As it happens, I too have been mistaken for a member of the New York Mets. Though I had a (reluctant) hand in the misidentification.

Time has erased a lot of the details, but I know it was the spring or early summer of 2000, and I was facing a particularly dreaded New York City transportation maneuver: coming into La Guardia and having to get a cab to Shea. Dreaded because a) any problem with the flight means you’ll be late for the game and strand anyone you’re meeting there; b) cabbies hate waiting in line only to get saddled with a podunk fare, and often take out their unhappiness on the passenger; and c) even if things go well, you’re stuck dragging luggage around a baseball stadium. (This was the more-innocent era where a large bag in Shea was chiefly a problem for its bearer.)

So I was coming in from somewhere or other (I think it was Atlanta) and set to meet Greg soon after

I landed. For once everything went swimmingly — the plane was on time, and the cabbie was philosophical about going to the Shea instead of to Manhattan. Except for some reason he tried to go in the main parking lot on the water side instead of dropping me off on Roosevelt Avenue. He waved off my suggestions that this wasn’t the best idea until there were so many cars behind us that escape was impossible.

Sure enough, the cabbie and the dispenser of tickets immediately fell to arguing about whether or not one had to pay to take a passenger across the parking lot. People behind us began to honk in that less-than-gentle New York City way. I hung my head, psyching myself up to cut this charade short and drag my not very small suitcase across a very large parking lot.

And then I heard the cabbie say, “You don’t understand — I got one of the Mets here in the cab. And he’s gonna be late for the game.”

What? We locked eyes in the rearview mirror. I looked like I’d just been hit over the head with something. He gave me a look that was half-pleading, half-warning: Don’t you screw this up for me, buddy. And then the ticket taker narrowed her eyes, squeezed herself out of her booth and began waddling toward the cab.

Think. Think. Think. Think. You’re a Met. Which Met?

I’m decently glib — in fact, I’ve got a somewhat-overweening confidence in my own ability to talk myself out of most anything. But that’s given a little warning. Improv? Not my specialty. In fact, I usually freeze.

Think! THINK!

Inappopriate 2000 Mets started popping into my head.

Hi, ma’am, I’m Armando Benitez.

It’s me! Mike Piazza!

Baby, you gonna make Rickey Henderson late!

No, it had to be someone obscure — someone whose name would ring a bell with a Met employee, but not someone she’d recognize. And I was coming up empty, even given the extra time accorded by the fact that this particular Met employee was Weeble-esque and conserving energy.

Frantic to think of an obscure Met (I have fricking baseball cards of every Met in history — why am I coming up empty?), I thought of a new wrinkle: It had to be a Met who didn’t look particularly athletic to untrained eyes. (Yes, this was overthinking things. Are you really surprised?)

And then it hit me. Young pitcher. Pretty obscure. Gets those weird, really unathletic-looking spots in his cheeks when it’s hot. The ticket taker arrived and peered into the back window. I stuck my hand out and said, in a surprisingly calm voice, “Glendon Rusch. Nice to meet you.”

She looked at me for a moment. And then, incredibly, said, “Hey, you were great last time out!”

Even the cabbie looked amazed by that one.

“Thanks!” I said, and was waved into the Shea parking lot neat as you please. So what’s it like being a momentary Met, at least as far as one employee’s concerned? It beats walking.

As it happens, I too have been mistaken for a member of the New York Mets. Though I had a (reluctant) hand in the misidentification.

Time has erased a lot of the details, but I know it was the spring or early summer of 2000, and I was facing a particularly dreaded New York City transportation maneuver: coming into La Guardia and having to get a cab to Shea. Dreaded because a) any problem with the flight means you'll be late for the game and strand anyone you're meeting there; b) cabbies hate waiting in line only to get saddled with a podunk fare, and often take out their unhappiness on the passenger; and c) even if things go well, you're stuck dragging luggage around a baseball stadium. (This was the more-innocent era where a large bag in Shea was chiefly a problem for its bearer.)

So I was coming in from somewhere or other (I think it was Atlanta) and set to meet Greg soon after I landed. For once everything went swimmingly — the plane was on time, and the cabbie was philosophical about going to the Shea instead of to Manhattan. Except for some reason he tried to go in the main parking lot on the water side instead of dropping me off on Roosevelt Avenue. He waved off my suggestions that this wasn't the best idea until there were so many cars behind us that escape was impossible.

Sure enough, the cabbie and the dispenser of tickets immediately fell to arguing about whether or not one had to pay to take a passenger across the parking lot. People behind us began to honk in that less-than-gentle New York City way. I hung my head, psyching myself up to cut this charade short and drag my not very small suitcase across a very large parking lot.

And then I heard the cabbie say, “You don't understand — I got one of the Mets here in the cab. And he's gonna be late for the game.”

What? We locked eyes in the rearview mirror. I looked like I'd just been hit over the head with something. He gave me a look that was half-pleading, half-warning: Don't you screw this up for me, buddy. And then the ticket taker narrowed her eyes, squeezed herself out of her booth and began waddling toward the cab.

Think. Think. Think. Think. You're a Met. Which Met?

I'm decently glib — in fact, I've got a somewhat-overweening confidence in my own ability to talk myself out of most anything. But that's given a little warning. Improv? Not my specialty. In fact, I usually freeze.

Think! THINK!

Inappopriate 2000 Mets started popping into my head.

Hi, ma'am, I'm Armando Benitez.

It's me! Mike Piazza!

Baby, you gonna make Rickey Henderson late!

No, it had to be someone obscure — someone whose name would ring a bell with a Met employee, but not someone she'd recognize. And I was coming up empty, even given the extra time accorded by the fact that this particular Met employee was Weeble-esque and conserving energy.

Frantic to think of an obscure Met (I have fricking baseball cards of every Met in history — why am I coming up empty?), I thought of a new wrinkle: It had to be a Met who didn't look particularly athletic to untrained eyes. (Yes, this was overthinking things. Are you really surprised?)

And then it hit me. Young pitcher. Pretty obscure. Gets those weird, really unathletic-looking spots in his cheeks when it's hot. The ticket taker arrived and peered into the back window. I stuck my hand out and said, in a surprisingly calm voice, “Glendon Rusch. Nice to meet you.”

She looked at me for a moment. And then, incredibly, said, “Hey, you were great last time out!”

Even the cabbie looked amazed by that one.

“Thanks!” I said, and was waved into the Shea parking lot neat as you please. So what's it like being a momentary Met, at least as far as one employee's concerned? It beats walking.

One Tuesday, two press conferences. First the Mets. They make it official that Carlos Beltran has signed a seven-year contract to play centerfield and bat in the middle of their order. He smiles and calls his new employers the New Mets. The smirks are barely suppressed. Then the circus packs up and hauls ass across the Triborough for the second show, the main event, the Yankees’ introduction of Randy Johnson, just acquired from Arizona. Johnson is an all-timer and a Diamondback hero. But Johnson has had enough of his home-area team’s rebuilding program (it had been more than three years since the 2001 World Series) and he wants another ring. A trade to the Yankees…yeah, that’s the ticket.

The Big Unit gets the big coverage. Maybe he ensured that with his shove of a Channel 2 cameraman the day before. Maybe he’s a slightly bigger story that Tuesday and on the front and back pages that Wednesday because Beltran’s news leaked out over the weekend. Maybe it’s because he’s a future Hall of Famer and the Yankees are the Yankees. The Mets, after all, are the Mets.

It’s almost exactly two years later. Half of the featured attractions of January 11, 2005 are gone. Is gone. The Yankees have traded Randy Johnson, his bad back, his advanced age, his disappointing performance, his dyspeptic personality and cash back to Arizona for a middle reliever and some minor leaguers. They couldn’t wait to get him, they couldn’t wait to get rid of him.

Carlos Beltran helped the same old Mets of the early 2000s become the New Mets as advertised of 2005 and led them into becoming the powerhouse Mets of 2006 and, knock wood, years to come.

I think we had a better Tuesday.

One Tuesday, two press conferences. First the Mets. They make it official that Carlos Beltran has signed a seven-year contract to play centerfield and bat in the middle of their order. He smiles and calls his new employers the New Mets. The smirks are barely suppressed. Then the circus packs up and hauls ass across the Triborough for the second show, the main event, the Yankees' introduction of Randy Johnson, just acquired from Arizona. Johnson is an all-timer and a Diamondback hero. But Johnson has had enough of his home-area team's rebuilding program (it had been more than three years since the 2001 World Series) and he wants another ring. A trade to the Yankees…yeah, that's the ticket.

The Big Unit gets the big coverage. Maybe he ensured that with his shove of a Channel 2 cameraman the day before. Maybe he's a slightly bigger story that Tuesday and on the front and back pages that Wednesday because Beltran's news leaked out over the weekend. Maybe it's because he's a future Hall of Famer and the Yankees are the Yankees. The Mets, after all, are the Mets.

It's almost exactly two years later. Half of the featured attractions of January 11, 2005 are gone. Is gone. The Yankees have traded Randy Johnson, his bad back, his advanced age, his disappointing performance, his dyspeptic personality and cash back to Arizona for a middle reliever and some minor leaguers. They couldn't wait to get him, they couldn't wait to get rid of him.

Carlos Beltran helped the same old Mets of the early 2000s become the New Mets as advertised of 2005 and led them into becoming the powerhouse Mets of 2006 and, knock wood, years to come.

I think we had a better Tuesday.

I wouldn’t dare attempt to match the eloquence displayed Wednesday at Grace Episcopal Church in Grand Rapids by Donald Rumsfeld…

“There’s an old saying in Washington that every member of Congress looks in the mirror every day and sees a future president. Gerald Ford was different. I suspect even after he was president, when he looked in the mirror, he saw a citizen.”

…or Jimmy Carter…

“‘For myself and our nation, I want to thank my predecessor for all he has done to heal our land.’ Those were the first words I spoke as president, and I still hate to admit they received more applause than all the other words in my inaugural address.”

…or Richard Norton Smith…

“President Ford used to joke he was charismatically challenged. Whatever he lacked in charisma, he more than made up for in character.”

…but after being treated to a series of remembrances that were solemn and stirring, warm and wonderful, I feel compelled to add a tiny something extra on behalf of Jerry Ford, the 38th president of these United States.

He was a winner.

Gerald Ford may have been an “accidental president” and not have won a national election to attain his high office, but he was a winner in his home district in Michigan. He triumphed over an entrenched incumbent in his first Republican primary and then won election and re-election a total of 13 times between 1948 and 1972. He won election as minority leader in the House in 1965 and won his colleagues’ acclaim every two years after that through 1973. He won confirmation as emergency vice president after Spiro Agnew resigned his post (during the deciding game of the Mets-Reds NLCS, it will never be forgotten) and, in the face of a vigorous internal challenge from a charismatic challenger, prevailed over Ronald Reagan to win the GOP nomination in 1976.

Most importantly, he and the Mets were winners together.

That is, the first time Gerald Ford and the New York Mets — who never crossed paths in any meaningful fashion of which I’m aware — contested their respective opponents on the same day, they hit the daily double.

Ford first.

On April 27, 1976, voters from both parties headed to the polls in Pennsylvania. In the midst of a rough nomination season, Ford easily outpaced challenger Reagan. Granted, Reagan did not campaign in the Keystone State, but delegates were delegates and a win was a win.

Back in New York, the Mets were playing the Atlanta Braves a day game at Shea. While political pundits awaited a definitive reading of the results from Pennsylvania, there were tea leaves turning in Jerry Ford’s favor everywhere in Flushing.

• Jerry Koosman started for the Mets.

• Jerry Royster was the Braves’ third baseman

• Jerry Dale was the third base umpire

• Jerry Grote scored the winning run.

Though they, like Jimmy Carter (who won on the Democratic side that day in PA), were from Georgia, the ’76 Braves offered a few Fordian slips beyond what fell from the Jerry tree.

• Their shortstop was D. Chaney, only a deep throw to first from the president’s chief of staff, another D. Cheney (who has terrible aim).

• Their staring pitcher was named Morton — as was the chairman of the committee to elect President Ford. Mr. Morton won 4, Mr. Morton lost 9 for the Braves that year. Mr. Morton went 0-1 for the White House at the same time. Both Mr. Mortons retired afterwards.

• Jimmy Wynn played for Atlanta, albeit without the WIN button Ford attempted to popularize in ’75 as a method to Whip Inflation Now. WIN buttons, alas, had far less pop to them than the Toy Cannon.

• As Ford sought to maintain the Oval Office, centerfield for the Braves was patrolled from the sixth through the ninth by Rowland Office.

The chief executive in the Braves’ dugout was Dave Bristol, a longer-tenured version of his Mets’ counterpart Joe Frazier. But making appearances for each team that afternoon were two future multiple-term world champion managers: Cito Gaston for Atlanta, Joe Torre (ouch) for New York.
It probably wasn’t of utmost concern to the afterschool gathering of 4,002 at Shea what Ford or Reagan or Carter were doing one state away. It was probably cause for great celebration that Bruce Boisclair drove home Grote for the winning run in the three-run ninth, a walkoff triumph for the briefly (10-7, 1-game lead) surging Mets.

Our boys wouldn’t hold their lead for long in 1976. Ford, on the other hand, put just enough distance between himself and his charismatic rival that evening to outlast Reagan’s rightward rush in states more friendly for what was then considered his fairly exotic brand of conservatism.

When the president was officially nominated in a squeaker on August 18, the Mets were in Los Angeles and lost…in a walkoff.

The Mets were done by the time the fall campaign heated up. They went home 86-76, mired in third place. Jerry Ford’s most memorable statement in the general election was that Poland and other Eastern European countries did not suffer under the thumb of Soviet oppression. In 1976, that was a little like saying there was no Phillies domination of the Eastern Division of the National League. Nevertheless, he steadily made up ground on Carter (who was setting a template for the not-quite-blowin’-it 2005 Chicago White Sox) right to the proverbial 162nd game before falling a run or two short.

If you’re an American citizen — even a National Leaguer — this has been a fascinating week, as fascinating as one can be without baseball or a baseball trade or a baseball rolling by as you’re walking down the street. (Gads, I miss baseball.) A new governor in Albany…a new majority in both chambers of the legislature in Washington…a new Speaker of the House of Representatives named Nancy…and a President of the United States laid to rest with honor and praise three decades after he was barely nominated in his own right and barely rejected by the electorate as a whole the only time he sought its approval.

Growing up in the middle of the 1970s, bookended by the final corrosive lunges at power by Richard M. Nixon and M. Donald Grant, I watched the continuing ceremonies that marked the death of Gerald Ford and sort of waited for the punchline. Another funeral? Is he still dead? Is he going on tour? Is somebody going to drop the casket and is Chevy Chase going to burst out and let us in on the joke?

But it wasn’t like that at all. It was indeed solemn and stirring, warm and wonderful. Just like, as I’ve learned this past week, Jerry Ford himself.

Happy New Year! And thank you!

Thank you for 1,450,926 page views of Faith and Fear in Flushing in 2006.

Even when you subtract out all the porn sites that glom their filthy automatic trackbacks onto us and all the times Jason and I log on to ascertain that we’re still here and all the electronic counting vagaries I sure as hell don’t understand, it means we’re not just talking to ourselves here.

Not that we’re beyond talking to ourselves here. But still.

Thank you for showing up to join us as often as you do. What you mean to us defies measure.