t want to be in that category, remembering how great it was to watch Jose Reyes and David Wright craft great achievements with the Mets, too bad they never won a ring, however. But I also don’t want to watch them in other uniforms and I’m not high on settling for other guys wearing their Mets uniforms or taking their Mets spots.

Well? What about it, Rob?

***

I don’t know if the Mets situation is the same as other teams’. During Yaz’s day, the Red Sox were in the middle of “The Curse”. I think there was and is a more of a “we’re in this together” spirit in Boston than there is for the Mets at this time. Also, “wasting” doesn’t mean the same thing pre-free agent, pre-Wild Card era than it does now. Teams were more long-term back then, more connected to the fans, and it wasn’t so easy to just go out and get a Sabathia and a Teixeira and a Cliff Lee to get better. Also, for about a third of his career, only one team from each league made the postseason. Just being in it meant a lot more.

As for Houston, I’m not saying Astros fans don’t want to win, but Bill James once wrote that “even Astros fans don’t get too excited about the Astros.” Maybe they were just happy to have those home boys as an anchor all those years, and both of those guys took less money to stay there, so there’s something more to that story. Maybe there is something more important than winning to Astros fans and players.

The Marlins have endured so much chaos, and they have won twice, and they still don’t draw, so I don’t know what to make of them. They’re almost not a real franchise as much as a science experiment.

To sort of answer your question, whether you “waste” a guy depends on what you’re in it for. Every team SAYS they want to win it all, but not every team ACTS like it. In fact MANY don’t. The Mets are doubly cursed by living in the same town as the Yankees (cursed because we have to endure them 24/7/365, and cursed again by the constant comparisons). I understand the appeal of Reyes and Wright. I understand that fans love them, identify with them, that they draw fans, and that there’s a certain amount of pride associated with them. Unfortunately the value of that pride gets neutralized by all the Wilpons’ shenanigans

Teams like the Yankees get their Jeters AND their rings. For us the choice is “Reyes & Wright OR a chance at rings”? It’s not a knock on Reyes & Wright. I love them both just like everybody else. They are perfectly good build-around players. But that’s where it stops. The Yankees or Phillies WOULD build around them; the Mets, at this point in time, won’t (and whether they even CAN is a big question mark). And if they had money, whether they KNOW HOW is an even bigger question mark (though I would like to see Alderson & Co. do their thing with some money at their disposal).

As much as I love them, I want to WIN. I’m tired of what we’ve been through. I’m tired of the Yankees and their fans and their bumper stickers and their hats and every celebrity wearing Yankee stuff. I’m tired of the Phillies swatting the Mets like a mosquito, calling them chokers, of Phillies fans infesting our stadium like they own it, and tired of having guys like Mike Schmidt piss on us. I STILL want the Marlins to pay for what they did the last day of Shea. And that will never happen with Reyes & Wright (because of the timing of everything). For that to happen, they’d need to do something NOW. Sign Reyes, sign Wright, sign a key free agents or two, and simultaneously invest in the farm system to build that up.

They won’t/can’t do that. In my mind they can either sign those guys, tread water until the Picard suit and the Wilpon/Einhorn deal get settled, or just bite the bullet and get a head start on better times. To answer the question that started this e-mail chain off, I DON’T want six years like the last six. I love those guys, but man, what was the point? That was demoralizing and painful. And the worst part is that we’re not even heading in the right direction now.

Everyone says the fans will desert them. Wright & Ike have been out most of the year. Is anything different? Are fewer people watching? Is attendance down because of that? People will ALWAYS watch their team. They may be disappointed, but we still watched after Tom Seaver was traded. We watched after Keith and Carter and Dykstra and Backman left. We watched after Dwight & Darryl left. We watched after David Cone left. We watched after Mike Piazza left. That’s what we do. We support our team, we curse them, and we hope that the Justin Turners and Dillon Gees and Matt Harveys will bring us better tomorrows. But we ALWAYS come back.

I know you’re not a car guy, but nobody ever wants to sell the Corvette. But when it comes down to either you keep the Corvette OR send your kid to college, the Corvette goes. And yeah, it hurts to sell, and you curse when you see the 18-year-old son of the doctor around the corner driving the car you’ve had since high school, but there is a greater more important good to be had. And you come to grips with that, and you move on. And eventually you realize that there will be other Corvettes!

***

Rob is a car guy, and has a daughter about to enter college, with two sons not far off. The man knows his analogies.

As for the rest, he lays out a clear-eyed case for doing the unpopular thing. It’s not popular with me right now. Whether it occurs and results in a more favorable future — another Corvette, as Rob might put it— is up for grabs.

Though I have to admit, even if I’m not a car guy, I’m rather attached to the model we have right now.

10 Years, 13 Innings, 1 Deluge, 2 Friends

I love backstories. I love tales of how we got where we are. I love marking the spot in space and time where what wasn’t became what is. Thus, I love now and again retracing my steps, now matter that I might wear out the carpet in illustrating the path that led me to now.

I’m fairly certain the date was June 11, 2001, a Monday morning at work following a Sunday afternoon in St. Petersburg. The Mets had beaten the Devil Rays, 10-0; Kevin Appier went seven and struck out nine. Hot stuff, right? Except the Mets had lost the two before to those awful Devil Rays. We got beat first by Ryan Rupe and then by Tanyon Sturtze. Who the hell were Ryan Rupe and Tanyon Sturtze? They were the Tampa Bay starters who raised their team’s record to 18-43 at the expense of the relentlessly disappointing 2001 Mets. Thus, there wasn’t much to be giddy about despite that 10-0 whitewashing. That was what you call salvaging one out of three.

That’s what I was calling it in conversation that Monday morning. I was bemoaning how little we did against Rupe and Sturtze, how little we were doing at all in defense of our 2000 National League pennant, how little there was to look forward to where the rest of this godforsaken Mets season was going. It was two Mets fans in a pretty typical Mets bitch session for 2001 when another person — a fellow employee from another department but otherwise a total stranger — walked by and asked a question.

“Hey, whose Mets stuff is that?”

Why, it’s mine, I said. The guy was asking about my cubicle filled with Mets pictures and paraphernalia. It was how I decorated every aspect of my life as long as I could remember. It was how my office looked when I had an office, when my magazine was owned by smaller concerns who thought I rated an office. My magazine had been gobbled up by successively larger corporations and my status within them shrank in inverse proportion. I wasn’t downsized, but my workspace was. The Mets’ presence within it, however, remained proportionally substantial.

This was ten years ago. I’m still bitter, you might have inferred, about losing my office. But it occurs to me now that if I hadn’t, there’s a likelihood the guy who walked by and asked about my Mets stuff because he, like me, was a Mets fan, would have just kept walking if it and I were obscured by an office door.

And if he had, then who would have I gone to Wednesday night’s Mets game with?

***

“The mind reels,” Jim responded when I alerted him we met ten years ago this month. But he agreed it was a significant milestone in the lives of “two married, middle-aged guys from Long Island who bonded over a mostly lousy baseball team and lousy employers,” as he put it, so yes, he agreed “our ten years” (my phrase) merited a Mets game of its own to go with all the other Mets games that had no occasion attached to them except a predilection for Mets stuff and lots of it. Lots of it lousy, some of it swell, all of it, in spite of itself, more fun in retrospect than real time would have indicated.

I will say the same for the thirteen innings we dedicated to our ten years Wednesday night. Ask me about them in another ten years, maybe another ten minutes, and I will tell you what a grand night and, technically, early morning it was: how the Mets hung in there against an Interleague opponent (that was my idea, too — the Rays in 2001, the A’s in 2011); how they refused to lose; how they walked off in celebratory fashion, the perfect punctuation for a decade of Mets-laced friendship that’s run on like the world’s longest sentence.

Ask Jim about it, particularly if his clothes and bag are still as damp as mine are, and I sense he’ll tell you first that it was…what’s that word Jim likes to use to describe anything that goes awry?

“HORRIBLE!”

Yeah, that’s it. It was HORRIBLE! We get up to the Promenade, we go to Mama’s of Corona, we order up a couple of turkey and mozzarellas (I give him my peppers, he gives me his mushrooms; we each despise what the other embraces) and then there’s an absolute deluge that we’re caught right in the middle of, just as the Mets are posting notices about how fans should avoid their seats and stay under covered areas until the furious downpour passes. This isn’t rain. This is Mother Nature in a Chiffon Margarine commercial. It’s coming down in bathtubs. And Jim and I are standing there, holding our sandwiches with nowhere viable to eat them. The best we can do is join a dozen like us who duck under what little awning the Big Apple Brews island in the middle of the food court provides. It doesn’t provide much, but it’s better than floating off to sea.

(Kudos, by the way, to the employees of Big Apple Brews for ignoring whatever Citi Field policy presumably discourages non-customers from using their station as a storm shelter and lunch counter.)

We take a bite of our sandwiches, we get soaked. We take a gulp of our beverages, we get soaked. We turn our heads and notice the dissonant presence of the sun loitering among the clouds in the western sky, we get drenched. The deluge probably didn’t last more than the length of our sandwiches, but as they say at Mama’s, boy did it have gravy.

Yeah, it was pretty horrible, and we got pretty wet, but it passed. There was going to be tenth-anniversary baseball soon enough. Jim gathered up napkins, I found paper towels and it was off to our seats to be ushers unto our own selves. (Not greatly effective, but oh what you save on tips.)

Wet seats. Wet ground. Wet jeans and shirts. Wet backpacks and the like. Wetness to the point of mildew if given the chance to fester. Good thing we were outside, I guess.

***

Game started an hour late. But then it moved along. R.A. Dickey, whom I suspected would blame or credit the climate for whatever his knuckleball did or didn’t do, had Oakland in a tizzy. None of them touched him, not even that annoying Hideki Matsui for whom I’d maintained a particularly acerbic grudge ever since he was a free agent who decided the only way he was coming to America was to play for the other New York team. That was in the 2002-03 offseason. By then Jim and I were starting a new magazine together. Its first incarnation — the one with us — barely made it into the 2004 season. My grudge against this Matsui had yet to subside. Our mutual grudge for the Matsui with whom we wound up and how he never came close to living up to his notices but some idiot decided to move Jose Reyes to second base to accommodate him? Much larger and deeper, but Kaz Matsui was not at Citi Field Wednesday night.

It doesn’t take much or take long to get Jim and/or I off on a tangent like that; such is the nature of our ten-year run-on sentence of a relationship.

Jim brought up “Sweet Caroline” as Dickey nursed his 1-0 lead to the fifth. I don’t remember why. I can remember when he first asked whose Mets stuff that was, but I don’t know how “Sweet Caroline” re-entered our dialogue. Everything enters, nothing ever really leaves. All he had to do was lower his register into his aggressively clueless executive voice — “…and let’s play ‘Sweet Caroline’” — and I probably missed about six knuckleballs dying of laughter.

The Mets go tone deaf and co-opt Fenway’s “Sweet Caroline” as if it was their idea to make it “our” singalong…Kaz Matsui usurps Jose Reyes’s position against all better judgment…a mostly lousy baseball team never stops being at least somewhat lousy — it’s all of a piece. It’s the Mets as Jim and I have come to know them together, a team that comically disappoints us, though it’s never as funny in the experiencing as it is in the reminding each other generally well after the fact.

My favorite Jim concoction is the Tom Seaver SUCKS Bus Shelter. This he came up with in 2009 and revealed after the Subway Series finale, while we waited on the steps of the Flushing library for his wife, Daria, to pick us up. I was complaining, per usual, about the opening of Citi Field and its total lack of allowance for acknowledgment of Mets history. Jim told me his biggest fear in that regard and wasn’t kidding about it, I don’t think: the Mets would respond to all the gripes about there being no Tom Seaver statue by naming a bus shelter somewhere nearby. It would be the Tom Seaver Bus Shelter. And that’s all they’d do. It would sit there solitarily, somewhere in Flushing, until some Met-hater with a spray-paint can vandalized it with the word SUCKS and, thus, it would become the Tom Seaver SUCKS Bus Shelter.

***

Dickey should have had a no-hitter going by my reckoning. He was charged with a hit when Scott Hairston surrounded a Ryan Sweeney fly to center rather than catch it. He did a great imitation of “I GOT IT” with his arms but was really more fighting it off. Did he lose it in the lights? I thought he might have, though in the direction where Hairston was looking, there aren’t any lights. Scott Hairston, we had decided earlier, is shaped like a Rock ’Em Sock ’Em Robot, so it’s no wonder he fought the ball off.

That second-inning hit should have been scored an error. I told Jim in the fifth if they changed the ruling, which is done all the time, Dickey could be working on a no-hitter. And as soon as I said that, Kurt Suzuki (he of the happiest DiamondVision picture I’ve ever seen) smacked a homer to left to make that discussion moot.

I couldn’t believe I had just jinxed a no-hitter that wasn’t even a no-hitter.

Still, we moved along. The Mets had scored one early and then forgot to score again. Forgot or weren’t capable. What a lineup. It started with Reyes and Beltran and seven other guys, one of whom was a pitcher with a torn plantar fascia. Generously allowing for Jason Bay’s heretofore major league credentials to be dumped like so much damp laundry into the cleanup hamper, the Mets basically batted one No. 8 hitter after another starting in the five-hole until they got to Dickey, who can’t run. And that’s when the lineup was at its peak. I thought they’d get away with it, too. After Dickey’s eight sparkling innings of one-run, three-hit, nine-strikeout ball (the humidity must have been just right), we got our go-ahead run the best way possible: Reyes tripled and the A’s foolishly played the infield in.

The game started an hour late but now it was on the verge of finishing right on time. Frankie comes in and nails it down and I’m on the same train I was on the night before when everything started on time but then dragged forever. I even allowed myself a glance at my watch to confirm to myself, with two out in the top of the ninth, that I can easily make the 11:08 at Woodside.

Then some A who isn’t Hideki Matsui drives in some other A who isn’t Hideki Matsui and it’s tied. Jim and I debate briefly whose fucking fault this is: K-Rod’s for giving up the key hits? Or Justin Turner for not timing his dive accurately?

Like it fucking matters. It was tied.

***

The Mets try so hard to convince you extra innings are fun. They’re not. They play one montage after another of Ruben Tejada and Angel Pagan getting base hits. They don’t. The lineup you thought was Reyes, Beltran and seven non-entities comes into clarity as it doesn’t score. It’s really just Reyes by now. Beltran is aging before our eyes. The rest are just the rest. You know how basketball coaches shorten their benches, relying on only a certain number of go-to reserves to give their starters a breather? If Terry Collins could do a baseball version of this, he’d play only Jose Reyes. He’s all we’ve got right now. Extra innings becomes a battle of figuring out how fast we can get Reyes to the plate and whether the A’s will score in the interim.

Changes are made, but none of the substitutions seem particularly effective. Collins, when he sees a baserunner, demands a bunt. What he gets is what he deserves: he gets an out, but no run. Reyes still isn’t up.

No, extra innings aren’t fun, and there’s no better advertisement for their lack of festiveness than Jim Haines. When Oakland tied the score, Jim’s half of our run-on sentence went silent. It usually does for a half-inning or two in any given game, but Jim appeared to be taking this latest installment of Met futility as a personal affront. Deep inside him I could see (since it was more interesting to observe than the Mets trying to score) him retracing his own steps.

Why did his father have to introduce him to the Mets?

Why did he have to go back to Shea once his father got fed up with paying more than four bits for parking?

Why did he have to ask whose Mets stuff that was?

Why did he have to be sitting here as midnight approached and the Mets were getting nowhere near home plate?

Why didn’t the Mets ever fix the Tom Seaver SUCKS Bus Shelter?

Those were good questions. I didn’t volunteer answers. I had none.

***

The 11:08 was long gone. So was the 11:43. I was now looking at the AM side of my (wet) LIRR schedule. 12:14? Not a chance. 12:50? If everything went right. But does everything ever go right for this team?

This can’t be worth staying for, can it? There was a fairly huge crowd at the beginning despite the rain — see how many the Mets draw when they charge Value prices? — but now all but the irresponsible, the lunatic and the tenth-anniversary celebrants are left. Jim clearly hates the first two groups and I’m betting he isn’t crazy about us anymore.

What if this is a record-setter? What if this is the 26-inning game? Do I leave the 26-inning game? Jim wouldn’t possibly stay. Would I? There’s a 1:49 at Woodside, the last remotely reasonable train home…unless you count the 3:11. If not the 3:11, I’m looking at the 5:05. After that, I’m getting a ticket for my car being at the station when the real commuters begin to show up.

The A’s still haven’t scored. They’ve played some defense (as some remarks are exchanged about Hideki Matsui’s high-class porn collection) but they’re no less inept than us when it comes to offense that isn’t helped along by K-Rod. Isringhausen, Byrdak, Beato, Parnell…take notes, Frankie. They didn’t give up a run. I thought I spied some daylight when Michael Wuertz came in. Four years ago I watched Michael Wuertz, as a Cub, walk Carlos Delgado with the bases loaded in a ninth-inning tie. I’m not proud. I would have accepted the Wuertz that could happen. But no such luck.

Bob Melvin goes from Wuertz to Brad Ziegler, no relation as far as I know to Toby Ziegler, communications director from The West Wing. I’m tempted to do a run of West Wing jokes for Jim, but he’s clearly in no mood. Nor should he be. This is the worst game ever, at least since the last worst game ever we went to, though none of those lasted thirteen-plus innings, and we didn’t remain as physically dampened as our spirits for hours thereafter (man, did it rain).

Ziegler loaded the bases in the twelfth, but Pridie can’t deliver the filibuster. Ziegler takes the podium again in the thirteenth. After the first out, Duda singles, which is surprising. Murphy singles, which is astonishing. On better nights, base hits by two Mets not named Jose Reyes don’t seem out of the ordinary. Tonight, now this morning, I can’t believe any of this will add up to anything. Pagan adds to that assurance by flying out. The Mets are now 0-for-Eternity with runners in scoring position. Reyes comes up and Melvin eventually stops screwing around and orders him passed. The winning run isn’t on third at that point. The winning run is on second. But he’s Jose Reyes and every other Met is not.

(Sign Jose.)

So now the bases are loaded and it’s Turner, as good a choice as anybody else, which is to say I’m resigning myself to paying the parking ticket that will be on my car when this game is in the bottom of the 28th. The only hope, I ascertain loudly — there are so few in the ballpark that I echo with only a little effort — is for Justin to get hit. Not hit so badly that he joins Ike Davis on the forever unable to play list, but just enough. I helpfully stand and demonstrate how he might want to position his elbow to avoid injury.

And son of a gun, on the very first pitch Ziegler throws him, Turner does just what I’d instructed. He leans into one. HBP! Mets win! Mets win!

Jim snaps out of his funk. “YOU CALLED IT!” he credits me. Me and the other eight-dozen people who populate the Promenade, I’m thinking, but yeah, how about that? The first thing to go indisputably right since calling for turkey and mozzarella when it was only drizzling and I came up with it. The irresponsible, the lunatic and us all high-five and chant a little LET’S GO METS! We all echo.

“I can’t wait to read about this in the morning,” Jim tells me before we part ways. At first I think he means in the Daily News or something, but then I realize he means me, here.

Which is why I’ve yet to go to sleep since Ziegler hit Turner. That’s all right. It’s just more Mets stuff here at my workspace, and I’m delighted to report none of it was HORRIBLE!

Not in retrospect, anyway.