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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. Got something to say? Leave a comment, or email us at faithandfear@gmail.com. (Sorry, but we have no interest in ads, sponsored content or guest posts.) Need our RSS feed? It's here. Visit our Facebook page, or drop by the personal pages for Greg and Jason. Or follow us on Twitter: Here's Greg, and here's Jason. |
If you’ve been staring at the same damn face for four decades, chances are it’s Flashback Friday at Faith and Fear in Flushing. Some facts I was exposed to when I was 4 years old: In 1960, Joe led the Northern League with a .344 avg. In 1964, Joe led the N.L. with a .994 fielding mark. The young receiver is the best all-round catcher in the National League. Last year, Joe set a new personal home run high with 36 circuit blasts. Joe Torre entered my life when I was 4. I’m 44. He’s still here. Who invited him in the first place? Topps did. Their RSVP was the card numbered 350 in its 1967 set. Joe Torre’s baseball card is the first baseball card I can ever remember holding. I’m sure it was one of dozens in my grasp at the time, but Torre’s is the one that stayed with me — physically for seven more years until my mother made good for the first and only time on her tired threat to throw out all that crap on my floor if I didn’t start picking it up (and even then she left it to sit in the basement for a few weeks because, she swore later, she figured I’d have the good sense to sneak downstairs and rescue the crap that I wanted) and mentally to, well, right now. Joe Torre never goes away. Joe Torre, when he was on the verge of turning 27, was the first baseball presence in my life, courtesy of my sister‘s small stack of baseball cards that peer pressure compelled her to collect half-heartedly in fifth and sixth grades and that her apathy wound up bequeathing to me by the time she was in junior high. At some point in the late 1960s, before I had a solid idea of what baseball was (besides the bane of Charlie Brown’s existence), before I put together New York, Mets and me, I handled Joe Torre’s 1967 baseball card. And then I handled somebody else’s. And then I was hooked. Hooked on baseball. Hooked on baseball cards. Hooked on…Joe Torre? Not really. He may have been the first player I could identify by team (Braves) and position (Catcher) and locales like Eau Claire, Louisville, Milwaukee and Atlanta, but in 1967 or whenever I first laid a finger on Joe Torre’s image, I consumed the information with no particular appetite for he who was responsible for generating it. My sister’s retroactive assessment of Torre as having been “cute” — not a universal consensus if you’ve read Ball Four — was probably the most enthusiastic endorsement by either of us as regarded Braves Catcher Joe. That I wound up with this card, all her cards and complete possession of the family’s baseball interest indicates to me that she didn’t think he was all that cute. Joe Torre of 1967 became one card of many for me. Eventually I’d collect so many that there’d be enough runoff on my bedroom floor that it could be scooped up in an unfortunate raid on my clutter and I didn’t miss it, not that much. I don’t even know when I noticed it in particular was gone. What did I care about some old Braves Catcher? Except he was the first one. So that annoyed me slightly. Plus, Joe Torre was good. I could tell that not just from his card’s cartoon chockablock with all that data about his .994 fielding percentage but because I grew to follow baseball very closely. I noticed that Joe Torre was no longer a Braves Catcher, but a Cardinals Third Baseman. That he was hitting .363 in 1971. That he was named MVP. That he was from Brooklyn. That he was continually rumored to be coming to the Mets. That he did. In his first act as Mets general manager, Joe McDonald traded two pitchers, the awesomely named Ray Sadecki and the perpetual prospect Tommy Joe Moore, to St. Louis for Joe Torre on October 13, 1974. My god, I thought, we’re actually getting Torre. He’s not even a third baseman lately even though, as the Mets did with Jim Fregosi, they said he’d play third for us next year. Why do they keep playing guys who aren’t third basemen at third base? Why do they hate Wayne Garrett so much? He was at first for the Cards every time I saw them. I didn’t think the grand scheme made sense, but Joe Torre had two of those qualities I envied about non-Mets: he was a star; and he was a star who wasn’t on the Mets. I was excited enough by the announcement to call my sixth grade Mets pal Jeff Mirrer and break the news. That may have been the first time I ever did that. Torre was newsworthy immediately. Because they won the pennant in ’73, the Mets were asked to play a goodwill tour in Japan after the ’74 season. By then the Mets were a fifth-place club, but diplomacy is diplomacy and off to the Far East the Mets went, new third baseman Torre included. He was all over the ’74 highlight film even though his only Mets action was in meaningless exhibitions thousands of miles away. The 1975 yearbook was similarly brimming with excitement over Torre having joined the Mets for an extended sneak preview: Swarthy local product’s initial exposure in New York uniform pure Hollywood script-ure: won MVP honors for Mets before playing an official game for them! Earned distinction for exploits on Japanese tour with .437 contribution in all 18 games (71-for-31) embroidered by 18 RBI and five home runs, in atmosphere significantly reflecting leadership. Yes, it said “71-for-31,” but we assume that’s an innocent transposition error. Yes, “script-ure” seems intentional (intentional tort-ure, that is). And yes, the first thing they called Joe Torre was “swarthy,” code from another era — an era concluded before 1975 except at M. Donald Grant’s shop — for Italian when that was considered worth noting. In case you’re wondering, the yearbook described both Wayne Garrett and Felix Millan as soft-spoken, Jerry Grote as battle-scarred, Jerry Koosman as king-sized, Bud Harrelson as pocket-sized and Rusty Staub as the “sophisticated gourmet”. But the really bizarre portion of that passage is the part that contends Torre’s nice showing in Japan had something to do with “atmosphere significantly reflecting leadership”. By going 31-for-71 in Japan, Joe Torre apparently provided the template for Mr. Sparkle. The larger point seemed to be that Joe Torre, eight years removed from that Braves Catcher card, was destined for greater things off the field and in the dugout. Joe didn’t play a very swift third base. The ’76 yearbook would have been well off to describe him as range-free, to say nothing of lead-footed. If Mets fans remember anything about Torre’s playing career once it wound down in Flushing, it would be that one night against Houston he followed four Millan singles with four double play grounders. It’s Felix’s fault, he said afterwards. He got on base so much. His leadership significantly reflected, Swarthy Joe was on his way to the manager’s chair at Shea. When the 15-30 Mets dismissed the forlorn Joe Frazier in 1977, Torre was elevated, first as a player-manager, then just as skipper. He wasn’t quite 37, still the youngest manager in Mets history. Joe Torre lasted a long-ass time as Mets manager, particularly considering his low-ass success rate. Joe managed more Mets games than Casey Stengel, than Yogi Berra, than (though this one comes with a sad asterisk) Gil Hodges. Joe had a higher winning percentage than Casey Stengel but a lower mark than Art Howe, than Dallas Green, than Jeff Torborg, than Joe Frazier, none of whom lasted nearly as long as Torre. The extenuating circumstances of Torre’s failure-to-longevity ratio were that the Mets had few players of undisputed Major League caliber for the balance of Torre’s tenure. So my tendency, at least, was to give Joe a break. I rooted for him more than I had for Frazier or would the other blanks the Mets would fire in later seasons. Maybe it was his local roots. Maybe it was his “it’s Felix’s fault” charm. Maybe it was his familiarity. Maybe it was his 1967 card. Joe made a lot of moves as Mets manager. He was criticized because they didn’t work out. Probably had something to do with the pieces on his chess board all being Dwight Bernards and such. Joe Torre, like Jimmy Carter, served in office from 1977 to 1981. Joe Torre, like Jimmy Carter, was more popular when he came in than when he went out. Joe Torre, like Jimmy Carter, remained one of my favorites while I was in high school despite some grim results on his watch. Joe Torre, like Jimmy Carter, went back to Georgia. Joe accepted the Atlanta managerial job in 1982, which made me far happier than you’d expect. Marooned in college in Tampa, my only connection to Major League Baseball that counted was Braves Radio as it was called. They became my adopted second team, what with them in the West and us in the East (glad I wasn’t studying geography). Now they would be helmed by my field general, my Joe Torre of Brooklyn, N.Y. The Braves reeled off 13 straight to start ’82. Joe was a genius in Atlanta. The Braves went reeling after losing 19 of 21. Joe was as big an idiot in Atlanta as he was in New York. But Joe and the Braves hung in and outlasted the Dodgers to win their division. The Mets under George Bamberger lost 97 games. Torre had another pennant race in ’83, which the Braves lost. Then they began to crumble and Ted Turner fired him. For the first time in my living memory, Joe Torre disappeared from uniform, from public view. It was rumored he was announcing California Angels games, but out of sight, out of mind. Then he reappeared with the Cardinals in 1990. I have to say I wasn’t really thinking about Joe Torre anymore. My residual goodwill, for the card, for the Met stewardship, for along with Al Lang getting me through my first year or two of college, had dried up. I was actually pretty annoyed that Torre was credited in some circles for being exactly the manager Gregg Jefferies needed. Jefferies, like Torre, wore out his welcome in Flushing. In St. Louis, under Joe’s tutelage and tender loving care (he moved him to first base), Jefferies blossomed into one of the best hitters in the National League. He hit .342 in 1993. His batting average was almost as high as our winning percentage. More irksome was something Torre said sometime in the 1990s, in the first half of the decade, I think. He said it was really special managing in St. Louis. It was a great baseball town and he enjoyed such success playing there, winning the MVP, the fans were wonderful. It had been really special managing in Atlanta, too. The Braves were his first club and it meant something to him to put that uniform back on. What about the Mets, Joe, he was asked. You grew up in New York and you finished your playing career in New York. Getting your first managing job with the Mets, that must have been special, too, right, Joe? No, Torre said. The Mets never really meant anything to him. Well eff you, too, pal. I defended you for the better part of five seasons. I was genuinely melancholy when you were finally fired for losing almost 60 percent of your games. I insisted that the sports jacket my mother was determined to buy me at Roosevelt Field before I went off to college be bought at Bonds because my favorite commercial when I was in twelfth grade began with “Hi, I’m Joe Torre for Bonds.” But we didn’t mean anything to you? Joe. You coulda made me proud. You chose not to. The Cardinals no longer felt it was special to have Joe Torre as their manager by 1995. Despite reviving Jefferies’ career, he had led St. Louis to no division titles in five years. In fact, among the three jobs he held over parts of 14 different seasons as a manager, Joe Torre made only one playoff appearance, in ’82. And those Braves were swept. There was no reason to think this 55-year-old washout would be hired to run anybody else’s team. We know what transpired next and transpires still. With Joe Torre back in New York in 1996, a few old feelings came crawling back. It was unfathomable that he was fished out of mothballs to take over a fourth team, but it was also unfair, I thought, for the Daily News to refer to him as CLUELESS JOE right off the bat. (Obviously the paper has been making it up to him ever since.) When Torre did make his first World Series — with his entire family’s well-being concurrently hanging in the balance — there was a very, very, very, very small part of me that, in the most theoretical abstract, was just an eensy bit happy for him, if not for anybody else attached to his sudden success. Seeing Joe Torre overcome expectations in 1996 reminded me of all those days and nights circa 1980 when I thought he would do it for us. But of course he didn’t do it for us. And of course he kept doing it for them. Joe Torre and I remain estranged. His 1967 card, though…I wanted it back. My mother threw it out when I was eleven. It had historical significance for me. It was my first card. I had lived without it for 25 years when I decided to seek it out. In late 1999, for the first time in more than two decades, I attended a baseball card show, at Hofstra. I found a dealer. I asked — after prefacing my question with my obligatory assertion that I had no interest in his current affiliation, knowing perfectly well that this merchant did not care — do you have a 1967 Joe Torre? The guy did. It was maybe four bucks. I handled it. I examined it. I saw Joe Torre. I saw the face that first welcomed me to baseball before I really knew what baseball was. I handed the dealer back his card. In late 1999, I couldn’t stand the idea of even tangentially endorsing anything Joe Torre was up to at the moment in his professional life. If I still had the Bonds sports jacket, I would have burned it. A year later, after Torre defended Roger Clemens for throwing a shard of a bat at Mike Piazza, I would have resewn the jacket just to burn it again. Forty years since Joe Torre became the first baseball player and baseball card I could identify, he’s still around — around like crazy. Gary Sheffield accused Joe Torre of unsportsmanlike behavior and all it does is tighten the halo over Joe Torre’s head. It’s a St. Joe Zone…cross at your own risk. Torre recently told his relentlessly worshipful biographers at the Daily News that this has been by far his toughest season in the job he’s held since ’96 (that a manager confirming that a bad record is worse than a good record rated the back page last Sunday tells you everything you need to know about the state of the Daily News). New York magazine recently took Torre’s pulse to see how he’s holding up under the strain of not winning regularly; they called him the city’s father figure. That was almost as funny as that line about Felix Millan getting on base four times. When Joe Torre was not winning regularly as Mets manager, he wasn’t called the father of anything. It was more like “when are they gonna fire that Torre son of a bitch?” And nobody cared how he was holding up. Beyond the fawning coverage is the amazing reality that Joe Torre continues to be such a presence on the baseball scene. In New York yet. Joe Torre was part of my life four decades ago as a picture and a name. Three decades ago as a player turned manager. A quarter-century ago as a Met icon turned Brave pilot. For the last decade and some as an enabler of some of my worst baseball nightmares come true. Joe Torre will not go away. I cannot escape his swarthy pervasiveness. So I have given up trying. A few weeks ago I decided to let bygones be bygones and square the Torre circle. I went on eBay and, for a few bucks, I purchased No. 350 from 1967. He and I are face to face again at last. It’s just as I remember it: JOE TORRE • CATCHER on top. BRAVES on bottom. In between, the heavy eyebrows and the distracted glance that my sister inexplicably found cute. Joe Torre in the prime of his career reminds you why Jim Bouton quoted Seattle Pilot teammate Jim Pagliaroni so approvingly in 1969: He was describing a girl that one of the ballplayers had been out with and said, “It’s hard to say exactly what she looked like. She was kind of a Joe Torre with tits.” This joke can only be explained with a picture of Joe Torre. But I’m not sure any exist. He dissolves camera lenses. Topps would beg to differ. I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out one more fact from Joe Torre’s 1967 Topps baseball card. Yes, you know he was a Northern League hot shot. Yes, you know he was quite the defensive backstop in 1964. And it shouldn’t surprise you to know he was a .300 hitter for his six-year career through 1966. You’ve probably heard, even if you don’t remember first-hand, that Torre was a borderline Hall of Fame player…and you’ve gotten the message since 1996 that he will eventually be a Hall of Fame manager. But there’s also this — the card says Joe Torre was Born: July 18, 1940. Hence, he turned 67 on Wednesday. I didn’t need to recover the card to know Joe Torre’s birthday is July 18. I’ve known that about him since he came to the Mets. That date’s been instantly recognizable to me since before I really knew what baseball was. July 18 was also my mother’s birthday. Next Friday: The No. 4 Song of All-Time and how it didn’t sound sad upon the radio. In the morning I'm frequently awakened because a four-year-old just stamped on my clavicle, bounced himself next to my head, snaked the covers off me or is jumping up and down yelling “AND THE METS WIN!” This is one of Joshua's newer habits — he makes up baseball games and runs the bases. In his parents' bed. Where I'm sleeping. (My head's about where the shortstop would play.) Occasionally I'm awake enough to listen to the script of one of these games, and they're pretty amusing — random lineups, vague opponents, shifting rules and unlikely reversals. In other words, they're a lot like last night's game. I mean, come on. 13-9? Jose Reyes running the bases with the acumen of a drunk frat boy sliding on the tarp? Good plays from the frequently maligned Shawn Green and Carlos Delgado? Tom Glavine spotted two enormous leads in pursuit of #299 but still not recording seven outs? Backup catchers hitting majestic home runs? Slumping center fielders hitting majestic home runs? And apparently Joshua's so frustrated with trying to figure out who the heck's playing left field that he re-imported a guy who hasn't been Met property since 2005. (Where'd he hear about Marlon Anderson, anyway?) As is typical with the latter parts of a West Coast swing, by the middle innings I was fading, kept awake only by steady jolts of offense. Normally, I would have succumbed to the inevitable, closing my eyes around the sixth and waking up with a start a couple of hours later to check the final score online and go to bed for real. But last night I was superstitious, convinced that if I fell asleep, I'd wake up in the middle of the night and find out the final score was Dodgers 14, Mets 13. LOS ANGELES — Brad Penny pitched in with three innings of emergency relief, giving the Los Angeles Dodgers time to regroup and prevail thanks to another unlikely hero: Starter Hong-Chih Kuo connected for a pinch-hit home run off New York Mets closer Billy Wagner for a delirious, 12-inning walkoff win. While Kuo enjoyed a beer shower from his jubilant teammates, Penny was unrepentant about opening his relief stint by hitting two Met batters in the back, or about his full-throated challenge to the Mets dugout — a challenge that went unanswered. After the game, Mets manager Willie Randolph… As it was, I finally did nod off at some point in the eighth and woke up with a start to find there were two outs in the ninth and Gary Cohen sounded tense. I'm not sure what I missed. Never mind — I don't want to know. The Dodgers' humiliation of us on our first 2007 trip to L.A. (thanks, Katy Feeney) unfolded while I was on vacation at the beach. Then, I basically shut down and refused to admit any of the terrible things that were happening were real, probably because I knew I'd spend half my vacation stewing about how we'd been not only beaten but made to look like cringing wusses. Or maybe I was just waiting for this trip and the prospect of revenge. If so, consider us a third of the way there. Assuming last night was real, of course. Jose Reyes was swinging at the first pitch. David Wright was learning on the job. Carlos Beltran seemed, at last, to be finding himself. Aaron Heilman pitched a couple of key innings. Ramon Castro came off the bench and made you wonder why he doesn't start more often. Tom Glavine looked like he'd never get close to 300 wins. And Marlon Anderson was the player of the game. It's recent vu all over again! Thursday night was 2005 Night in Los Angeles, an inadvertent salute to our own rookie season — the beginning of the Omar Minaya, Willie Randolph and Faith and Fear in Flushing eras. It was a more innocent time, when you would have been thrilled to have seen the Mets win two games out of four on the West Coast, astonished that they'd rise even one game over .500 and ecstatic to learn a six-run lead hadn't been given away by some combination of Kaz Ishii, Danny Graves and Braden Looper. Welcome to back to those moderately thrilling days of yesteryear or, more accurately, the year before it; to the Sixthies; the Dirty Thirty; the identity of Deep Throw; the ill-advised Collapse-O-Meter; the whirlwind journey of Mister Koo; the earliest revelations of The Holy Books; the Pedro who wasn't Feliciano; the string of self-referential allusions that continues unabated to this day. The 2005 Mets…ya hadda be there. For one night at Dodger Stadium, it felt like we were once more. While the ninth inning loomed like something out a twisted radio commercial that fed off your darkest fears, the result was as much fun as a pinch-hit inside-the-park homer with bubbles blowing…or perhaps a megarun romp through Arizona. Aw, c'mon, don't tell me you've already forgotten 2005? The New Mets? The relative joy of 83-79? Maybe you weren't with us back in the 730-days-ago day, but watching Marlon Anderson's dynamic return to the team from which he never should have been permitted to wriggle (we give three-year deals to batboys and Scott Schoeneweis, we could've given two to Marlon) brought back some fine semi-fresh memories. Anderson's a real ballplayer. That's admittedly a strange observation when the 25-man roster is supposed to feature two-dozen other professionals who fit that description, but Anderson carries the aura of a guy who knows how to play the game. The Moneyball crowd would cackle at such scouty appraisal, so let's try this: He had two hits, including one in the first when the Mets were deconstructing Derek Lowe. He drove in two runs. He scored one run while improvisationally coaching the runner in front of him (the unsettlingly regressing Jose Reyes) to get the hell home. He hit the ball hard all night. He made a diving catch to prevent the ninth from hemorrhaging momentum. He caught the final out in left, even though he's not really a leftfielder. It's hard to imagine Marlon Anderson is going to be inserted in the outfield and be the catalyst who will jumpstart our tender divisional lead into an imposing margin, what with Milledge around and Alou allegedly en route, but wasn't I just saying that we needed to pick some forgotten veteran off the scrap heap and have him go all Cesar Cedeño on the rest of the league I think I also said that Marlon Anderson wasn't going to be the answer, but what do I know? I'm also the guy who was suppressing every instinct to count this as Tom Glavine's 299th win after the top of the first, mildly giddy that I'm holding tickets to his next likely start and, oh boy, potential 300th win. But Tom Glavine's streetcorner Rolex of an outing kept me honest (it was only two years ago that I was in my third year of adjusting to Tom Glavine being a Met). To tell you the truth, I had a sinking feeling about Glavine once we went up 6-0 in the first. It was just too good a setup. The 2007 pessimist in me would note we were outscored 9-7 from the moment Glavine threw his first pitch, but the 2006 practicalist interrupts and says a win is a win, don't be a schmuck. Meanwhile, the 2005 revivalist can't believe Ramon Castro doesn't play more often. He's the same guy who pushed Mike Piazza for playing time again and, ahem, for all of Paul Lo Duca's wild-eyed passion, Paulie ain't Piazza. Unless the nine runs surrendered were the direct result of Ramon's lousy pitch-calling — and as long as we're harboring three catchers — let's see some more Castro out there. The rest of the '05 crew meshed nicely with modern times, particularly offensively. I've been having a running argument with a friend over Beltran for weeks. He's been giving me the two-year-old line that he's soft and he plays for the money and he's not a New York type of ballplayer while I've been countering with yeah, he's in a slump, but if you don't realize you're watching the best, most complete player this franchise has ever had, then you're just not watching the same centerfielder I've been. I'm not going to forecast great things for Beltran from here on out, because I learned two years ago in this blog's infancy that my blessing is generally the kiss of death on any Met I single out for praise, but I'll take my chances with the man who first called us The New Mets. Thursday night's edition felt like a new Mets, certainly an improvement over the creaky version that's gone 18-23 since early June. But as in 2005, we've been threatened to go off on a season-pleasin' roll a lot lately only to sputter in our own mediocrity. Whatever year this is, let's keep the spirit of the last game we played going. And enough of the Dodgers already. To paraphrase Green Day from the summer prior to last summer, wake me up when this road trip ends. Marlon Anderson and the Mets win…I tell ya, it's enough to make a 44-year-old feel like he's 42. We’ll be running into Jeff Kent in Los Angeles this weekend, something you might not have bet on 15 years ago next month. Jeff Kent was not wanted by Mets fans, not for David Cone. The 1992 Mets had already reached base camp at the bottom of their mountain after having careened steadily downhill through the summer. They had exactly one All-Star that nonstellar season, Cone. Now he was being dispatched for some seemingly random Blue Jay. Ahead of Kent was a nightmarish four-year stay in New York during which he rubbed just about every Mets teammate the wrong way and secured the loyalty of few Mets fans. Beyond that, however, waited a brilliant offensive career that has earned him the title of greatest power-hitting second baseman ever and probably a ticket to Cooperstown. On the other hand, he still rubs just about every teammate the wrong way and he has yet to secure the loyalty of many fans. One senses Kent doesn’t care. He has his records, he gets paid well and, as long as Barry Bonds is in the news, he’ll never come off as the biggest a-hole in the ol’ ballgame. “Jeff doesn’t talk to anybody,” Dodgers third base coach Rich Donnelly told the Times‘ Jack Curry in a story about Bonds’ and Kent’s history of mutual contempt and general frostiness last Sunday. “Jeff says hello to his kids once in a while, when he brings them in the clubhouse.” When the Mets arrive at Dodger Stadium tonight, they will see Jeff Kent in uniform, rarin’ to go at second base. They will not see — at Dodger Stadium or any other ballpark in the Majors — any of the following on an active roster: Vince Coleman, Dick Schofield, Chico Walker, Eddie Murray, Bobby Bonilla, Kevin Bass, Todd Hundley, Pete Schourek, Jeff Innis, Mackey Sasser, Barry Jones, Daryl Boston, Anthony Young, Bill Pecota or Dave Gallagher. None of that motley crew — 15 of the 16 Mets who comprised the Mets’ half of the boxscore in their 4-3 win in the opening game of a twinight doubleheader against Cincinnati at Shea on August 28, 1992 — is playing anymore. The sixteenth Met was Jeff Kent. The occasion was his Met debut. He went 0-for-4. But in the nightcap, Kent’s 2-for-5, 3-RBI performance keyed a 12-1 romp and twinbill sweep for the Mets. Their cast in that second contest included Jeff McKnight, Chris Donnels, Lee Guetterman, Charlie O’Brien and Wally Whitehurst. Those Kent teammates aren’t playing anymore either. In fact, of the 44 men who can call themselves 1992 New York Mets, 43 are retired. Only Jeff Kent survives to tell the tale to 2007 big leaguers, as a peer, of what it was like to give Todd Kalas a Mets Extra interview; to abide by Jeff Torborg’s no-alcohol policy on planes; to be immortalized in The Worst Team Money Could Buy. Jeff Kent remains, as initially uncovered the spring before this one, the reigning LAMSA champion. LAMSA, of course, stands for Longest Ago Met Still Active. Nobody else from the Metropolitan Class of ’92 or any time before then plays in the Major Leagues today. Kent has been all alone in the ’92 distinction since July 1, 2005, the day John Franco threw his last pitch for the Houston Astros. Jeff became 1993’s only refugee when Jeromy Burnitz retired in March. Kent also is tightening his grip as sole survivor from 1994, though we might need to wait a tad before officially declaring him the last of those particular Methicans. Kelly Stinnett joined Kent in carrying the ’94 banner for eleven games with the Cardinals in June. But with the recovery of Yadier Molina (for which we all prayed so hard), Stinnett was outrighted to Triple-A Memphis, an honor the ex-Met backstop refused. At the moment, Kelly doesn’t appear to be playing for anybody, but catchers have a funny way of reappearing when you’re not looking for them. Hell, Kelly Stinnett emerged a Met from out of nowhere last September. The same could be said currently for Sandy Alomar, Jr., whom I would guess fans of most other teams have no idea is a Met. But back to Kent. He is the LAMSA by at least two, probably three seasons — likewise, for each of those campaigns, he is Last Met Standing. Next in line, if we are prepared to discount the marginal-at-best Stinnett, are the only other indisputably active 1995 Mets, both of whom, like Jeff, still play pretty vital roles in the bigs: Jason Isringhausen of the Cards and Paul Byrd of the Tribe. Each pitcher debuted with the Mets a dozen seasons ago, Izzy eleven days before Byrd. In Stinnettian limbo is Alberto Castillo, who beat both of them to the bigs by several weeks in ’95. Injuries made Bambi a Baltimore backup earlier this year. Recuperation makes him, of all things, a Norfolk Tide. (FYI, they don’t think kindly of us in Virginia anymore.) Regional pride and unyielding fealty to certain infielders compels me to note two other 1995 neophyte Mets, Edgardo Alfonzo and Carl Everett, are slogging away in Central Islip as Long Island Ducks. But if it doesn’t quack like a Major League affiliate, it’s a gray area. Fonzie, for the record, has collected 39 ribbies in 60 games as Duck third baseman; Everett’s got 14 homers in 212 at-bats. And David Newhan continues to be David Newhan (though, praise be, in New Orleans starting tonight). Kent, Izzy, Byrd, Castillo…they are the final Mets from 1996, Kent’s last year in New York, to be Major Leaguers in 2007. Rey Ordoñez, rookie shortstop sensation that spring, was cut by Seattle this spring. He receded into retirement and the Mariners went on to become surprise contenders. Draw your own conclusion. Mets don’t seem to last long anymore, do they? I don’t mean just as Mets, but as a rule. With so many players who bowed in the 1980s having crossed our path of late — Glavine, Alomar, Alou (still in baseball, rumor has it), Clemens, Ju. Franco, Griffey, Moyer, Wells, Maddux — you’d think somebody who was a Met back in the day might have survived on a roster somewhere, that Kevin Tapani would have guzzled from the fountain of youth or Craig Shipley would have taken up catching or Blaine Beatty would have caught on with the Royals. But nope. Jeff Kent, first a Met in 1992, is totally The Man in this category. Even if he only talks to his kids. Sometimes. How does Kent’s longevity compare to others in that position? For fun, or my idea of it, I have compiled a year-by-year list of who has been Last Met Standing from each season in club history. Some of them you’d guess right off; a few knocked me for a loop. LAST MET STANDING/1962-1991 1962: Ed Kranepool. He’s one you would have guessed. Eddie played until the end of 1979, outlasting by five years and two days Bob L. Miller and Chris Cannizzaro, each of whom played his final big league game on the same day in September of ’74. 1963: Ed Kranepool. Runner-up: Cleon Jones, who stopped by just in time to say hello and goodbye to the Polo Grounds. He was a White Sock in 1976. 1964: Ed Kranepool. With Jones back in the minors, Cannizzaro is tied for second from Shea’s first year with Ron Hunt. Hunt, like Cannizzaro and Miller, ended his career on September 28, 1974, a couple of months after Jim Hickman wound down his. While all those early ’60s Met stalwarts were finally retiring, Ed Kranepool wouldn’t turn 30 until November. 1965: Tug McGraw. Hey, not Ed Kranepool! The Tugger finished as a Phil in 1984, making him the final Stengelphile in captivity. Fellow ’65 rook Bud Harrelson also greeted the 1980s on a roster, as a Ranger. 1966: Nolan Ryan. This name will soon look very familiar in our discussion. Ryan pitched until 1993. 1967: Tom Seaver. Ryan spent none of ’67 with the big club, so Tom’s MLB tenure, which extended clear to 1986, is the longest-running from Wes Westrum’s last Mets team. Jerry Koosman, retired in ’85, wins honorable mention. 1968-1971: Nolan Ryan. A certain sameness to Last Met Standing takes hold here, with Nolan and Tom running one-two. Suffice it to say this Ryan kid defied a certain organization’s assessment of him as someone who would never last. It’s been said by different sources that Gil Hodges signed off on the Fregosi trade and that Gil Hodges was against the Fregosi trade. Either way, Ryan was the last Gil Hodges Met to remain in the majors. Given his ’66 cameo, he’s the last Wes Westrum Met, too. (But by missing ’67, Ryan cedes the championship of the Salty Parker Division to Seaver.) 1972-1975: Tom Seaver. And the runner-up from each of these four seasons? Rusty Staub, who stayed just a little longer at the fair (10/6/85) than did Koosman (8/21/85). Seaver was the last Yogi Berra and Roy McMillan Met. 1976-77: Lee Mazzilli. Mazz was the final Joe Frazierite active, contributing to the Blue Jays’ division title drive in 1989. Seaver was second in longevity from the ’76 Mets but, somewhat appropriately, fellow Wednesday Night Massacre participant Joel Youngblood came in second to Lee among the ’77 set, finishing his career just a couple of days earlier (plus Mazzilli had eight at-bats in the ’89 ALCS). 1978: Alex Treviño. This was the shocker for me (in addition to the shocker that I bothered to look any of this up). Alex was a fairly obscure backup catcher during the prime of his career, but as Kelly Stinnett and Alberto Castillo recently taught us, obscure backup catchers can keep playing almost as long as they like. By coming up in ’78 and lasting parts of a dozen more years, Treviño would become the second Met ever who would eventually play in the 1990s, after Nolan Ryan. (Ryan and Treviño were Astros teammates in 1988, but you don’t think of them as contemporaries exactly.) He even managed the shortest of stints with the 1990 Mets themselves when they were — yup — strapped by injuries for a catcher, any catcher. 1979: Jesse Orosco. Before he ruins all the fun by playing until 2003, we can take solace that Jesse was demoted to Tidewater for the entirety of 1980, giving us one more year to absorb a mild surprise in this category. 1980: Hubie Brooks. I missed this one in my guesswork, but Hubie hung in there until July of ’94, nosing out the equally unlikely (by my reckoning) runner-up, Jeff Reardon, who retired that pre-strike May. Reardon was also second to Orosco among ’79ers and second-to-last Joe Torre Met in the majors…to Orosco. 1981-1987: Jesse Orosco. Yeah, he wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while. Jesse flourished under George Bamberger and Frank Howard, so it’s fitting he was the last of their Mets to collect a player-size paycheck. 1988-89: David Cone. It was actually a pretty spirited race or perhaps war of attrition to the checkered flag among late-’80s Mets once Orosco kindly vacated the premises to make room for newer blood. Between 1999 and 2001, a whole crop of post-’86 Mets played their last, including Randy Myers, Darryl Strawberry, Dwight Gooden, Gregg Jefferies, Kevin Elster, Rick Aguilera, Dave Magadan and David Cone. But Cone had the good sense to give baseball one more shot in 2003, making the not particularly well-stocked Mets out of Spring Training. His comeback, even though it ended in May of ’03, ensured him this particular crown. Meanwhile, Jesse Orosco spent sixteen years pitching after the Mets first sent him away in 1987 (they would reacquire him for 2000 but dispatch him before that season started) and endured four months beyond Cone’s retirement. 1990-91: John Franco. He outlasted Jesse and Coney for the distinction of final Met managed by Davey Johnson, Buddy Harrelson and Mike Cubbage. Jeff Kent and 1992-96 is where we came in. Looking ahead to looking back? Here’s who is still more or less Major League active from the most recent suddenly distant past. 1997: Jason Isringhausen, Alberto Castillo. 1998: Alberto Castillo, Mike Piazza, Preston Wilson, Jay Payton. 1999: Jason Isringhausen (injured throughout ’98), Mike Piazza, Jay Payton, Melvin Mora, Armando Benitez, Kenny Rogers, Octavio Dotel. (Vance Wilson is on Detroit’s DL for the year). 2000: Mike Piazza, Jay Payton, Melvin Mora, Armando Benitez, Jason Tyner. Among other Mets from our last National League championship season, Rick White was released by the Astros after pitching 23 games for them this year; Mike Hampton, like Vance Wilson, is out all of ’07 with an injury; Joe McEwing and Timo Perez are playing for the AAA affiliates of the Red Sox and Tigers, respectively; and 2000 seems like a good place to stop for now. Tip of the cap to Ultimate Mets Database for being so damn ultimate about the Mets.  5 comments - (Comments closed) | |  Print This Post |  Alex Trevino, David Cone, Ed Kranepool, Hubie Brooks, Jeff Kent, John Franco, Last Met Standing, Lee Mazzilli, Longest Ago Met Still Active, Nolan Ryan, Team History, Tom Seaver, Tug McGraw Want to take a slight positive from Wednesday night's miserable loss — besides Wright's act of tying it temporarily and our somehow giving no ground to our divisional pursuers? Consider that erstwhile chum Mike Cameron didn't catch miscast designated hitter Carlos Delgado's home run in the seventh. It could have/would have been a great catch, a Web Gem from here to Kingman come…but it wasn't. I was instantly reminded of the great catch Aaron Rowand nearly made on a Carlos Beltran home run in Philadelphia…but he didn't. In June, Rowand draped himself over a wall in the gamest of efforts, yet all his glove nabbed was a bundle of air. Last night, Cameron made a sensational but slightly mistimed leap that would have worked a bit better at his local fronton. In each case, close but no Chavez. If you're having “one of those seasons,” which it often seems we are, those balls are caught and you mutter that we get no breaks. We got one on Delgado's dinger, so let's not give ourselves something to mutter about. You could argue that Smith giving up the tie in the eighth or Maine's second frightening first in a row or Carlos D's lack of D are all more tangible signs of “one of those seasons,” but…hey, I said it was only a slight positive. A few years back I decided to torture Greg with a thought experiment: Would you want the Mets to win the World Series if you couldn't watch any of the season or postseason? (At least that's how I remember it. Correct me if I'm wrong, Mr. Prince.) The answer I was expecting was a flat “no,” possibly followed by calling me insane, a jerk, etc. Greg's reaction was to stop and think for a while, then start asking questions. Could he record the games and watch them later? No. Could he buy the season-to-remember DVD? No. Could he … No, no, no. He would know it was in the record books and part of Mets history, but he could never feel that rush of delight, or even its echoes reliving the moments. That was the deal. Greg looked tormented, and I decided that he must have viewed the thought experiment as a referendum on how much he loved the Mets — if he loved them enough, shouldn't he want them to win even if he couldn't be part of it? Which was interesting, though more than a little sadistic, but not what I'd had in mind. All I was after was some half-baked philosophical point about the team's doings being inseparable from the fans' enjoyment of/torment over those doings. If a Met wins the World Series and no one cheers, does the title make a sound? Or something along those lines. All of this is top-heavy prelude to last night's game, in which I was the worst fan ever. First I groused at length about the shortcomings of various Mets, a bitter monologue that Emily endured with eye-rolling and periodic rejoinders to the contrary. (I believe I called Valentin done, picked on Beltran for playing too conservatively, excoriated Green for his defense while he was at bat, ranted about Milledge not working counts and settled for ad hominem attacks about Heilman, who wasn't even in the game. I don't recall declaring that I didn't like Chip Ambres' face, but anything's possible.) Finally Emily grew weary of this and said she was going to sleep. I decamped to the study to work on the computer and listen on the radio — not so much because I had work to do but because the way the Mets have been playing, I figured my full attention would just lead to further indignation and upset. (Honestly, after Beltran doubled off the bag only to have Wright fly out to the Petco equivalent of a coat closet in the attic bedroom, did any of us think we'd break through against Jake Peavy?) Given at most fitful attention, the Mets began to blossom. I started for the upstairs TV, then reconsidered, a la Keith drinking beer in Davey's office. I paid more attention to what Howie and Tom were saying. Things went south. I paid less attention to what Howie and Tom were saying. Things perked up. OK then. For the rest of the night I gave the Mets vague attention at best and before I knew it we were home-free. Just don't ask me to follow this strategy the next time we have a playoff game. Or, come to think of it, five minutes from now. Julio Franco is back with the Braves. They’re desperately giving one last shot to an old, broken-down baseball refugee in the hopes he will rekindle the lost magic both he and they had together…or he and they will revive on contact and wreak all kinds of vengeful havoc on the Mets. Guess which scenario I’m living in fear of. Cesar Cedeño was as scrap heap as scrap heap could be in 1985. Then Whitey Herzog picked him up, cleaned him off and inserted him at first base down the stretch. He hit .434 in 28 games for the Cardinals who flew by the Mets for the Eastern Division title. Two years later, a similar (he batted only .233 in 24 games but it was similar enough) phenomenon unfurled, except the washed-up vet who helped do us in was Dan Driessen, also a first baseman. And precisely one decade later, our mini-miracle of 1997 was derailed when the Marlins poached Darren Daulton from the end of the line and stuck him at first. What position does Julio Franco play again? Past isn’t necessarily precedent. Not every oldie grab is a goodie. The Phillies, for example, picked up Jeff Conine late last year and they didn’t make the playoffs. Speaking of Conine, he’s on the Reds. So is Brandon Phillips. Let’s get Brandon Phillips. I don’t usually care to indulge in hypothetical trades, but waiting for West Coast starts and a position to be definitively filled is making me antsy. Let’s get Brandon Phillips. I don’t mean to be the big-market team fan who believes small-market teams’ rosters exist for our plucking pleasure, but the Reds are atrocious and show no signs of ambition toward being anything but that. Let’s get Brandon Phillips. I don’t like the idea of giving up our own young chips, not so much Ambres, but the ones I’ve actually seen. Pelfrey I believe has a future. I do like Lastings. Humber was a No. 1 pick for a reason. I’d hate to give any of them up. But I would for Brandon Phillips. Not much used to trolling in trade talk, I have no idea if Brandon Phillips is explicitly available, but the way baseball works and the way Omar works, everybody is available. Omar once made Brandon Phillips available, trading him five years ago for Bartolo Colon, one of the gutsiest moves the GM of a constricted, contraction-bound club could have made. Didn’t work out, but it was the right move for the Expos then. Getting Brandon Phillips for the Mets would be the right move now. What would it take? Damned if I know. I don’t do hypotheticals normally. But if they wanted one of our pitching studs, go ahead. If they wanted Milledge, too, go ahead. If they need Gotay to help fill the void and ironically chill with Jeff Keppinger, fine. If we have to take Conine or even David Weathers off their hands, I have no problem with any of it. Let’s get Brandon Phillips. This guy has been killing us for two straight seasons. Murdering us. He should be extradited to New York and brought up on charges. Or, better yet, traded to New York to become our second baseman for the next several years. Brandon Phillips was all that stood between us sweeping the Reds this weekend. (Well, that and our general nimrodedness Friday.) He had a deleterious impact on us last year. I just watched him almost singlehandedly beat the Braves. I’d leave him to do that some more except I don’t think Cincinnati’s schedule will allow him the luxury. We need a second baseman. We’ve needed a second baseman since Roberto Alomar decided to quit the game (albeit several years before he retired). We haven’t had a dependable second baseman since Edgardo Alfonzo moved to third. We’ve had one Danny Garcia after another. Bless Jose Valentin’s heart and one good knee and uplifting 2006, but he ain’t getting it done either. Brandon Phillips apparently hits well against not just the Mets and Braves. Brandon Phillips is only 26. Brandon Phillips, unless I’m missing something nobody’s told me, can play his position, a position nobody around here has played competently in anything approaching a long-term nature in six seasons. Brandon Phillips is probably due for arbitration soon, which means the Reds could be talked out of him. They love youth movements in Cincinnati. It keeps them feeling hopeful. We need youth. We need a bat. We need a glove. We need a spark. It’s not going to come from Chip Ambres. It’s not going to come from Marlon Anderson. It could very well come from Brandon Phillips. He’s playing on the Reds. It’s not like he has something important to do. Let’s get Brandon Phillips. Now. When I think of the San Diego Padres, I think of a line from The Shawshank Redemption, what Andy Dufresne says to Red Redding about where he wants to live out the rest of his life: You know what the Mexicans say about the Pacific? They say it has no memory. From one season to the next, I remember next to nothing about the Padres. Their roster is forever 70% surprise, 20% Gileses and maybe one or two Gwynnian stalwarts just so I can recognize them if I flip by SNY too fast. Hey, isn’t there a baseball player named Khalil? Ohmigod, the Mets are on! Their history is a muddle of Big Macs, fish tacos, fire sales and camouflage. This is the fourth season in a row in which I’ve looked at that stadium of theirs and thought, “hey, the Padres just built a brand new ballpark!” The San Diego Padres are the Pacific Ocean to me — less because they play so close to it than because we play so far from them. If the Padres aren’t going up against the Mets two series a year, they simply don’t exist, and I mean completely out-of-sight, out-of-mind, when did Columbus get a hockey team? don’t exist. They exist way less than their California neighbors because the Giants and Dodgers have their roots in our backyard and my subconscious and occasionally materialize on Baseball Tonight. The Padres? They’ve won two consecutive division titles and are the only National League team at the moment with a legitimate shot at making it three straight. They have the lowest ERA in the known world. They have… …I forget. Who are we talking about again? It’s not that the Padres don’t rate our respect. They do. Anybody whose games start after my wife kisses me good night is potentially bad news. But that’s the other thing. The Giants start their homes games a little after 10. The Dodgers either 10 or 10:30. The Padres? They come on after The Tomorrow Show With Tom Snyder, right? They make me sleepy just thinking about them. I went to Jack Murphy Stadium once and couldn’t enjoy it without grabbing a few winks at my seat between the fifth and sixth. Every time I see them, they’ve just completed a wardrobe change. They annually acquire some big shot — Willie McCovey; Rollie Fingers; Gaylord Perry; Steve Garvey; Jack Clark; Rickey Henderson; David Wells; Mike Piazza; Greg Maddux — whom you will never, ever associate with their franchise even if one of them is on your screen at this very moment in Padre…blue is it now? And, furthermore… …I forget again. Who are we talking about? Never mind the Padres. How about those Mets? How about that El Duque? If there’s one thing I can say about El Duque, it’s…it’s that he’s the Padres of our pitching staff, at least to me. Honestly, I tend to forget he’s in the rotation at any given moment. That’s on my head, I suppose, but also indicative of the way he’ll get an extra day or month between starts and then suddenly reappear from out of nowhere. Plus there’s that Friar-like tendency to give you something different every time out. There is no rhyme and less reason to El Duque. Sometimes he’s magnificent, as he was Tuesday night; sometimes he’s magical, as he was hitting and stealing!; sometimes he’s completely unfathomable and gets bombed and turns edgy as he disintegrates in full view; and sometimes… …who pitched? Of course. That guy. He won. All right! The best thing to say about the Mets who aren’t Orlando Hernandez in their second game in San Diego is they forgot who they had been during their first game. This was a much-improved version, replete with a No. 3 batter who lived up to his spot in the order and a second baseman who, at last, looked like he could hit the side of a wall (and not hurt himself in the process). Keeping with our current policy, I will praise the Mets only lightly lest they become satisfied with one-game winning streaks. They have more business to take care of tonight in… …I’m sorry — where are we playing again?
Who’s that bearded busher? That’s no minor leaguer, but our (all but technically) own Mike Piazza, rehabbing for the Stockton Ports, the California League affiliate of the Oakland A’s. FAFIF reader Joel Lugo swung by Banner Island Ballpark Tuesday night, snapped a few photos of the Met legend and brought him a little good luck. Mike hit one out of Stockton, just like he used to do in Queens. |
Piazza: Catcher, Slugger, Icon, Star by Greg Prince is available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble and other online booksellers. 
Amazin' Again: How the 2015 New York Mets Brought the Magic Back to Queens by Greg Prince is available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble and other online booksellers. 
Volume I of The Happiest Recap: 50+ Years of the New York Mets As Told in 500+ Amazin' Wins by Greg Prince is available in print and for Kindle on Amazon. 
Faith and Fear in Flushing: An Intense Personal History by Greg Prince (foreword by Jason Fry), is available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble and other online booksellers. |
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