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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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Classless & Clueless Clownery

A blue and orange clown car pulled into Anaheim last night. One by one, the clowns spilled out as a calliope played madly in the background. Rollicking, it was.

Then one of the clowns went mad and fired Willie Randolph.

That’s what it feels like as Jerry Manuel takes over the Good Ship Mediocrity. That’s what it feels like to be a Mets fan this morning waking up from having fallen asleep to an incidental Mets victory and seeing on the crawl across the bottom of the screen that Willie Randolph is no longer manager of the New York Mets.

Wait, you groggily ask yourself, didn’t the Mets win last night? More to the point, didn’t the Mets fly across the country with their manager in tow and let him manage on a Monday night? Didn’t he manage all nine innings?

You mean they fired him after that? After a win? On the West Coast, after midnight on the East Coast?

That they did. Those are the New York Mets. Clown college is, as ever, in session.

It never ends. It truly never ends. For two decades this organization has run with that calliope blaring at full blast. How many managers and general managers have been shot out of cannons now?

Everything that has been prelude to Willie Randolph’s tenure comes rushing back in your mind. Everything since the Mets were kings of baseball. Every bizarre backstabbing, every oil & water disaster of front office intrigue. Every painful press conference. Every firing.

Davey Johnson wins the World Series but Cashen angles endlessly to replace him. Buddy Harrelson’s a hometown hero but they can’t wait one lousy week to show him the door. Somebody believes Al Harazin and Jeff Torborg are answers. Somebody sets Dallas Green and Joe McIlvaine against each other in a chess game of disastrous creative tension. Somebody dismisses McIlvaine in the midst of the first successful season in seven because of nebulous skill-set concerns. Bobby Valentine’s coaches are used for skeet shooting. Steve Phillips’ horrible team shrivels and Bobby V, the only manager to actually win anything around here in more than a decade, takes the fall. Art Howe lights up a room. Jim Duquette preaches youth and athleticism and lowballs Vladimir Guerrero. Howe, nice man, can’t manage a meat market and is dismissed without actually being dismissed. No one takes responsibility for the worst trade of a prospect in a generation. Duquette told to take a hike because his team, with an ownership-approved right field platoon of Karim Garcia and Shane Spencer, without Scott Kazmir, with Kaz Matsui elbowing aside Jose Reyes, with Jose Reyes practically kicked in the hamstrings by his own team trainers, with David Wright in only his first season, wasn’t ready to contend even though the public position of his employers was let’s get some youth and athleticism in here and see what happens. Let’s replace Duquette with the guy we wouldn’t give the job to in the first place, Omar Minaya.

Then let’s usher in the hundredth new era in Mets history by giving Minaya the GM job and hiring Randolph as manager and breaking out the checkbook and signing Martinez and signing Beltran and resisting the temptation to trade Reyes and Wright and let’s improve by leaps one year and let’s break out the checkbook some more and let’s sign or trade for more big-money guys and let’s watch a great start, a phenomenal start, a fabulous start and let’s all congratulate each other for the renaissance in Queens. This is improving by bounds as well as leaps: a new day, a new era, a new dawning. The Mets now, after twenty years of thumbs finding the deep ends of asses, know what they’re doing.

And that lasts for not quite one season. And its remnants dissipate the next season. And before that season is out, it becomes mightily apparent that the checks cleared but the players bounced. That the mighty accomplishments of Carlos Delgado and Billy Wagner and Paul Lo Duca came with an expiration date. That Pedro Martinez and Orlando Hernandez and Moises Alou were marked fragile. That nobody much liked each other, which wouldn’t matter, except nobody fired each other up with their dislike either. That Beltran was both worth the money and is ridiculously overpaid. That Reyes will never quite grow up. That Wright has been shoehorned into a faux-leadership position by an organization that realized it had nowhere to turn except to a 25-year-old who’s broken out everywhere except at the plate. That it would have been nice to have had some youth and athleticism in place for when all the senior citizens did what senior citizens will do and slowed down with age. That the big-market New York Mets would sign the best pitcher in the game but rely more on the Pagans, the Figueroas, the Evanses, the Tatises and the Cancels for their biggest moments. That Ryan Church’s head was to be treated like carry-on luggage.

Remember Captain Red-Ass and the Marauding Mets or whatever it was we allegedly were on the cover of Sports Illustrated? Remember the feelgood story of 2006? Remember how everything Minaya touched turned to gold? That Julio Franco was a godsend? That Willie Randolph’s calm and soothing patience were just the lubricants for this finely tuned machine?

Did it really all go to hell in a cab in Miami? Was Duaner Sanchez really the linchpin of this operation? Did one dopey trade after another have to be made to get to October only to have October crumble while the bats went cold and unswung? Couldn’t anybody get anybody to run to first? To give a damn?

Did Willie Randolph, who was never anything but Willie Randolph when he was hired, when he was maintained and when he was fired, really have to be kept hanging on after the worst September performance anybody’d seen since Poland’s in 1939? Was it necessary to parade Willie to a microphone in early October 2007 to confirm that a man with a contract was still employed? Did it have to be top priority for the New York Mets to look like they knew what they were doing instead of actually knowing what they were doing?

It’s all a blur of incompetence now, and I don’t mean Willie’s. I don’t want to martyr him. He wasn’t the best manager they ever had, he wasn’t the worst. He was, in the vernacular of hopelessness, what he was. But they knew this last year. They knew this last September. They knew it after September and they knew it in May when they didn’t like an interview he gave. So they gave the man who had a contract one, no two, no three more games…or series to prove himself worthy of their confidence. And it worked. Then it didn’t. Then it was the same old team finding brilliant new ways to lose.

Then they packed him and Peterson and Nieto on a plane only to fire them after their fourth trip west in a matter of weeks, after they won a game, before anybody could get a night’s sleep to think, hey, maybe this is no way to run an organization.

I light no candles for Willie Randolph. He’ll get paid. He did, I’m sure, what he could. He led us to a division title and a division series victory. He led us to within one game of a league championship. In 2006, he could do no wrong. In 2006, Omar Minaya could do no wrong. In 2006, the Mets as an organization, for perhaps the only time since 1986, could do no wrong. I believed that. I’m a fan. I’m supposed to believe that. Those who own the team also believed the personnel they’d assembled could do no wrong, that all their drafting was spot on, that all their confusing intramural maneuvers were healthy, that whatever got them to this point was good for business. That they themselves could do no wrong.

They’re supposed to know better. But when in the last twenty years has that ever been the case?

The Shea Countdown: 3

3: Friday, September 26 vs Marlins

“Good evening, everybody. You may be wondering what’s going on down here.

“Well, I’m Joan Hodges, the wife of Gil Hodges. You fans voted my husband the manager on the Mets’ All-Amazin’ Team when the Mets celebrated their 40th anniversary in 2002. It was such an honor considering Gil had been gone thirty years by then. He would have been so touched.

“The All-Amazin’ Team was quite a roster and as part of the Countdown Like It Oughta Be, the Mets had the idea to reassemble it one more time to take down the number 3 from the right field wall. This time, however, they and we wanted to make it extra special.

“That’s why you see behind me a set of bleachers that’s been brought out behind second base, and that’s why you see every member of the All-Amazin’ Team sitting in those bleachers.

“I know it’s usually you folks in the stands. Tonight, it’s our turn. We’re the fans tonight. We’re here to see you, to cheer you and to applaud you, the Mets fans.

“The fellows are going to come up to his microphone one by one and tell you a little about what it’s meant to play at Shea Stadium and what it’s meant to play in front of you people. They asked me to start the ball rolling by speaking for Gil.

“I think if he were here, Gil would tell you that it was an honor for him to come back to New York after the Dodgers moved to California, that there was nowhere else he ever wanted to play. We loved playing in Brooklyn and we loved those first Mets teams even if we weren’t very good. I know it was the pinnacle of his career to get the Mets’ managerial job in 1968 and to win the World Series just one year later…he was thrilled. You know Gil didn’t show a lot of emotion, but let me tell you I had one happy husband in 1969.

“Gil loved his players and he loved the Mets fans. I want to thank you one more time for being so good to him then and to me all these years and remembering Gil when you voted him the manager of the All-Amazin’ Team. We had some great times in this stadium.

“I’m going to go sit in the bleachers now and let the ballplayers take it the rest of the way.”

***

“Hi everybody, I’m Roger McDowell and you voted me the righthanded relief pitcher on the All-Amazin’ Team. You might want to ask for a recount, but I’m grateful. I truly am.

“I wouldn’t miss being here for the world, even though it wasn’t the easiest thing getting the night off from my current job. No truth to the rumor I had to give Bobby Cox a hotfoot, but I suppose if you thought I had, you’d think pretty highly of me.

“Only kidding if Bobby is listening. He’s a good guy.

“Every one of us agreed we’d talk a little bit about our experiences at Shea Stadium and playing for you fans. The first game I pitched in here was April 11, 1985, the second game of the year. One-two-three eleventh inning and then the guys scored a run for me and got me the win. That’s what some people call ‘vulturing’. I tell you what I really remember, though, was two days before that, my first Opening Day, the day we beat the Cardinals when Gary Carter hit the home run in the tenth to win. I’d never seen a place so excited in my whole life. And that was only the beginning.

“My 4-1/2 seasons as a Met were something else. We won the World Series and we went to the playoffs another time. I played with some great teammates, a few of whom are here behind me. And I saw how much people could care about baseball. Even when you booed me — and, again, I’m sorry about throwing the fastball to Willie McGee instead of the slider…and then not getting Pendleton — there was something almost beautiful about it. It was great to play ball in front of people who cared like that.

“Being traded away hurt, but coming back whenever I do is sweet. Thank you for giving me that feeling when I pitched and thanks for giving it to me again.”

***

“Yeah, hi. I’m Lenny Dykstra and you voted me one of the outfielders on the All-Amazin’ Team. Like Roger said, there was probably a mix-up in the counting. C’mon, where’s Cleon? He was here more than twice as long. Dude hit .340 one year!

“Seriously, that was a great thing you did, especially considering I’d been on the Phillies and I know how ya feel about them. I’m with Roger, though. I didn’t wanna go. I’m not saying it wasn’t good and all, but you guys are the best. Once you’ve played in New York, once you’ve played for the New York FREAKING Mets at Shea freaking Stadium — can I say ‘freaking’?…Tom says I can — what’s the point of playing anywhere else?

“My first game at Shea, and they had to look this up for me ’cause I’m not Rain Man or anything, was May 7, 1985. I had come up in Cincinnati, somebody was injured, I don’t remember, but my first home game I was pinch-running for George Foster. Then, next thing I know, they send me down. Thanks Davey.

“But you know, they brought me back in June and Davey starts me and it’s Doc against the Cubs and he strikes out nine and this place is going nuts and we win 1-0. Man, I’d never seen anything like it. This was the place for me.

“I’ll never forget ’86. I’ve got millions of dollars now — don’t get mad at me, ’cause I could just as easily lose it — but I don’t think you can pay for the experiences I had. The homer off Dave Smith to win the playoff game against Houston…the World Series…man, this place shook. When you’re a kid playing Strat-O-Matic, they don’t tell you the ballpark can shake, but this one did.

“You guys, man, you made it shake. It’s like I can still feel it. You can’t put a price on it. If anyone could, I would, but I can’t, y’know? So thanks. It was so freaking Nails playing in front of you here.”

***

“Hello, Mets fans. I’m Rusty Staub and you voted me one of the pinch-hitters on the All-Amazin’ Team. I appreciated that a great deal. I worked real hard to become good at pinch-hitting. It’s a specialized craft. I worked real hard at playing the outfield, too.

“Unlike most of these men, I’d been coming to Shea for an awful long time before I was ever a Met. My first game in this ballpark, and Lenny isn’t alone in having to be reminded of this, was June 2, 1964, the very first year Shea Stadium was opened. I was a Houston Colt 45, which they don’t have anymore. I came in here and you couldn’t help be awed by how big this place was, how modern it all was for 1964. The Astrodome wasn’t built yet. Neither was anything else new except in L.A. and maybe San Francisco, so Shea was it. The Mets beat us that night, 7-4, so I can’t say I was too fond of the result, but I was impressed.

“I played for the Mets the first time on April 15, 1972, after they traded me from the Montreal Expos, another team that doesn’t exist anymore. I hope I’m not a plague! It was definitely a different feeling, playing in New York and having people root hard for me as opposed to against me, but it was a good feeling. I got a hit my first time up off Dock Ellis and we won and it looked like a pretty good year. Unfortunately, my hand got broken and I was out and we had a lot of injuries and that was more or less that.

“Next year, same thing but you know, we got hot at the right time and we got incredible pitching and we made the playoffs. I managed to get myself hurt again on that wall behind us, but we beat a great Reds club and we took a great Oakland club to seven games. It was a wild scene here that October. Wild and cold, but mostly wild.

“All those planes, too, all those years. I don’t care to fly, but it’s tough to ignore the planes. It rattled the pitchers more than it did me. I wouldn’t step out. I think it helped me.

“I didn’t get to play the rest of my career in New York, but I was elated when Frank Cashen brought me back as a free agent and I took a lot of pride in my pinch-hitting — almost as much as I did in my ribs. It was very fulfilling to be here when the Mets got good again, to play with all those kids who were coming along then and make some of my best friends in baseball. I wish I could have hung on one more year, to make it to 1986, but that’s how it goes.

“I’ll never forget playing in Shea Stadium and I’ll never forget the Mets fans. You were and are the best fans in all of baseball and you have no idea what it means to have that kind of support. So thank you again for the honor and thank you for all the great years.”

***

“Hi, I’m Howard Johnson, or HoJo as you probably know me. You voted me the third baseman on the All-Amazin’ Team and I just wanna say I’m glad the balloting was done when David Wright was still in the minors.

“Seriously, like Big Orange just said, it was an honor. I have to admit I came to New York a little scared of the big city. Not that Detroit wasn’t big, but nothing’s like New York. And I had never seen Shea Stadium except from the air. My first time in, like Roger, was Opening Day ’85 against the Cards, April 9. My first time up, I walked with the bases loaded. Easy way to get your first ribby and your first cheers. It was like Rog’ said, just a really big, really loud place, but really big and really loud for us.

“I wasn’t what you’d call a fully formed player, maybe, when I came over to the Mets, but you guys were great. Sometimes you gave me a hard time when I booted one or lunged after a breaking pitch in the dirt, but you were really good to me all those years. Just being on the field, behind home plate when Ray Knight scored the winning run in the sixth game of the World Series…I didn’t do anything, but I was as excited as I’d ever been on a ballfield. I guess I was like you that night: I was the world’s biggest Mets fan.

“I gotta echo what the other guys said. There’s nowhere to play but New York, nowhere. I learned that when I left and it’s probably why I tried to come back a few years later. It’s been a thrill to make it back as a coach and I’ll always love this organization, the guys I played with and you fans. Thanks for everything and God bless you.”

***

“Hello. My name is Jerry Koosman and you voted me the lefthanded starter on the All-Amazin’ Team. Thank you for that.

“You talk about nervous. I’m from Minnesota, Appleton, a farm. And then I make the team out of Spring Training in 1967 and before I know it, Wes Westrum is bringing me in to pitch relief against the Phillies. It was April 22. I had a good first inning. Like Roger, it was a one-two-three inning. Clay Dalrymple was my first batter. Clay gave Tom fits, but I got him that day.

“Anyway, Johnny Briggs tagged me for a homer in the next inning and before I knew it I was headed back down. I really wasn’t ready in ’67 for the big club. I was in nine games the whole year and we lost all nine. But the next year, Gil was managing and I made the team again and it was a whole new ballgame as they say. Not just for me but for the Mets.

“Shea Stadium was a special place in those years, ’68, ’69. I wish all of you in the stands tonight could have been here when we won the World Series. Maybe some of you were. What a thrill it was to be on the mound in that fifth game. Perfect, cool day. And what a crowd on the field! But they were the nicest people. New Yorkers are the best, especially Mets fans. I never felt not at home when I pitched at Shea. Best mound in the league outside Dodger Stadium, fair dimensions, wonderful ownership with Mrs. Payson and everybody, the best teammates and you fans. I loved being Jerry Koosman of the New York Mets and I always will. Thank you and God bless.”

***

“Hi, this is John Franco. You voted me lefthanded reliever on the All-Amazin’ Team, which is amazing in itself considering I couldn’t always tell if you guys really liked me.

“Only kidding. Thank you for the honor. It meant a lot for a kid from the Marlboro Houses in Bensonhurst to be thought of that way. I grew up here, too, y’know, right in this ballpark. I grew up rooting for Tug McGraw, a lefty like me, and he wore 45 and then one day years later I’m doing what he did where he did it and thanks to Mike coming over, I’m wearing 45 just like him. And then you go and tell me I’m the greatest lefthanded reliever the Mets have ever had. It really meant a lot.

“There was a time the only way I could get in here was with Dairylea milk coupons. We’d cut ’em off the sides of the cartons and take the subway. More than one train, believe me. Then I got to come here with the Reds. My first game at Shea was July 6, 1984, the first game of a doubleheader. I got Darryl to ground out to first. We lost anyway. Got to pitch in the nightcap, too. Imagine being used like that. I threw a scoreless inning, but we were swept.

“I never stopped being a Mets fan, even when I had to get Darryl and Mex and everybody out. I came to the fourth playoff game in ’88 against the Dodgers. Me and my brother left to beat the traffic. We figured Doc had it in hand. Wished I could have been pitching the ninth. I did good against Scioscia. Lefty-lefty.

“It was a dream come true to pitch here and have my family watch me, so when I became a Met in 1990 and they could root out loud for me and not fear for their lives, that was even better. Of course my first Opening Day was delayed by the lockout and we got our butt kicked by the Pirates. The fans weren’t in a good mood that day, but I picked up the save for Frankie Viola the next game and they treated me good. Wasn’t always the case, but I tried my best and I understood what it was like to save up to come to a game and then get let down sometimes. I tried to remember anyway.

“Shea wasn’t technically the nicest ballpark in the world, I suppose. It was like the city housing I grew up in, and anything built by the city’s probably not going to be all that nice. But you couldn’t beat playing here in front of Mets fans when things were going good. I had that love/hate relationship with all of you, I guess, but when we finally made the playoffs in ’99 — or at least were going to the one-game playoff in Cincinnati — I got the biggest cheers of my career. I’m grateful for that. Same when we beat the Cardinals in 2000 and we were going to the World Series. That was a thrill.

“There were a lot of thrills in this building for me. Some of them were from sitting in general admission in the upper deck. Some of them were on the mound saving games, or at least trying to. I always tried my best and I know Mets fans always tried their best. In the end, I think we were meant for each other. Thanks for being there for me and thanks for letting me be there for you.”

***

“Hi everybody! I’m Mookie Wilson. You voted me to the All-Amazin’ Team as one of the outfielders. I’m not gonna argue the choice.

“I loved playing in New York. LOVED it! I’m from a small town in South Carolina. I’d played in small towns in the minors. When I married my wife Rosa, I told her I couldn’t give her a diamond, so I did the next best thing: we got married on a diamond, in Jackson, Mississippi. I thought Jackson was a big city.

“But THIS…this is what I call a diamond. And you fans are the gems that made it sparkle. Nobody ever booed me here. If they did, I couldn’t tell. That’s the great thing about 50,000 people calling you ‘Mooookie’. If you were trying to spare my feelings, I appreciate that, too.

“My first game at Shea Stadium was September 10, 1980, against the Phillies. Went 0-for-4 and was batting .161. But nobody got down on me. I figured out pretty early that New Yorkers would get behind you as long as you kept running and kept hustling. So that’s what I did. I would have done it anyway, but every one of you made it that much more worth doing.

“When we won in those days, it was a big deal. My first full year I hit a home run to win a game off Bruce Sutter. You’d have thought we’d won the pennant right there. That was a few years away. When we did it, when we won the World Series…well, it was the greatest feeling a ballplayer can have. I’m so glad we could do it here in front of the Mets fans. Same for the sixth game which some of you have told me was a good game, too.

“I had a couple of nice years in Toronto at the end of my career and the Canadians were nice folks, but they weren’t Mets fans. They’d chant ‘Moo-KEY’ and I was thinking, don’t they know how to pronounce it? Everybody here tells me. They tell me they named their dogs and cats after me. I guess that’s a compliment. It’s nice to know people remember you however they remember you.

“I came back here with the Blue Jays for an exhibition game right before my final year. I got a huge ovation. Maybe it was because the game didn’t count. But it was wonderful to know I was remembered, even if I wasn’t wearing the right uniform that day. I know I’ll always remember wearing the Mets uniform and I know I’ll always remember you and remember Shea Stadium. Thank you and God bless you.”

***

“Hello everybody. My name is Ed Kranepool and you voted me one of the pinch-hitters on the All-Amazin’ Team. I guess you couldn’t vote me the first baseman after Keith Hernandez got here. But I pinch-hit a little, so that was great.

“I was here, at Shea, at the beginning. My first game was April 17, 1964, the day they opened the stadium. Casey pinch-hit me then, too, come to think of it. I was looking forward to Shea being built even when they were playing in the Polo Grounds. The Mets even brought me out here in high school to see where I’d be playing. I couldn’t have dreamed I’d be playing here for sixteen years.

“What Johnny was saying about love/hate, I can relate. There was a banner one time: ‘Is Ed Kranepool over the hill?’ I think I was 21 then. Tough crowd. But I’m a New Yorker, so I got it. I got a lot of it, actually, and I probably deserved some of it. We weren’t a very good team and the fans couldn’t have been used to that. This was New York. New York had championships. We weren’t going to do that right away.

“But we had a lot of good young players and then we got Gil Hodges and he pointed us the way. I didn’t always get along with Gil, Joan, but I sure came to respect him and appreciate him. Everybody who played for him did. I wasn’t surprised when he was named the all-time manager. No disrespect to anybody else.

“1969 was the high point, especially getting to hit a home run in the third game. I was working offseasons as a stockbroker and when it came across the ticker that I had homered — they used to play the World Series during the day, you know — I hear it nearly caused a riot on Wall Street. It was that kind of year. Man landed on the moon, Ed Kranepool hit a home run in the World Series and the Mets were champions. Wow.

“I got older and I tried to get wiser and I played a little less and I learned to pinch-hit. I guess when you saw less of me you came to like me more because every time I came out on-deck the cry would go up: ‘Eddie! Eddie!’. It’s nice to be thought enough of for that. I thought maybe you were doing it for Eddie Giacomin of the Rangers or something, but it was for me. That was gratifying. It really was.

“Maybe it felt a little less thrilling at Shea as the years went by and we weren’t so good again and there weren’t a lot of fans here. I can’t say I blamed you. Too bad. There was no place like Shea when it was packed and everybody was screaming, even if they weren’t screaming for me. I’ll never forget how on the final homestand when I was a player nobody asked me to put them on my pass list. No one. Being a New Yorker, I always got asked. I guess it’s no wonder the team was on the verge of being sold. I was actually part of a group that tried to buy it, too. Too much money.

“I wish I could have hung on a little longer and played with some of these guys behind me and been part of the revival. But I’ve always enjoyed coming back and being a Mets fan. I’ve never made any banners. I don’t know what I’d say if I did. It’s always fun to look up at the scoreboard before the games when they list the all-time leaders in hits and games played and stuff like that and my name is still at the top. I can’t believe that. Maybe with David and Jose signed to long-term deals that won’t be the case forever. They’re great kids.

“Anyway, I just wanted to say it was an honor to be a New York Met and nothing but a New York Met and I wish you well in whatever you do. Thank you.”

***

“Hi. My name is Edgardo Alfonzo and you voted me the second baseman on the All-Amazin’ Team. Thank you very much. I remember thinking that it was funny I’d be the second baseman because I had just moved back to third base, but I always said I’d play anywhere to help the team. An All-Amazin’ team like this one doesn’t need much help.

“My first game at Shea Stadium was my rookie season, April 30, 1995. I didn’t get a hit. Then we went on the road and I had to wait almost two weeks to get my first hit here. It was a double off Steve Avery of the Braves. People cheered me and started calling me Fonzie. I had to ask some of the guys what that meant. I’m from Venezuela and we didn’t see all the American TV.

“But I loved being Fonzie. I loved playing in New York. You were the most supportive fans and always made me feel at home, whether I was doing good or bad, whether I was playing second or third. Being in the playoffs and the World Series here were the thrills of my life, but it was always a joy and an honor just putting on the Mets uniform and playing with great players like Johnny and Mike and all the rest of the guys and getting to call myself a New Yorker for a few years. Once you’re a Met, you’re always a Met.

“This is where I got started and had my best seasons. This is where I got to be Fonzie, you know? That couldn’t have happened anywhere else and I’ll always be grateful to you, the fans. Thank you and thank you Shea Stadium.”

***

“Hello New York! I’m Bud Harrelson and you voted me the shortstop on the All-Amazin’ Team. Thank you! And thanks to the New York Mets for having the balloting before Jose Reyes came to the big leagues! Me and HoJo will be in the stands with all of you when time comes for the 50th anniversary probably.

“Boy, my first game at Shea. It was September 2, 1965 against Rusty’s Astros. We lost 4-3. Big surprise. Rusty hit a homer against us. Another big surprise. Rusty could play. Rusty could even run back then — it’s true!

“I had been at Buffalo that season and I got called up. Me and Dick Selma. We drove down here and couldn’t believe how big this place looked. And that was just on the outside. Everything looks big to me, you know, but Shea really was something else.

“We weren’t too good when I first got there, but we began to get a lot better when the front office promoted this pitcher from Jacksonville in ’67. Seaver was his name, I think. Tom was a winner, you could tell that right away. He made us all better. We all began to think we could be winners, too. I looked around the field sometimes, saw the guys who were here: Tom, Kooz, Grote, Cleon, Tommie, Rocky, Krane, Nolie, Tug…I said to myself, ‘Hey, we might not be too bad! Even with me at short!'”

“Gil came along and made us believe we were better. That’s so important. Everybody in the big leagues has talent. They wouldn’t be here if they didn’t. But a good attitude can give you that edge and nobody had a better feel for the game than Gil Hodges.

“And nobody was a better fan than a Mets fan. Yeah, sometimes we got booed. Y’know what? If we got booed, we probably deserved it. We needed to listen to the fans, run out ground balls, work deeper counts, just play better. I loved playing for fans like you. Anybody who says he wouldn’t want to play in New York doesn’t know what he’s talking about. This place was electric! We had a game in a blackout once and it was electric. Where else you gonna find that?

“You made me believe in myself. You made me feel like the king of the world in ’69 and ’73. Heck, you made me think I could take out Pete Rose! Pete could take me on, but not all of you. Not that I’m condoning any of that stuff, mind you.

“It was an honor to play for the Mets and manage the Mets. I wish I could’ve done a better job. We tried but maybe not hard enough or maybe we just weren’t that good. I tried to take after Gil, but as Joan Hodges could tell you, there was only one Gil. I won’t tell you I was happy to be asked to take a hike, but that’s water under the bridge now. Every time I’ve come back, you fans have treated me royally and that means a lot. Every time somebody comes up to me at a Ducks game and says they were a Mets fan back in the day, and they remember seeing me when they were a kid…that means everything. No kidding. Don’t think because we’re ‘professionals’ that we’re not little kids, too. This is a dream come true. Being a ballplayer, being a New York Met right here at Shea Stadium — I couldn’t have asked for anything more.

“Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

***

“Good evening. I’m Darryl Strawberry. You voted me one of the outfielders on the All-Amazin’ Team. I’ve waited six years to thank you in person for that tremendous honor.

“I couldn’t be here in 2002. I was otherwise detained. I taped a message then and I sent my son in my place, but I looked forward to the day I could come back here and say thanks.

“Thanks for caring that much about me, even after I left the Mets. I made a lot of mistakes in my life, but the biggest mistake I ever made in my career was not making sure I stayed a New York Met for all of it. Once you’re a Met, you’re spoiled. You don’t want to be anything else. I had some good years in some other places, but my heart was always with the Mets and with you Mets fans. I hope you believe that because I know it’s true.

“My first game at Shea Stadium was my first game in the big leagues, on May 6, 1983. One minute I’m in Tidewater, the next I’m batting third in front of Dave Kingman and George Foster. It wasn’t easy. Almost hit one out that first night, but it went foul.

“I always wanted to do my best for you fans. I came out and said the next year that I was gonna be the leader of the Mets. I can’t believe how young I was. I was in a clubhouse with Keith Hernandez talking about being a leader. I wished I had done a little less talking when I was that young, but you live and you learn.

“We had a great team. Doc and Ronnie and Sid and Roger and Jesse made it easy. Keith was truly a leader. Then Gary came. Two Hall of Famers as far as I was concerned. All the guys — Lenny and Hoj’ and Ray Knight and Wally Backman and Mazz and Mookie and George and Dougie and Rafael Santana. You couldn’t have asked for better teammates. You couldn’t have asked for a better manager than Davey Johnson. We didn’t always see eye to eye, but I see now the man knew his baseball. We were lucky to have him.

“It’s funny. I became ‘Daaaryl’ in Fenway Park, but I really felt like something special here. They had a Strawberry Sunday for me my second year. I thought that was great. I always wanted to make every day Strawberry Sunday. I always wanted to hit the highest and long home runs for you fans. Maybe that’s why I struck out too much. Still, you made me Straw and I’ll always be Straw thanks to you.

“It was fantastic winning that championship in ’86. It was frustrating knowing that we should have won a couple more, but it was a trip playing here. My life wouldn’t have been the same without Shea Stadium and I mean that in a good way. I hope you know how much you all mean to me. You always let me know how much I meant to you. Thank you and God bless.”

***

“Hi everybody, what’s up? I’m Mike Piazza and you voted me the catcher on the All-Amazin’ Team. That knocked me out when you did, seeing as how I was following in the footsteps of a whole bunch of great catchers like Gary Carter and Jerry Grote and one of my coaches the Dude John Stearns and Todd Hundley and the home run record he set here. I was still active, too, so it was literally amazing. Thank you.

“My first game at Shea Stadium of course was as an enemy, so I’m sorry about that. It was April 27, 1993 and I homered off Doc Gooden. I mean how cool is that? I’m a kid from near Philadelphia and I grew up watching Doctor K on the superstation, WOR, and he’s the most awesome pitcher in the game and I’m here in New York and I’m taking him deep? Like it wasn’t enough that I was even in the Major Leagues and catching Orel Hershiser that night? Geez!

“Of course the real first game in Shea Stadium for me was May 23, 1998, my first game as a Met. Man, that’s both one of those days I’ll never forget and one of those days I barely remember, y’know? First I’m on the Dodgers, then I’m on the Marlins, then I get a call from my agent Dan telling me the Marlins are trading me to the Cubs, then I go take a shower and when I come out, the phone rings and it turns out I was traded to the Mets. I was confused!

“But I straightened out soon enough. It was the best day of my professional life when I became a Met, when I could call Shea Stadium my professional home. Man, I loved being a New York Met. I loved the sound this place made when you did something good as a New York Met. I was fortunate to come here when the team was getting real good, with Johnny and Fonzie and Al and Rick Reed and John Olerud and…I’m gonna forget some guys, but it was a great group. Bobby Valentine was a terrific manager. Really the whole organization exuded class, right up to and including the grounds crew and the security. Everybody. I mean it.

“We got close my first year and came up a little bit shy. The next year we got Robin, and Rey-Rey didn’t make an error for like a hundred games and we had Rickey Henderson and Orel and…I’m babbling on, but it’s all kind of rushing back to me. We nearly missed the playoffs but I’m standing at bat, the last game of the year with the bases loaded and suddenly Melvin Mora is rushing toward me from third base. It’s a wild pitch! We’re gonna win the game! I saw the tape later and I’m standing there like a statue. Nice goin’, Piazza.

“We go to the playoffs and I can’t play and Todd Pratt hits the series-winning homer to beat Arizona. Figures. I’m supposed to be the big star and the team does better without me! But what a great feeling just to be a part of that team and play those amazing series and to go for it again the next year. I just wish that fly ball I hit in the last game of the World Series had carried a little farther. I guess it’s true what they say about Shea being a pitcher’s park.

“Obviously it’s impossible for me to stand in this stadium and not remember the game we played against the Braves after September 11. People said I brought the city back or brought baseball back. Man, I was just doing my job that night. A lot of people a lot more worthy than me in this city did their jobs. That’s who I thought about. That’s who I still think about. But what an honor to wear this Mets uniform that night and the NYPD helmet, I was never prouder to be a Met or a New Yorker than I was then.

“I still am. I liked all the places I played and I appreciated all the fans I played in front of. But how can I not consider myself a New York Met after all we went through together here? You treated me like I was one of you and I hope I didn’t let you down. Believe me, if anybody ever asks me how I want to be remembered, I’m going to tell them, without hesitation, as a New York Met. I don’t know if they’ll listen, but it’s on record.

“I’m so honored to have been asked to come back to Shea Stadium one more time. It’s a great old park and I’ll miss it, but I know the new one’s gonna be nice and I hope I get to come back there, too. My heart will always be right here in Flushing with all of you. Thank you and God bless all of you.”

***

“Hello! I’m Keith Hernandez! I’m the All-Amazin’ first baseman by your reckoning, so I wanna say thanks. That’s great.

“Whew! I can’t believe we’re down to the final weekend at good old Shea Stadium. Just three games: tonight, tomorrow and Sunday. That’s incredible. It means I’m old, ’cause I swear I feel like I just got here.

“First time I was at Shea was the eleventh of September, 1974. Folks, we played twenty-five innings that night. How do you like that for a how-do-you-do to New York? It’s only my second week in the Majors and Red Schoendienst sends me up to pinch-hit against Harry Parker, a real tough righty. I’m leading off the twelfth inning. Kooz started for you guys so you know, lefty versus lefty with the Cardinals in a tight race with the Pirates, I’m not facing Jerry Koosman. I’m just a kid, not quite 21 at that point, and I don’t know what I’m doin’. I swing as hard as I can and I loft a flyball to right for the first out. Then there’s just lots of sitting around for the next…what was it…twenty-five minus twelve…for the next thirteen innings I’m just sitting around. I thought I had to stay nailed to the bench. I’m a rookie, I don’t want to look bad.

“So I’m sitting and the thing goes on for hours and I’m thinkin’, ‘There’s still people here!’ It gets to be midnight and then one and then two and there’s still people in the ballpark! Not that many, but enough. More than you’d believe there’d be at three in the morning which is when I think the game finally ended after Hank Webb threw a pickoff attempt all the way down the first base line and Bake McBride came around to score. Bake could fly! We still had to play the bottom of the twenty-fifth. Sonny Siebert, who’d been a great starter with the Red Sox, when they had Lonborg and Ray Culp, finished it off. I think he got Milner for the last out.

“Anyway, that’s a long game but you still had the fans here. They loved their Metsies and they always loved their Metsies. Even when I’d come back with the Cardinals after Tom and Kooz and Matlack were gone and they weren’t drawing many fans — I’d look up in the upper tank and it would be desolate — the ones who were here were just so intense. Folks, I’m from Northern California. We had some pretty good teams out there when I grew up. We had Mays and McCovey and Cepeda and Marichal on the Giants. We had Reggie Jackson and the A’s when I was in high school. And St. Louis was a great baseball town. But c’mon! This was New York! There’s no comparison!

“I won’t lie to you that I was a little in shock when the Cardinals traded me here. I didn’t cry. I don’t know where that got started, but I didn’t cry. I was just surprised. It took me a little while to get my bearings. I came here in ’83 and we weren’t all that good but I saw who was here. Darryl was obviously a tremendous talent. Mookie had speed to burn. Hubie Brooks could play. Ronnie Darling, he came up in September. I heard about Doc and Lenny and Roger in the minors. And Big Orange, too. He wasn’t young or anything but he really got me used to New York. I knew something was coming together, so I told Frank Cashen in the offseason that I wanted to stay.

“Best decision i ever made. The next few years were the best years I had in baseball. Not from a statistical standpoint because I hit .344 and won a batting one year, my MVP year, in St. Louis. But the team here was fantastic. We got Gary Carter and say what you will about Gary Carter, he was and is a Hall of Fame catcher and hitter. Doc was amazing, just amazing. Bobby O, they brought him in here and he was just what we needed, a good veteran influence on all those young arms. You had Haji and Knight at third and Danny Heep spelling George Foster and Aguilera came up in the middle of the year I guess it was ’84…no, it was ’85…it was ’85…oh, and El Sid!

“Davey Johnson told us we were going to dominate the East. We’d had a close call with Whitey Herzog’s Cardinals and the year before that the Cubs were unconscious. But ’86, that was our year and we had a big lead and it was one of those years where everything went right. You know what happened, we won the division — some overzealous fan nearly ripped my shoulder out trying to get my glove so now you have to have the horses — then the Houston series and Boston. It was crazy. The seventh game against Hurst…folks, I never felt more confident about an at-bat than I did with the bases loaded in the sixth. I knew I was going to get a base hit. Everything felt right.

“And this place exploded. It was like an earthquake, an absolute earthquake, like 55,000 people had exploded. When my hit scored Mazz and Mook, I knew we were going to win. No doubt about it. We would’ve scored more in the sixth, too, except Dale Ford made the slowest call of his life when Dwight Evans didn’t catch Gary’s ball and I was forced out at second ’cause I didn’t know if it was a putout or what. Dale was a great ump, but you’ve gotta tell the baserunner in that situation. Gary tied the game up but we should’ve had more.

“I should probably wrap this up because I know they have a game to get back to, but I wanted to say I loved being a Met, love working for the Mets and SNY and loved playing here more than anything else in my career. You can’t beat playing in New York, and I should know. I played in Cleveland for a year and I was miserable. I just retired after that. It’s like you can’t play in Cleveland after being on the Metsies. No offense to Cleveland, it just wasn’t for me. I take full responsibility. I was a free agent and I had to move on, the time was right, but if I had it to do all over again, I’d have stayed a Met or just gone ahead and retired. It wasn’t worth it.

“Thank you, Mets fans! I love you!”

***

“Hello. I’m Tom Seaver and I have the unenviable task of following Keith Hernandez.

“But seriously, you voted me your All-Amazin’ righthanded starting pitcher so of course I want to acknowledge that.

“I want to acknowledge the role Shea Stadium played in my career. My first start was here was against the Pirates on April 13, 1967. The first batter I faced was Matty Alou, Moises’s uncle. He got me for a double. But I settled down, got Maury Wills and the great Roberto Clemente to ground out, walked Willie Stargell but then struck out my future teammate Donn Clendenon to get out of it.

“Alou, Wills, Clemente, Stargell, Clendendon. That’s some welcoming committee, hitters like those. But we had some good players, too, and we won the game. I didn’t get the decision, but it was good to get my feet wet and the way this place used to drain, that wasn’t a problem.

“I’ve said it’s time for the Mets to have a new stadium and I believe that. You go around the Majors as I did when I broadcast for the team and you see what they have in Pittsburgh and Cincinnati and San Diego and so forth and you wonder how is it possible that New York City, the greatest city in the world, doesn’t have one? Now you don’t have to wonder anymore. You’ll see it for yourself. You’re going to love it.

“But that doesn’t make this place any less special. This place, too, was my welcoming committee. All the fans who were here that chilly day in 1967 and all the fans who were here every time I pitched. I always said the Mets fans were the tenth man for us. When you’re pitching, you look for every advantage. You fans represented a wonderful advantage for me and for everybody on the team. You could sense the difference when we went on the road and the fans weren’t behind their team like our fans were for us. There were places where we had more fans — on the road, mind you — than the actual home team did. That’s a real credit to the Mets fans and I always appreciated that.

“You play this game, you come to work every day, to win and eventually, if you’re lucky and work hard, to win a championship. I had that thrill in 1969. That happened here and for that I’ll never forget what Shea Stadium felt like and looked like and sounded like. That was the culmination of a life’s dream, not just for me, but for everybody on the team. That wouldn’t have been possible without everybody’s contributions, but especially our manager. Joan, if you’re wondering why the fans still remember Gil, it’s because he deserves to be remembered.

“A lot of you probably remember 1969 and 1973. A lot more of you, I suspect, remember 1986. I was here for that, too, even if it was in the wrong dugout. I won’t say that deep down I was happy the Mets won, but I couldn’t be unhappy for you Mets fans. You deserved to be happy.

“Once I was done playing, it meant a great deal to come back here and have my number retired and to stand on that mound and take a few bows. It meant a great deal to come back as a broadcaster and be around those very talented teams led by Mr. Piazza. The fans were happy again and it was great to see.

“I’ve been around a bit less in the past few years, but it never leaves you. They’ll tear this place down soon but it will still be here, right here, in the heart. You won’t forget your first game here any more than any of us who played here will — the time your dad or your mom took you or the time you took your son or your daughter to their first game. I hope you saw a Mets win, but even if you didn’t, you saw the Mets play. Sometimes it might have been hard to comprehend, but every player who has ever worn this uniform wanted to do his best for you. The fellas in the dugout tonight are trying just like we did, just like the guys in the other years did. We talked about it among each other and we heard it from the visiting players on the other teams what the Mets fans were like, how incredibly loud and supportive they were.

“Demanding? You bet. But demanding because they understood baseball and loved the sport. As a professional athlete, you can’t ask for anything more.

“Right now, we’re going to make our way over to the right field corner to take down number 3. We took a vote and I’m afraid it was left for me to do the peeling. We actually voted for Joan, but she said Gil would have wanted me to do it, so I can’t turn that down. Besides, Buddy’s too short to reach it. Only kidding roomie!

“But I tell you what. I do this for all of us. I do this for the entire All-Amazin’ Team — and may I say the voters made some excellent choices — and I do this for all of our teammates for all the years each of us played here and for all the Mets who’ve worn this uniform. And most of all, and I mean this as sincerely as I can, I do this for every one of you in the stands, for everyone who has ever come to Shea Stadium to root on the New York Mets, for everyone who has ever looked at that word, Mets, and saw in it, somehow, a piece of themselves.

“This is for you.”

Number 4 was revealed here.

Number 2 will be counted down in two weeks, on Monday, June 30.

Desperate Times Call for Robinson Cancel

You know what the Mets are? They're selectively desperate. They saunter and they mosey and they stop to smell the roses and pick at dandelions the great majority of the time, but then something suddenly lights a fire under them (to quote an old friend, “You know what burns my ass? A flame this high.”) and it's all for one and one for all and let's get hell-bent as all get-out.

But they're just not very good at it.

Game One revealed the schizophrenia. The Mets slept like England by JFK's reckoning most of the opener. Even as they rallied — showing some “fight” as Wayne or Howie or Gary or Ron or all of them called it — they approached the battle as ambivalent pacifists might. No point taking extra bases. No point thinking fly balls might not go out. Then, all of a sudden, it's every man to his station…double-time! Then the Mets cannot be stopped. You can only hope they will contain themselves.

That they did.

If the standings truly mattered anymore, there'd be a head-shaped dent in at least one wall around here. But Brian Schneider being urged by Sandy Alomar to think he can, think he can chug his way home on Milton Bradley's arm amid all the single-cheeked rallying the Mets did in the eighth and ninth — it was mostly amusing. Having already divined the best way to accept their shortcomings might be to to treat this crew as linear albeit better-compensated heirs to Marvelous Marv — the 1962 Mets also lost 8-7 in the opener of a Father's Day doubleheader through play that was less than brainy — these Mets surely merit fewer snits and more giggles.

Game Two's result was more pleasing, probably because I didn't see or hear a pitch of it. Since the nightcap was ladled onto the regularly scheduled afternoon affair, and since it was Father's Day, my plans took me away from the television, kept me away from the radio and made being at Shea prohibitive. Though I patted myself on the back for giving my father a few hours' of unMetted attention, I will confess to sneaking into a restaurant men's room to tap the little-used Web browser on my phone. It was there I saw we were winning thanks to Robinson Cancel.

Don't know if that meant the Mets were fighting, but they sure must have been desperate.

Well, what the hey. Most of our 2008 grace notes have been delivered by the likes of Nelson Figueroa and Nick Evans and Fernando Tatis. Why shouldn't Robinson Cancel join the parade of Mets who will never adorn the cover of the pocket schedule but can at least claim to have attached themselves to one of its squares? Or in Robinson Cancel's case, the unscheduled half of one.

Can't say I knew a bloody thing of Robinson Cancel's existence before this Spring Training, but Robinson Cancel and I had every reason to remember September 21, 1999. That was the night the Mets went down to Georgia with a division title on the line and Chipper Jones commenced to bury them. He hit a homer from the left side off Rick Reed, a homer from the right side off Dennis Cook and the Braves won 2-1, increasing their lead on the Mets to two games. Everything tumbled downhill from there, straight into a seven-game losing streak that put the Wild Card in peril.

I'm a big Mets fan, so I remember that date for Mets fan reasons. Robinson Cancel, one assumes, is a big Robinson Cancel fan, so he would remember that date for Robinson Cancel reasons: it was the date of his final Major League hit.

He played for the Milwaukee Brewers.

They played in County Stadium.

Bill Pulsipher was their starting pitcher.

The hit came off Chad Ogea.

The Brewers are still around, but County Stadium, Ogea and Pulse are long gone from the scene (Long Island Ducks notwithstanding). Yet somehow the hit Robinson Cancel delivered for the Brewers on September 21, 1999 is no longer Robinson Cancel's final Major League hit. It's merely his second-most recent hit, one that happened to have been delivered nine years ago.

Not everybody's heard. As of Sunday, Baseball-Reference still listed Robinson Cancel as having played his final Major League game on September 29, 1999, and they don't list final Major League games until they're good and sure a player has hung 'em up. When Robinson Cancel made an appearance in San Diego last week, my friend the Other Jason sent me a note that on September 29, 1999, Mets fans were marveling that John Olerud launched a grand slam off Greg Maddux, driving in Al Leiter, Rickey Henderson and Edgardo Alfonzo, each of whom had singled (just after Darryl Hamilton, Roger Cedeño and Rey Ordoñez had done the same). All of those guys are long gone, too, except for Maddux the six-inning Cy-borg…and he's older than Moises Alou. Other Jason's point was Robinson Cancel hadn't played in the big leagues in a very, very long time and what kind of team is this giving a roster spot to Robinson Cancel from the last century?

“Was he hitting like 4.200 at New Orleans?”

It never occurred to me to check. I suppose now that Robinson Cancel's become the latest savior to rise from these streets, we can waste our summer praying in vain that he is at least platooned with Schneider…or that another hit will help us before another nine years pass.

Chipper Jones is still around, too, come to think of it.

Weather Permits Nothing, But We Permit Stupidity

Well, that was stupid.

There may be nothing dimmer one can do than go to Shea Stadium and wait out a rain delay that never ends. Nothing. And notice I said “Shea Stadium” specifically, not “the ballpark” generically. I don’t doubt that postponements in other places are lame, but I know for a fact that Shea-outs are as insipid as they come.

In retrospect, there was no good reason to seek this game out. In advance, however, there were at least three:

• First, it was the Texas Rangers, the only Rangers @ Mets series Shea will ever see. I collect Interleague opponents, at least one of each. I’ve been waiting since 2002, when the East-only rule for AL visitors was rent asunder, to collect ’em all. Entering this year, the Rangers and White Sox were my only outliers left. Oh to have them to show so I could ink them in The Log! By dint of the seemingly random dice-roll of the schedulemakers, the White Sox remain eternally at large, but I thought I’d finally gotten Texas lined perfectly in my sights. I had a mild other-league crush on the Rangers when I was 11 and 12 and, ironically, I had a chance to see them play at Shea versus the…gawd, I can’t even say it. There used to be another baseball team that played home games at Shea Stadium — temporarily, that is. A day camp trip to see the Rangers take on that team was arranged for July 7, 1975. Yet at the last minute, I begged off. I couldn’t stand the idea of going to see the Yankees in any ballpark, let alone as the “home team” in mine, so I sacrificed my fleeting Rangers fetish on the altar of righteousness. I stopped caring about Jeff Burroughs & Co. shortly thereafter…and 33 years later, I was paid back for my loyalty to principle by getting drenched.

• Second, they were handing out miniature Shea Stadiums to the first 25,000 fans, meaning the second 25,000 fans could, as official policy explicitly dictates, suck it. That was enough lure to get me there as early as the LIRR and the 7 would have me, and even then Laurie — for whom a little Shea is a lot appropriate — was already waiting in the security line. “I’ve been in this thing three times already,” trying to save us a spot so they wouldn’t run out of Sheas. We got ours and they are wonderful if not lifelike. For example, the miniature Shea doesn’t leak when it rains. The box is pretty neat, too (I can never bring myself to throw out the cluttering cardboard things like these and bobbleheads come in). It says “Final Season Shea Stadium” and “Replica”. I was worried that the box, in fact, contained a replica of 2008…which I think would violate health code ordinances if you tried to carry it onto a train.

• Finally, it was a baseball game.

‘Twas supposed to be anyway. Laurie and I were due in Row Q of Section 3 of the Upper Deck but never made it all the way up there. Monsoon season had come to Queens in the hours before scheduled first pitch (ants seeking safety swarmed Laurie’s leg at her bus stop), so it seemed foolhardy to climb those golden stairs only to run for more cover than Row Q would allow. So we did the only sensible thing one can do in the Upper Deck on a Saturday.

We ran for CharlieH, denizen of Section 22’s glamorous Row A since April 2007, a must-stop for me when I’m within hailing distance of it. Charlie brought his strapping nephew Scott, who I figured was in his junior year at Montclair State. In fact, he’s 14. (I cannot judge age.) Charlie and Scott waited out the rain in the rain when there wasn’t all that much rain. Laurie and I showed up and the rain returned. The rain we could handle with an umbrella, when I wasn’t accidentally poking young Scott in the back with mine. DiamondVision was entertaining us with the ’86 highlight film (“tell me McDowell isn’t loaded here,” Charlie astutely observed of the legendary hotfoot segment), the parking lot was entertaining us with mysterious billows of black smoke (either the excitement at Citi Field was already heating up or the traditional parking lot car fire coincided with Replica Night) and we were entertaining each other with nuanced appraisals of the Mets’ final season at Shea Stadium (consensus: “we suck”). The thunder, though, was quite jarring and the lightning seemed best avoided. Thus, the four of us moved our party to the concourse outside Section 22.

There’s so much to occupy your time while you’re waiting out a rain delay in the Upper Deck at Shea Stadium. For example, there is standing. There is getting out of the way of others. There is dodging raindrops. You don’t have to be outside at your seat to do that. The standard line you’ve heard spouted a thousand times since the Mets began to tell us how badly they needed to replace Shea is “it’s a dump, but it’s our dump.” I would like to qualify that.

It’s a dump because it’s been run like a dump. You’re gonna tell me somebody couldn’t have patched the roof or tightened a pipe or whatever the hell it is that makes the Upper Deck concourse the East Coast answer to the swimming pool at Chase Field? The whole place moans of neglect, no matter how many coats of red paint they’ve added, no matter how many men in orange golf shirts form a phalanx that is forever “coming through!” on their way to nowhere, no matter the black hole the Upper Deck obviously was in the planning of the future former home of your New York Mets. I excused myself for a bit from our gang to say hi to Mike and Lisa Steffanos of the Mike’s Mets Steffanoses who themselves were avoiding the tsunami at Section 5. Cow-Bell Man tried to fill the void by good-naturedly clanging away nearby, but without baseball as his backdrop, Cow-Bell Man’s injection of himself into a discouraging interlude like a rain delay creates merely a noisier rain delay. When I attempted eventually to wade back to 22, I encountered the most baffling bottleneck of customers and staff. It wasn’t that anybody was doing anything to cause a standstill; it was just that everybody was standing still.

If you squint real closely inside your Shea Replica, you can see there are still a few Upper Deckers waiting to find out if the game was postponed or what. I sure hope World-Class Citi Field provides world-class communications to its hoi polloi in the Promenade (the New Age term for Upper Deck as you’ll see if you roll your cursor over this bad boy long enough). Waiting out a rain delay at Shea Stadium is like sitting on a tarmac in a blizzard. Nobody knows when we’re gonna take off, nobody knows when we’re gonna land, nobody knows if we’re gonna fly at all. Nobody knows nothin’. It’s all rumors and speculation. The usher at Section 22 offers a different take from the usher at Section 20. It’s one big whisper campaign in lieu of solid or even mushy information. Yet it’s all we have. The monitors are showing golf (what, no Beer Money marathon?). The scoreboard flashes All-Time Save Leaders and somebody’s birthday. The PA features announcements from the faculty of Charlie Brown Elementary (mwah mwah mwah mwah). Nobody thinks to beam via closed-circuit a radar screen or hint that maybe we’re thinking of releasing you people on your own recognizance by ‘X’ o’clock.

When word came down that in fact there would be no baseball game Saturday night (sheet cakes of rain, the sky’s vertical hold askew, Shea Stadium rocking in ways Fran Healy couldn’t possibly imagine — who would have guessed it would be called?), it was no less confusing. Nobody believed they’d play a regular doubleheader, an “old-fashioned” doubleheader as it’s now sadly known. Nobody immediately grasped the process by which rain checks are exchanged for other games. You can be certain a measurable percentage of Saturday night ticketholders will show up Sunday afternoon expecting to be seated. Phil Mushnick will have a good time with this one.

Immediate physical logistics were no less clear-cut. Charlie and Scott bolted like Flushing lightning while I was fighting my way back from Section 5. Mike and Lisa caught up with Laurie and me. We all figured standing around a few minutes would help us wait out the foot traffic. Not really. Somebody in an orange jacket told us we couldn’t walk in the direction of right field, to the Upper Deck’s Gate E ramp sequence, the sanest direction to take for us subway-bound types desiring minimal laughter in the rain once on the ground. Why couldn’t we walk over there? “Ya can’t go there.” Oh. Fortunately, Laurie and I crossed up the system by veering off once we reached Mezzanine and then availed ourselves of the little-used food court ramps to make a beeline for Gate E’s only open portal.

“You realize,” she said, “that the same people will be running the new place next year.”

I’m a little less grumpy now than I was when I realized I’d devoted five hours of my life to commuting to; standing around under; and commuting from a storm with a baseball stadium somewhere inside it. Two baseball stadia, counting the replica. I don’t get to Log the Rangers as I didn’t actually get to seem they play ball. I thought about giving them a mostly blank line to commemorate that I gave it an honest effort, but after lying awake nights debating the Randy Tate situation, I decided this is no time to inaugurate weird precedent. Besides, the only Texan I spied with my little eye was Milton Bradley, who was signing a ball for a kid by their dugout (or, perhaps, penning him a threatening letter). Sunday’s old-fashioned doubleheader is inconvenient for me to enjoy even on television, let alone in person, so my Ranger-Met contact for the weekend will be fairly limited. But there was, as Anne Murray cried out for long ago, a little good news today:

The Mets didn’t play, but they didn’t lose.

You have no idea how many times we heard that on the ramps. “Hey, we didn’t lose!” “Hey, we picked up a half-game!” “Hey, Wagner didn’t blow a save!” (My mouth hung open in disbelief when I noticed Billy the Skid is this month’s program cover boy.) These rib-jabbing wink-winks started out as rank sarcasm, but as the trip down the ramps brought us closer and closer to Casey Stengel Plaza, you could sense palpable relief — almost happiness — that for all the standing around, all the getting wet, all the absolute lameness of a night when no baseball was played at Shea Stadium that, well, no baseball was played at Shea Stadium, no frustration with our team needed to be vented, no managerial deathwatch would be fed more fodder at least until between games Sunday when one assumes a loss in the opener will mean Jerry Manuel’s the skipper in the nightcap.

And though it is ridiculous what we fans willingly engage in when the elements are so obviously awful that they would preclude everyone but the clinically insane from leaving their homes — how could you possibly explain the culture of the rainout to someone who isn’t immersed in baseball? — there was the collective understanding by the voluntary participants in this psychiatric experiment referred to casually as rooting for the New York Mets that this is what we do. We show up when the ticket says we must. We gain our door prize or, if we are not alert enough, do not. We trudge to the general vicinity of where we’re supposed to sit so we can stand uncomfortably in a crowd. We while away a mandatory wait that in any other context would be considered rude and inconsiderate. We pony up for $4 pretzels and $7.50 beers without benefit of a ballgame to make them go down easier.

We’re suckers, I swear we are. But at least the Mets didn’t lose.

***
Worth noting, as I dry off…

Happy 20th anniversary to Nuke LaLoosh! Bull Durham, the best baseball movie ever, opened on this date in 1988 and Tim Robbins, the true Mets fan who portrayed the archetype 10-cent head/million-dollar arm phenom, describes his real-life allegiance and more to ESPN The Magazine in honor of the occasion.

Happy 25th anniversary to Mex the Met! Yes, today is a quarter-century since circumstances conspired to send Keith Hernandez to New York from St. Louis for Neil Allen and Rick Ownbey (I still can’t believe that when Joel called me to report two Mets had to become Cardinals so the best first baseman in baseball could become ours that my first reaction was “we didn’t give up Bob Bailor, I hope”). Keith Hernandez and we were made for each other. On a night like Saturday night, I hope he avoided every gully that tempted him.

Happy birthday to all the fathers out there. If John Maine or Pedro Martinez wishes to produce a Jim Bunning replica this afternoon at Shea Stadium’s unexpected final Father’s Day doubleheader, all the better.

Dream Matchup Deferred

My first definitive “favorite” American Leaguers, other than whoever were playing the Yankees on any given night, were the surprising Texas Rangers of the mid-’70s. I took to them for nearly tripping up the Oakland dynasty in 1974 and seeming poised to overthrow the three-time World Champs in 1975 (though I liked the ’71 A’s quite a bit because of Vida Blue…cripes, am I really splitting hairs over this in 2008?). Anyway, while my interest in the Texas Rangers of today is nil, I kind of looked forward to seeing them play the Mets at Shea to satisfy my inner 12-year-old’s concept of the ideal World Series. The rain, however, put the kibosh on that plan.

Sometimes you just have to send your inner 12-year-old to bed without supper.

Starting Over

Well it's the biggest thing in my life I guess

Look at us all, we're nervous wrecks

Hey, we go on next

Joaquin Andujar, who may not be a sage on the Paul Westerberg level but has had his moments, once said that “there is one word in America that says it all, and that one word is, 'You never know.' ” Except we kind of do know, no matter how many t-shirts Willie Randolph hands out, no matter how much we discuss that it's June, no matter how much we talk about what the Rockies and the Phillies did (to us) last year. Take away unquantifiable qualities of the 2008 Mets — how much they do or not care, how excited or flat they see — and you still have a team that's not young enough to stay on the field and fulfill the promise of Plan A, not deep enough to execute a successful Plan B, and not positioned in terms of payroll and prospects to jump to a Plan C. Our chances of catching the Phillies seem poor at best — the Phillies have been through the absence of Jimmy Rollins, the dreadful early-season slump of Ryan Howard, are enjoying a career year from Chase Utley, and are in sync with Charlie Manuel. Heck, they remind me of the 2006 Mets. This, I strongly suspect, is their time, not ours.

Willie Randolph will probably get fired any of these days — or live on through the year as the manager of a disappointing team that will enter a beautiful new ballpark looking rather ragged. The Mets' core — Wright, Reyes, Beltran, Santana, Maine — look headed for years that range from somewhat disappointing to good but not great. That core will enter 2009 not as favorites for a division title, but as the nucleus of a team that demands respect and has a chance to win, provided the rest of the pieces fit right.

I think that's a realistic appraisal of where we're headed.

Arriving at that appraisal has been variously disheartening, excruciating and infuriating. And I've had enough of it, enough of trying to live in the gap between Met expectation and Met reality. Faced with that, there are two choices: invest your psychic energy somewhere else, or try to change your expectations.

Last night, without having put a lot of conscious thought into it, I started doing the latter. I went out for a couple of beers with a friend I hadn't seen for a while, then looked at the clock as we were leaving and thought, “Hey, the Mets are on.” Not as in, “Holy crap I missed first pitch” or as in “Some other sucker will watch crappy baseball,” but as in “Hey, the Mets are on.” Got home, turned on the set, and there they were, live in living color and playing their ancient blood rivals, the Texas Rangers.

I could easily write a post expanding on that joke, taking pokes at interleague play as manifested in the sublime pointlessness of a game between the New York Mets and the Texas Rangers. But last night, the Rangers were the perfect opponents. Mets-Rangers means no particular context, no historical depth, nothing but what two baseball teams actually do over their respective 27 outs. (For us, ideally, 24.)

Hey, they've got this Josh Hamilton guy, heard he's having a helluva year. Oh, and that's where Milton Bradley's gotten to. And Kevin Millwood — man, remember when he was the latest Brave pitcher to dismantle us and crush our hopes? Wonder how he's doing?

As well as more familiar thoughts, like the ballistics of a ball that might come down just over the fence or might return to earth in an outfielder's glove. Like how there's a seeming infinity of green grass broken only by eight little roving points, and yet hits are hard to come by. Like the way the pitcher unwinding himself from stationary on the mound to a blur of motion tugs all these other changes along behind it — the batter crouching and focusing, the catcher shifting his feet and glove minutely, the infielders bowing and doing a little crow hop of readiness, the outfielders leaning with the pitch, the umpires awaiting the need to pass judgment, the fans waiting to sigh or cheer or hold their breath a little longer. A little mini-drama with each pitch, repeated 300 times or so.

And the result of all this? Might be a Met win. Might be a Met loss. Might be a Met no-hitter, first ever. (Though probably not.) Might have something you've never seen before, or something that you've seen before but notice for the first time and file away for the time you'll see it again. Might just be a pretty good way to pass three hours on an early-summer evening. It's baseball, man. It'll make you scream for joy and scream in fury, it'll give you mornings of floating along happily and nights of dark blue funks, but it beats the hell out of nights when green grass and warm breezes and the sound of bat and ball are just a fantasy. And most of all it's fun, provided you let it be fun.

So. Ballgame tonight, weather permitting of course. Mets are playing. Wonder what'll happen. Those are my new expectations.

Wish us luck if you can't go

Playin' at the talent show

An empty seat in the front row

Might even win this time, you never know

It's too late to turn back, here we go…

Just Dandy

We know how to do disgust, despair, dismal, dismay, disillusion, derision, desperate, diatribe, depressed, disturbed…but I think we've forgotten how to do plain ol' dandy.

We'll give it a shot, though. Bear with us, as it's going to take a little while to recall how this works.

Friday night, the Mets…won?…yes…won.

They won!

Did we spell “won” correctly?

The win came only after they nearly blew…no, wait…they didn't nearly blow anything.

Tarnishing the win, however was the sad…no, nothing sad to report.

Shea's breath was collectively held in the late innings when Billy Wagner…correction, we're getting a correction…Billy Wagner didn't pitch, no breath was held.

Oliver Perez got himself in his usual…checking on that…say, he didn't get himself in anything! Pitched real well, apparently.

Honest!

The Mets' nonexistent offense left runners…hold on…the offense apparently did exist and, from what we can gather…yes, it's true…produced runs.

Several, it seems.

One bad break after another…sorry, was looking at an old script…no bad breaks. None.

Willie Randolph's mishandling of both the pitching and the lineup…didn't exist? It didn't? Really? Just confirming…yeah, it was fine. He was fine. Team managed well.

The bullpen, however, was another story…uh…no, actually same story. It was fine.

Casting a further shadow on the proceedings was an injury that will keep…huh? No new injuries? Oh.

Still, the depleted roster…what's that? New outfielder joining the team? A real one? Wow.

As a Mets fan, one is left to complain about and criticize…nothing. Absolutely nothing. For one night, everything was excellent.

Ya don't say?

For once, we do.

It's Not Gonna Happen

Welcome to Flashback Friday: Tales From The Log, a final-season tribute to Shea Stadium as viewed primarily through the prism of what I have seen there for myself, namely 371 regular-season and 13 postseason games to date. The Log records the numbers. The Tales tell the stories.

7/2/82 F Philadelphia 3-1 Swan 7-14 W 8-4
8/3/86 Su Montreal 2-2 Ojeda 1 16-25 W 4-3 (10)
5/15/87 F San Francisco 1-1 Fernandez 3 18-27 W 8-3
5/3/97 Sa St. Louis 6-4 Reed 1 51-56 W 5-1
6/8/98 M Tampa Bay (A) 1-0 Reed 7 64-62 W 3-0
10/8/00: NLDS @ Shea Mets 4 Giants 0 SP-Jones
4-1 Mets win series 3-1
4/26/02 F Milwaukee 7-0 Estes 1 138-102 W 1-0
6/20/02 Th Minnesota (A) 1-0 Trachsel 7 141-104 W 3-2
9/29/07 Sa Florida16-13 Maine 10 195-162 W 13-0
5/15/08 Th Washington 4-8 Pelfrey 4 199-168 L 1-0

It all made so much sense. Every time. This had to be the night. Or the day. All the stars were aligned. I could think of so many reasons that the first Mets’ no-hitter was going to take place at Shea Stadium with me on hand to witness it.

Start with the most basic premise: Wouldn’t it be crazy if it happened while I was here? The franchise has waited since its inception for it, I’m at a minute percentage of games, yet it’s unfolding right here, right now…with me in attendance! What’re the odds?

I don’t remember learning definitively that the Mets had never had a no-hitter. It was just one of those things I knew. I don’t remember learning about America being founded in 1776 or that 2 + 2 equaled 4. You don’t learn it, you simply understand it and accept it and take it from there.

The Mets have never had a no-hitter. Of course they haven’t.

Funny thing, the second game I ever went to — my first win — was a one-hitter. Jon Matlack shut out the Cards on June 29, 1974 with such ease that his one-hitter seemed unremarkable. The one hit was by the St. Louis pitcher, John Curtis, in the third. By then the Mets were winning 2-0. By then I had watched my first Old Timers Day, most noteworthy for Maury Wills playing with a headset on as he covered it for NBC. My other big observation was the filling out of All-Star Ballots. I’m sure I voted for Johnny Bench over Jerry Grote because I took my responsibility serious as death. The observation part was two guys a few rows down from me arguing the point. “Grote over BENCH? You’re voting for Grote over BENCH?” The guy had to have said it a dozen times. I learned that people like to repeat themselves.

Matlack had a one-hitter. It didn’t seem worth mentioning let alone repeating. The Mets were always having one-hitters. Seaver had thrown approximately one a year for as long as I could remember (which at age 11 I have to admit wasn’t all that far back). One-hitters were Confederate currency in terms of pitching gems. I always laughed when announcers referred to pitchers losing a one-hitter, as in giving up a second hit. What’s to lose? It was right there with “he almost made a great play” in terms of achievement.

A no-hitter would be different. A no-hitter was rare, and not just for the Mets. No-hitters got their own list in the paper. Someone threw a no-hitter anywhere in baseball and it was on the back page. First sports record book I ever owned, a New York Times almanac that covered the events of 1968, printed the boxscores of every no-hitter from that year, The Year of The Pitcher. Catfish Hunter threw a perfect game. Ray Washburn and Gaylord Perry exchanged no-hitters against each other’s team on consecutive nights. Those were pitching feats. That’s what I wanted.

I would wait. I’d have been happy to have seen one on TV, heard one on the radio. I was not going to be even that happy. As the years went by, the yen grew a little deeper. TV…radio…no no-hitter. At Shea? C’mon, that was never gonna happen.

But the first sign that it possibly could have was exhilarating. It wasn’t just a no-hitter, but a perfect game. For three innings in 1982, Craig Swan gave up nothing to the Phillies. The Mets never held an opposing team off base for three consecutive innings, let alone to start the game. With one out in the fourth, Pete Rose walked. There, Joel and I told each other, goes the perfect game. But Swannie retired the next two Phils. No hits through four. No hits through five. We didn’t talk about it, but we were watching a no-hitter, the first no-hitter in Mets history take place.

Of course we didn’t talk about it. We knew better. We’d been schooled in protocol. Mets fans didn’t need a no-hitter in order to know how to act. Somebody slipped us the notes, probably somebody on the Astros where they had a no-hitter every ten minutes.

The silent act stretched into the sixth when, with two out, it was Rose again. He singled off Swan. There went history. We stood — everybody stood; it’s what you do — and applauded Craig Swan’s effort. The Mets were winning 7-0 by then and, honestly, did you really expect him to pitch a no-hitter?

Stronger no-hit bids emerged as the Mets improved. Doc Gooden came oh-so-close at Shea in 1984, surrendering just an infield hit to Keith Moreland of the Cubs, one that could have been scored an error on Ray Knight and nobody could have complained. That I watched on TV in Tampa, saying nothing to anyone in my dorm, but thinking no-no all the way. A year later, Sid Fernandez seemed en route to destiny at Shea against the Reds. I was so sure that this would be the one that after six spotless innings I unwrapped an audio cassette to record the final innings on WHN. Davey Concepcion led off the seventh with a homer, Sid fell apart and the Mets lost.

I was chastened. I not only was reminded not to say anything aloud, I learned that thinking it was bad news. But good thoughts are so hard to shoo away when the one great moment in Mets history that hasn’t happened is in sight. I couldn’t shoo away the thoughts in 1986 when Bobby Ojeda took his no-hitter into the seventh when with one out Luis Rivera singled. It was the magical year of 1986, I was with two of my best friends and a no-hitter seemed greedy, so I let it go. The following May, El Sid was doing it again. That no-hit stuff that was always being talked up was in effect. Five hitless for Sid. Then he leaves with a knee or a hip or the gout. That was Sid. The combined no-hitter died after 5-1/3 (thanks Sisk). But again, it was too good a night to mope about the no-hitter. It was my first date with Stephanie. I’d only begun to lightly hint that we were witnessing a possible baseball, never mind personal, milestone when it evaporated on the spot.

(The Sid bid lives on in our wedding video wherein best man Chuck reads the letter I wrote him after that night, me babbling on about Sid’s flirtation with history…and, oh yeah, my flirtation with this blonde I’d just met.)

No-hit attempts would come and go with me off-premise. Gooden took another one against the Cubs deep until Damon Berryhill ended it in the eighth in ’88. I swear I thought David Cone was going to nail his down in ’92 against the Astros, but Benny Distefano got a hit with five outs to go. Gooden and Coney seemed like such good bets for no-hitters, too. Anyway, I wasn’t at those games and by the ’90s, when a no-hitter appeared possible on television, I started talking it up while in progress. It wasn’t working the old-fashioned way, so what the hell?

However, when next faced with the actual possibility of a no-hitter in my midst, I clung to tradition. I thought for sure Rick Reed was going to do it in 1998. It was too good not to happen.

First off, it was the Devil Rays, the first-year Devil Rays, the horrendous 26-35 Devil Rays. What a setup! I was at the first Devil Rays game at Shea as part of my six-pack. I would have sought them out anyway for novelty’s sake, but still. Who thinks in terms of the Devil Rays? Even then?

So it was strange having them there, but strange is what you need, right? Plus Rick — the only Met I actually, sort of, kind of knew, friend-of-a-friend style at that point. Because of my once-removed relationship with Rick, wouldn’t it be fitting if he got us off the schneid and did it front of me? He was having a dynamite 1998 and nobody, by my reckoning, deserved it more. For what it was worth, he carried a no-no into the fifth when I and about 2,000 people watched at Shea the previous May. It seemed silly to consider a no-hit bid then, Reed a non-union interloper, the ’97 Mets only starting to find their footing. It didn’t seem silly in June of ’98.

I’m sure there were other reasons it seemed like a such good idea. Like Mike Piazza clubbing his first Shea Met home run that night. And Reed himself driving in a run. And the Mets never having had a no-hitter before.

Actually, it was a perfect game. Rick Reed had set down the Devil Rays twice through the order. It was that easy, it was that obvious. As the night went on, the electricity hummed. Slowly, through the fourth, the fifth, definitely the sixth, everybody figured out what was going on. My friend from work who joined me that night heard the cheering, looked at the scoreboard then looked at me and said “I just realized what’s going on.” That was the sixth.

Yes, we all realized what was going on. It was perfectly apparent. Perfectly!

Quinton McCracken popped out to lead off the seventh. A roar! Miguel Cairo grounded to Ordoñez. A mighty roar! Ohmigod, it’s really gonna happen! Tonight! It’s…

Wade Boggs doubled.

Shit.

We were up on our feet, as we were in 1982 for Swannie, as were in 1986 for Ojeda, as would have been for El Sid in ’87 had he not hobbled off because of injury. It was a helluva run for Reeder and it would wind up being a helluva game: 3 hits, 10 strikeouts, a complete game shutout. So close, but plenty good. On the way to the 7 turnstiles, some dopey kid held up a cardboard sign urging that if we wanted to see “real baseball,” we should go to 161st Street in the Bronx. I saw some of the realest baseball I’d ever see right here at 126th and Roosevelt.

Problem with coming close to a no-hitter is you kind of expect another chance soon. It’s like the time I caught a foul ball in my first Spring Training game. I assumed they’d just keep bouncing my way. They didn’t. As I started to go to Shea fairly regularly, I looked for it as I never looked for it before Reeder’s effort. Now I wanted in. It seemed the 36+ years had taken a toll on everybody’s psyche. It used to be the occasional wise guy would greet the first opposition hit with “there goes the no-hitter, chuckle, chuckle”. I’m sure I began to hear it a lot more around 1998. I know I said it to myself, oh, practically every day.

Yet when faced with the next legitimate in-person no-hit opportunity, I was too chicken to really take advantage of it. Well, it’s more up to the pitcher and his teammates, but as Game Four of the 2000 Division Series got underway and Bobby Jones began mowing down Giants, it was hard not to notice a perfect game in progress. If we were entering the fifth inning of any other Mets-Giants game at any time in the history of the world, of course I’d be there with my no-hit thinking cap screwed tight to my head.

But this was a potential clinching playoff game. Would it offend the gods if I rooted for a perfect game, even a no-hitter when there was more pressing business at hand? Job one was defeating the Giants and advancing to the next round. Now if Bobby should happen to decide to not allow any hits, that would be great, but to make that bargain would be mighty tricky, though on the other hand…

Kent led off the fifth with a double. My negotiations were for naught. On the very bright side, he threw a one-hitter, the Mets won the series and the non-no-hitter was no more than delightful trivia. Still, maybe if I’d had a little more confidence, the drought would have ended.

What’s confidence got to do with it? I was confident as all get-out in 2002 when newcomer Shawn Estes was taking care of the Brewers, another innately unlikely opponent, with ease. Too many things were happening. The Milwaukee pitcher was Glendon Rusch, an ex-Met. An ex-Met. Had to be a sign. Jay Payton homered in the second and nobody else scored. It was tighter than tight. Estes kept responding. Alex Ochoa was in the Brewer lineup. Another ex-Met! Rusch’s catcher was Raul Casanova…OK, it would be cheating to imply I knew Raul was a former Met farmhand let alone a future Met backstop, but still. The Brewers being in the National League had always seemed a mite absurd. And Shawn Estes? Shawn Estes was kind of my generic ballplayer name for when I needed an example of some pitcher who was a little above average. No, I wouldn’t trade him for somebody like Shawn Estes, I’d answer hypothetical swap proposals contemptuously. But now in 2002, the Mets had Shawn Estes and Shawn Estes was pitching the game of his and possibly my life.

Did I mention this was a perfect game for six innings, too? That Shawn was that good? That the leadoff hitter in the seventh for the Brewers was Eric Young, who I once heard grew up a Mets fan in New Jersey? That everybody at Shea was riding on every pitch, that nobody was saying a word as to why? That Young singled clean to left?

Shit!

The exercise would be repeated to a certain extent a couple of months later when the Twins came to Shea for the first Interleague time and the most absurd Met hurler of them all, Steve Trachsel, flirted with the feat that would not accept amorous advances. Another American League team on busman’s holiday; another eighteen up, eighteen down; another night of exchanging knowing glances and clearing throats. Steve Trachsel…the Twins…me here…it was too ridiculous to contemplate seriously.

Steve lulled Jacque Jones into a leadoff groundout in the seventh but then slowly gave up a line drive single to Cristian Guzman. Again, we stood and applauded. Trax pitched great, even fast, but this was now beginning to feel self-parodying. If Steve Trachsel, the Heinz Ketchup of the Mets’ rotation, could almost pitch a no-hitter…if I could be on hand for the longest, most baffling streak in Major League history to continue again…how bleeping hard it could be to actually see one of these damn things to its fruition?

I wanted our no-hitter. It didn’t have to be mine. It would belong to all of us. It would pop up as a possibility at Shea with me in other places. Trachsel would give it another shot the next year (I listened on the radio as I walked 23rd Street, convinced this was it); Gl@v!ne seemed unhittable while I sat through the opening number of Bombay Dreams (sure, it has to happen while I’m at a show…and it has to be him); Pedro, sweet Pedro, was as certain to bury the curse or the streak or whatever it was against the Astros as Cone was thirteen years earlier. Chris Burke took care of that dream.

Of course it didn’t happen in ’03 or ’04 or ’05, just as it didn’t happen in ’02 or ’98 or ’82 or any year you’d care to name. It wouldn’t come close for reals until the very, very end of the 2007 season when, à la Bobby Jones in 2000, John Maine pitched a must-win game with no-hit stuff. Maine and the Mets had to win, that was what was important. But the team was up by double-digits in runs and Maine kept a zero on the board under H and godammit, with September going as September had gone, wouldn’t it be nice — no, wouldn’t it be justice — if John Maine threw the first no-hitter in Mets history against the stupid Florida Marlins in Game 161 with just about everything on the line?

Absolutely would have been. Absolutely didn’t occur. This was the most agonizing non-no-hitter of them all in my Log. Paul Hoover, who I didn’t even notice entering the game (he replaced the ejected, repulsive Miguel Olivo after the other sidebar of the day, the Mets’ first brawl in eleven years), ended it with two out in the eighth on the slowest of nonentity rollers you’d ever want to shield your eyes from. When stupid Hoover reached base, the capacity crowd rose to give John his due. I clapped twice and headed to the men’s room. My superstition wouldn’t allow me to go there earlier. The men’s room also had a door I could slam against a wall.

I wasn’t really fooled when in the middle of May Mike Pelfrey teased me onto the same ride I’d taken so many times before. I was willing to hold it in for six innings. I was willing to find signs that this was the day (Gary, Keith and Ron broadcasting from the Upper Deck was a nice, surreal touch). I was willing to go through the nodding and winking motions with my companions. I was willing to believe the tenth time was a charm. That the Mets hadn’t scored yet added to it an ounce of legitimacy. It was like listening to Tom Seaver getting to two outs in the ninth of a nothing-nothing game in Chicago in 1975 only to hear Joe Wallis ruin everything. I was crestfallen that Aaron Boone ruined the illusion leading off the seventh. But I wasn’t surprised.

I’ve never seen a Mets’ no-hitter at Shea. I will never see a Mets’ no-hitter at Shea. Maybe in the next joint. Maybe in the next life. Maybe if I stop thinking about it altogether.

No matter where I stand, how I sit, what I do, if I whiz, the Mets keep not getting that no-hitter. History, too, likes to repeat itself.

Because Eloquence Is Wasted on This Team

booooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

booooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

booooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

booooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

booooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

booooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

booooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

booooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

booooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

/deep breath

booooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

booooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

booooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

booooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

booooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

booooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

booooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

booooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

booooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

/stare at own feet

Abandoned Playground

Something about the way the sun hits Shea in late afternoon when almost everybody's gone home appeals to me. Probably because it reminds me of the playground at East School. That's where I did most of my balling, if you could call it that, in my youth. It's where I played kickball and stickball and softball and basketball and football when I was in my single-digits and teens.

Never mind that I wasn't any good at any of it. Never mind that there was often some character of low degree waiting to target and harass the contemplative and unathletic. Never mind all that. I liked the East School playground, something about the way sun hit it in the late afternoon when almost nobody was around.

That's Shea at the end of a weekday afternoon like this one. That was Shea today. It looked a lot like it did at the end of April when almost everybody vacated the premises via good sense. Then it was 13-1. Today it may as well have been.

I stand by my statement of clarity: the Mets suck. A team does not have this stretch of games without internal suckitude defining its very soul. A team does not get the trademark Johan Santana start for which all had been waiting and then throw it away without some incredible suck.

Billy Wagner…somebody check his middle initial. I'll bet it's an S.

Let's not completely blame the bullpen. Let's blame the offense, too, the one that finds ways to leave tack-on runs forever untacked, the one that aims its line drives at Diamondback gloves until all it has left to give are wan popups. Let's blame Willie for whatever it is Willie did or didn't do while we're at it. There are no innocents when 4-0 leads are blown and 5-4 losses appear in their stead.

So much for momentum. So much for saving up energy by not effusively mobbing last night's game-winning hitter. So much for whatever illusions linger about the 2008 Mets. They are as scattered as the tenth-inning spectators were at Shea Stadium today, the playground abandoned, the sun setting on this very sorry team.