It's not exactly the Christmas Eve news to suit anybody who said all they wanted under the tree was Barry Zito, but the Brewers have signed Jeff Suppan. Many years, insane money, OK pitcher who had a couple of good games when it counted.
This means for us, besides not having Jeff Suppan (and not having to contort myself to root for a guy I wanted no part of), that Barry Zito stands alone as the pitching prize on the market. Mark Mulder's still floating about, but word is he won't be ready for the season to start and he's not a New York or Rick Peterson guy.
So, what happens next? Do we throw our first five years of CitiBucks at Zito in hopes of luring him away from his lifelong dream of becoming a Texa$ Ranger? Or do we set a price, stand by it and let the chips fall where they may because even if he's twice the pitcher Suppan is, it will take more than twice Suppan's $42 mil over four years to secure him?
In Love Actually it was said that at Christmas you tell the truth. In that spirit, I have to be honest: I don't really want Barry Zito all that badly. Not for bankbreaking numbers and, in a touch of psychobabble, not on principle.
It has not so much to do with him as it does us and me. I don't really like us being the fans who expect our management to ante up above all others at this time of year just because we can. I don't want to sit in expectation that “we're the Mets, we buy who we want.” It was necessary to loosen the pursestrings in the previous two winters, necessary and wise given the players available and where we stood. But just paying and paying to outbid a joke like Tom Hicks because we're the big, bad team from New York? It doesn't rub me the right way. Maybe if I felt more confident in Zito's long-term prospects I'd jump on the “it's not my money” express, but that's secondary at the moment. I just don't like the Mets operating like…well, I'm not going to name names, but I'd just as soon we go after the guys we really and truly need.
I still trust our general manager to figure something out if we don't wind up with the main guy. I like the idea that Omar Minaya will think of something besides cash. And I like the New York Mets going with their young pitchers because that's what the New York Mets do. If we're sitting here in six months slapping our collective palms to our collective forehead because nobody can go five innings, well, I'm an idiot.
Besides, if he wanted to be here, he'd be here by now.

It's not exactly the Christmas Eve news to suit anybody who said all they wanted under the tree was Barry Zito, but the Brewers have signed Jeff Suppan. Many years, insane money, OK pitcher who had a couple of good games when it counted.

This means for us, besides not having Jeff Suppan (and not having to contort myself to root for a guy I wanted no part of), that Barry Zito stands alone as the pitching prize on the market. Mark Mulder's still floating about, but word is he won't be ready for the season to start and he's not a New York or Rick Peterson guy.

So, what happens next? Do we throw our first five years of CitiBucks at Zito in hopes of luring him away from his lifelong dream of becoming a Texa$ Ranger? Or do we set a price, stand by it and let the chips fall where they may because even if he's twice the pitcher Suppan is, it will take more than twice Suppan's $42 mil over four years to secure him?

In Love Actually it was said that at Christmas you tell the truth. In that spirit, I have to be honest: I don't really want Barry Zito all that badly. Not for bankbreaking numbers and, in a touch of psychobabble, not on principle.

It has not so much to do with him as it does us and me. I don't really like us being the fans who expect our management to ante up above all others at this time of year just because we can. I don't want to sit in expectation that “we're the Mets, we buy who we want.” It was necessary to loosen the pursestrings in the previous two winters, necessary and wise given the players available and where we stood. But just paying and paying to outbid a joke like Tom Hicks because we're the big, bad team from New York? It doesn't rub me the right way. Maybe if I felt more confident in Zito's long-term prospects I'd jump on the “it's not my money” express, but that's secondary at the moment. I just don't like the Mets operating like…well, I'm not going to name names, but I'd just as soon we go after the guys we really and truly need.

I still trust our general manager to figure something out if we don't wind up with the main guy. I like the idea that Omar Minaya will think of something besides cash. And I like the New York Mets going with their young pitchers because that's what the New York Mets do. If we're sitting here in six months slapping our collective palms to our collective forehead because nobody can go five innings, well, I'm an idiot.

Besides, if he wanted to be here, he'd be here by now.

And in the best sports news of any kind since October 18, the University of South Florida Bulls today captured their very first bowl victory, 24-7, over the East Carolina University Pirates in the inaugural PapaJohns.com Bowl in Birmingham, Alabama.

Like you hadn’t already planned your Saturday around that.

Wherever your collegiate loyalties lie, even if they lie nowhere (unless they lie with those ECU shinkickers), won’t you join the USF Alumni Association chapter of Stephanie and me in a hearty round of what we used to shout on alternate sides of the Sun Dome?

SOUTH!

FLORIDA!

SOUTH!

FLORIDA!

SOUTH!

FLORIDA!

YOU! ESS! EFF!

YOU! ESS! EFF!

YOU! ESS! EFF!

Ahhh…

For those of you somehow unfamiliar with this heretofore untapped bastion of scholar-athleticism, the University of South Florida — USF to us, if not the sports media community at large (screw you, University of San Francisco) — has been in business for 50 years and just completed its first decade of college football. The Bulls/Golden Brahmans entered the top tier of play in 2002 and have been quietly successful as a Division I program. There’s been more quiet than success in North Tampa if you measure your standing in the sport by, say, Ohio State standards, but it’s only been a few years of competing at this level. You needn’t be an Oracle to understand that this piping hot triumph in the PapaJohns.com Bowl, one year after a misfire in the equally prestigious Meineke Car Care Bowl, is a saucy milestone…a tangy topping on a 9-4 season…a crunchy, crusty bite of pigskin pizza for those of us who intermittently bleed green and gold.

If you find this audible self-indulgently off-topic, know that ESPN2 assigned Gary Thorne play-by-play duties. He’s as pompous and clueless at college football as he was as a latter-day Metscaster on WPIX. In the first couple of minutes, he referred to USF as “underlooked” and left the South out of Florida (thus giving the hated Gators an extra game). He may have even said a museum at a church that is an icon of the civil rights movement celebrates segregation. That’s Gary Thorne, talking without thinking, whatever the sport.

But he couldn’t ruin this. A molasses-slow crew of Sun Belt Conference officials that kept this thing trudging from 1 until past 4:30 couldn’t ruin this. The inept Pirates hairline-fracturing our redshirt freshman quarterback sensation Matt Grothewith a kick in the shin couldn’t ruin this. The rush of ESPN2 to dump out of the postgame so it could kiss that horse’s ass of horse’s asses Bobby Knight couldn’t ruin this. Even the knowledge that we remain the most obscure 42,000-student school on the planet — bigger by half than it was during my early ’80s studies — couldn’t ruin this.

To be fair, USF is pretty obscure to me since I turned north on I-275 on April 29, 1985. As a Big East member, we’re on TV now and then, but I usually seem to miss it ’cause I don’t go out of my way to find it. My ability to drop a name like Matt Grothe surprises even myself. Alma mater is alma mater, however. USF’s greatest college athletics tradition may be apathy (the cameras revealed plenty of good seats were available in Birmingham) and I may throw every single fundraising appeal straight into the trash, but gosh darn it, we just won a bowl game. Until it happened, I wasn’t sure what sports outfit I identified with most when there are no Mets around.

SOUTH! FLORIDA! indeed.

So I'm looking at Deadspin's roundup of October, and I can't help re-reading the triumphant recap of Game 7. (Hey, Will's a Cardinals fan; while I wish I were the one being gallant in victory, I don't begrudge him his happiness.)
Anyway, in looking through the comments about the post I found this one:
At least we know that Beltran will never get eaten by a T-Rex.
And I laughed. And am still laughing.
Perhaps the healing has finally begun….

So I'm looking at Deadspin's roundup of October, and I can't help re-reading the triumphant recap of Game 7. (Hey, Will's a Cardinals fan; while I wish I were the one being gallant in victory, I don't begrudge him his happiness.)

Anyway, in looking through the comments about the post I found this one:

At least we know that Beltran will never get eaten by a T-Rex.

And I laughed. And am still laughing.

Perhaps the healing has finally begun….

The doorbell rang at Barry Zito’s Southern California beach house. He padded over to let in the visitors he was expecting.

“Dude,” he said. “Are you Omar?”

It wasn’t Omar.

“Mister Zito?”

“That’s my name, bro. Don’t wear it out.”

Barry Zito peeked out the door.

“Dude, where’s Omar?”

“There’s no Omar here, Barry.”

“Dude, you’re wearing it out! And where is everybody?”

Barry Zito, the most coveted pitcher on the free agent market had been told by his agent, the ravenous and skilled Scott Boras, that he would be called on by the general manager of the New York Mets, Omar Minaya as well as their chief operating officer Jeff Wilpon, vice president Tony Bernazard and assistant GM John Ricco. All Barry remembered was “Omar,” because he considered it an unusual name.

“There’s nobody else here, Barry. Just me. But I do represent others just like me.”

“Dude. You look weird.”

By contemporary standards, it is fair to say the visitor did stand out, for he was not dressed in the style of a man of the 21st, 20th or 19th century. One would have to return to the late 1700s to see his kind of garb and not think it unusual.

“Barry, I’m Benjamin Franklin.”

“Who?”

“Benjamin Franklin…one of the founding fathers of this country!”

“Don’t know, man.”

“Inventor of the stove!”

“Uh…”

“Diplomat nonpareil!”

“Dude, I can’t be smoking that. They got drug testing!”

“Barry, my face is on the hundred-dollar bill.”

With that, Barry Zito perked up.

“All right! A hundred-million-dollar bill! My agent came through. Gimme!”

“Barry, there is no hundred-million-dol…remove your hands from my person at once or I shall throttle you unmercifully with my cane!”

“Sorry dude. I thought you were my payday.”

Benjamin Franklin was dismayed.

“See here, Barry. You will have my likeness, as many as a million of them in short order. A penny saved is a penny earned.”

“Dude! I’m totally there!”

“But Barry, you need to act in your best interest.”

“The agent’s doing that, man. I’m gonna get interest and everything. You sure you’re not a hundred-million-dollar bill? I’ve been waiting since like October to get one.”

“No, Barry, I’m not. I’m something more valuable. If a man empties his purse into his head, no one can take it from him.”

“A zillion-dollar bill? ‘Cause, dude, that would be awesome!”

“Barry, I’m here to help you grasp the wisdom you need to advance your career. He that is of the opinion money will do everything may well be suspected of doing everything for money.”

“Huh?”

“I’m here to help you get the best deal.”

“Cool! Hey, I don’t have to pay you a commission, too, do I?”

“Barry, my advice is invaluable. An investment in knowledge pays the best interest.”

“Huh?”

“It’s free.”

“Awesome! Where’s my money?”

Benjamin Franklin hadn’t felt so dismayed since the Continental Congress hesitated in declaring independency.

“Barry, this is about more than money. He does not possess wealth; it possesses him.”

“Man, you’re sure not an agent. My agent says we’re gonna get paid and I mean paid!”

“Is that what this is all about, Barry? You’re a free agent. You have an opportunity few men will ever have to chart your destiny for better or for worse and your sole concern is monetary? Money has never made man happy, nor will it, there is nothing in its nature to produce happiness. The more of it one has the more one wants.”

“Dude, where’s my money?”

“Barry, there’s plenty of money in Texas.”

“Texas?”

“Yes, Barry. Tom Hicks, the owner of the Rangers, will give you a king’s ransom to play in Texas. He who falls in love with himself will have no rivals.”

“Sweet! Where do I sign?”

“Oh, right here. I brought a contract, notarized and everything. Six years, $96 million. Just as Mister Hicks offered you earlier this month.”

“Tubular! Got a pen?”

“Only a quill. May I avail myself of your inkwell?”

“Dude?”

“My goodness. It appears we can’t sign you up for the Texas Rangers just yet until we find a proper signature implement. At least that gives us a chance to chat a little longer.”

“Dude, I want my money!”

“Anything else?”

“Huh?”

“I asked you a question, Barry. A simple one. Is there anything besides money that would make you happy? Many a man thinks he is buying pleasure, when he is really selling himself to it.”

“Dude, I don’t understand. The agent said…”

“Barry, you need to forget about your agent for a moment.”

“I can do that?”

“Barry, all your agent wants is for you to sign the most lucrative contract you are offered. There’s more to life, more to even baseball than that. Even peace may be purchased at too high a price.”

“There is?”

“Barry, what do you like about baseball?”

“I dunno.”

“Think.”

“Well…I like to win.”

“Barry, do you think you’d win in Texas?”

“I dunno.”

“Put another way, Barry, you’ve been in the American League for several years now. Do you ever remember Texas winning anything? The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”

“Uh…no?”

“No is correct.”

“Yeah, but dude, I could help them win! I’m Barry Zito. I’m like really good.”

“Your abilities are not in question, Barry. But do you remember who else has tried to help the Texas Rangers win? If a man could have half of his wishes, he would double his troubles.”

“Uh…no?”

“Do you remember a gentleman by the name of Alex Rodriguez?”

“Who?”

“A-Rod.”

“A-Rod, yeah! That dude used to be good. Whatever happened to him?”

“That’s not important, Barry. What matters is that the same Tom Hicks who wants to throw money at you once threw money at A-Rod and it didn’t work. He throws money at everybody and it never works. Texas is a terrible place for baseball. It’s too hot and not enough people care. By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail.”

“Really dude?”

“I’m Benjamin Franklin, the inventor of the stove. Would I proffer anything but top-notch bromides?”

“Uh…no?”

“Barry, if it is your fondest desire to toil in the heat of Arlington in front of people whose interest in baseball wanes as Cowboy two-a-days approach and where the team is almost never seriously competitive, then you should sign with the Texas Rangers. Our necessities never equal our wants.”

“Dude, that sounds so not awesome.”

“Hmmm…”

“Dude, what should I do?”

“There is another option, Barry. Another way. Do not squander time for that is the stuff life is made of.”

“Tell me oh great spirit!”

“I didn’t say anything about being a spirit. I’m Benjamin Franklin!”

“Uh, sorry man. It’s December and all…”

“Barry, the New York Mets want you.”

“Yeah, I heard about them. They’re like coming here with that Omar guy.”

“Barry, you don’t need a visit from Omar Minaya.”

“And I’m supposed to get a call from like Tom Glavine or something.”

“Barry, you need not be courted like a belle choosing among suitors for a colonial cotillion. A man wrapped up in himself makes a very small bundle.”

“Dude?”

“Barry, you’re an adult. I hear good things about you, things that indicate you’re far more than the greedy, one-dimensional surfer/stoner stereotype some Mets fans have come to think of you as during this free agent season.”

“Dude!”

“The point is, Barry, you control your own destiny. The riches that you will collect are so far beyond the dreams of anyone that after a fashion, you will not be able to tell the difference between a six-year contract for $96 million or a more reasonable version from the Mets. If you desire many things, many things will seem few.”

“Dude, are the Mets gonna lowball me?”

“That is not a healthy outlook, Barry. Consider all you will reap by becoming a New York Met. Who is rich? He that rejoices in his portion.”

“Like?”

“Like playing on a contender. Your net worth to the world is usually determined by what remains after your bad habits are subtracted from your good ones.”

“Yeah, the Mets were in the playoffs last year, weren’t they?”

“They came very close to the World Series, Barry. He who waits upon fortune is never sure of dinner.”

“Closer than we did.”

“You’ll be supported by several young superstars who are signed well into the next decade.”

“Yeah, I remember those guys! Um, right?”

“Yes, David Wright is one of them. And you’ll be playing in New York.”

“Dude, I do not like that place. Their ballpark is a toilet and their fans bum me out.”

“No, Barry, do not let what you’ve seen create a confusion. You’re thinking of the other stadium in New York. This is the Mets.”

“Oh yeah. They have a nice place?”

“They will. And their fans will love you.”

“Dude, that would be so sweet, because in Oakland most of the time we have like no fans.

“That won’t be a problem in Queens. If you would be loved, love and be lovable.”

“Queens?”

“New York. The Mets.”

“Dude!”

“What’s more, Barry, New York is the virtual capital of the world. In fact, in my day, it was the capital of the newly formed United States!”

“Dude?”

“What I’m saying, Barry, is your opportunities as one whose interests extend across the arts…”

“Arts? You mean like Howe?”

“I mean music.”

“Oh. I’m into that, totally!”

“Everything is going on in New York, Barry. Outstanding National League baseball, outstanding entertainment industry, just…outstanding! The United States Constitution doesn’t guarantee happiness, only the pursuit of it. You have to catch up with it yourself.”

“But I gotta take less money?”

“Barry, are you worth $16 million a year? A good conscience is a continual Christmas.”

“Dude, I’m worth whatever they pay me.”

“Did it occur to you that Mister Hicks wanted to pay you so much to make you forget you’d be stuck in Texas?Experience is a dear teacher, but fools will learn at no other.”

“Dude, that makes so much sense!”

“If the Mets offer you a little less, it’s only in the name of fiscal sanity and because pitching for them will pay off in so many other ways. If you know how to spend less than you get, you have the philosopher’s stone. ”

“But I gotta…”

“Gotta what, Barry? Gotta play one team off against another? Gotta drive up the price? Gotta string this out well into the new year? Never confuse motion with action.”

“Don’t I?”

“You don’t have to do anything of the sort. You’re Barry Zito. You can make the right move right away. You don’t need romancing and massaging. You need a Mets uniform shirt, a spot in their winter caravan and a plane ticket to Port St. Lucie. It is a grand mistake to think of being great without goodness and I pronounce it as certain that there was never a truly great man that was not at the same time truly virtuous.”

“Who’s Lucy?”

“Spring training.”

“Dude, it’s December.”

“February is practically anon. One today is worth two tomorrows.”

“Dude, that is so true!”

“How about it, Barry? Are you ready to do the wise thing? Never leave that till tomorrow which you can do today.”

“Dude, I am so stoked!”

Benjamin Franklin fished into his pockets.

“It appears I have discovered my inkwell and another contract, one from the Mets. We can take care of business right now if you like. I assure you this is a more than fair proposition. Time is money.”

“Dude!”

Barry Zito grabbed the quill and dipped it in ink. He was about to sign when the doorbell rang again.

“Dude,” Barry Zito told Benjamin Franklin. “I gotta get that. It’s my agent. Don’t worry, though. Scott’s totally cool that I don’t just sign for the most money. I’ll just let him in and I’m like sure we can sign the Mets’ deal even if it’s for way less than Texas’s.”

“Sweet Jesus,” Benjamin Franklin said to himself as he stuffed the quill, the well and the Mets contract back into his pockets and prepared to return to the 18th century. “In this world, nothing can be said to be certain, except death and Scott Boras.”

The doorbell rang at Barry Zito's Southern California beach house. He padded over to let in the visitors he was expecting.

“Dude,” he said. “Are you Omar?”

It wasn't Omar.

“Mister Zito?”

“That's my name, bro. Don't wear it out.”

Barry Zito peeked out the door.

“Dude, where's Omar?”

“There's no Omar here, Barry.”

“Dude, you're wearing it out! And where is everybody?”

Barry Zito, the most coveted pitcher on the free agent market had been told by his agent, the ravenous and skilled Scott Boras, that he would be called on by the general manager of the New York Mets, Omar Minaya as well as their chief operating officer Jeff Wilpon, vice president Tony Bernazard and assistant GM John Ricco. All Barry remembered was “Omar,” because he considered it an unusual name.

“There's nobody else here, Barry. Just me. But I do represent others just like me.”

“Dude. You look weird.”

By contemporary standards, it is fair to say the visitor did stand out, for he was not dressed in the style of a man of the 21st, 20th or 19th century. One would have to return to the late 1700s to see his kind of garb and not think it unusual.

“Barry, I'm Benjamin Franklin.”

“Who?”

“Benjamin Franklin…one of the founding fathers of this country!”

“Don't know, man.”

“Inventor of the stove!”

“Uh…”

“Diplomat nonpareil!”

“Dude, I can't be smoking that. They got drug testing!”

“Barry, my face is on the hundred-dollar bill.”

With that, Barry Zito perked up.

“All right! A hundred-million-dollar bill! My agent came through. Gimme!”

“Barry, there is no hundred-million-dol…remove your hands from my person at once or I shall throttle you unmercifully with my cane!”

“Sorry dude. I thought you were my payday.”

Benjamin Franklin was dismayed.

“See here, Barry. You will have my likeness, as many as a million of them in short order. A penny saved is a penny earned.”

“Dude! I'm totally there!”

“But Barry, you need to act in your best interest.”

“The agent's doing that, man. I'm gonna get interest and everything. You sure you're not a hundred-million-dollar bill? I've been waiting since like October to get one.”

“No, Barry, I'm not. I'm something more valuable. If a man empties his purse into his head, no one can take it from him.”

“A zillion-dollar bill? 'Cause, dude, that would be awesome!”

“Barry, I'm here to help you grasp the wisdom you need to advance your career. He that is of the opinion money will do everything may well be suspected of doing everything for money.”

“Huh?”

“I'm here to help you get the best deal.”

“Cool! Hey, I don't have to pay you a commission, too, do I?”

“Barry, my advice is invaluable. An investment in knowledge pays the best interest.”

“Huh?”

“It's free.”

“Awesome! Where's my money?”

Benjamin Franklin hadn't felt so dismayed since the Continental Congress hesitated in declaring independency.

“Barry, this is about more than money. He does not possess wealth; it possesses him.”

“Man, you're sure not an agent. My agent says we're gonna get paid and I mean paid!”

“Is that what this is all about, Barry? You're a free agent. You have an opportunity few men will ever have to chart your destiny for better or for worse and your sole concern is monetary? Money has never made man happy, nor will it, there is nothing in its nature to produce happiness. The more of it one has the more one wants.”

“Dude, where's my money?”

“Barry, there's plenty of money in Texas.”

“Texas?”

“Yes, Barry. Tom Hicks, the owner of the Rangers, will give you a king's ransom to play in Texas. He who falls in love with himself will have no rivals.”

“Sweet! Where do I sign?”

“Oh, right here. I brought a contract, notarized and everything. Six years, $96 million. Just as Mister Hicks offered you earlier this month.”

“Tubular! Got a pen?”

“Only a quill. May I avail myself of your inkwell?”

“Dude?”

“My goodness. It appears we can't sign you up for the Texas Rangers just yet until we find a proper signature implement. At least that gives us a chance to chat a little longer.”

“Dude, I want my money!”

“Anything else?”

“Huh?”

“I asked you a question, Barry. A simple one. Is there anything besides money that would make you happy? Many a man thinks he is buying pleasure, when he is really selling himself to it.”

“Dude, I don't understand. The agent said…”

“Barry, you need to forget about your agent for a moment.”

“I can do that?”

“Barry, all your agent wants is for you to sign the most lucrative contract you are offered. There's more to life, more to even baseball than that. Even peace may be purchased at too high a price.”

“There is?”

“Barry, what do you like about baseball?”

“I dunno.”

“Think.”

“Well…I like to win.”

“Barry, do you think you'd win in Texas?”

“I dunno.”

“Put another way, Barry, you've been in the American League for several years now. Do you ever remember Texas winning anything? The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”

“Uh…no?”

“No is correct.”

“Yeah, but dude, I could help them win! I'm Barry Zito. I'm like really good.”

“Your abilities are not in question, Barry. But do you remember who else has tried to help the Texas Rangers win? If a man could have half of his wishes, he would double his troubles.”

“Uh…no?”

“Do you remember a gentleman by the name of Alex Rodriguez?”

“Who?”

“A-Rod.”

“A-Rod, yeah! That dude used to be good. Whatever happened to him?”

“That's not important, Barry. What matters is that the same Tom Hicks who wants to throw money at you once threw money at A-Rod and it didn't work. He throws money at everybody and it never works. Texas is a terrible place for baseball. It's too hot and not enough people care. By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail.”

“Really dude?”

“I'm Benjamin Franklin, the inventor of the stove. Would I proffer anything but top-notch bromides?”

“Uh…no?”

“Barry, if it is your fondest desire to toil in the heat of Arlington in front of people whose interest in baseball wanes as Cowboy two-a-days approach and where the team is almost never seriously competitive, then you should sign with the Texas Rangers. Our necessities never equal our wants.”

“Dude, that sounds so not awesome.”

“Hmmm…”

“Dude, what should I do?”

“There is another option, Barry. Another way. Do not squander time for that is the stuff life is made of.”

“Tell me oh great spirit!”

“I didn't say anything about being a spirit. I'm Benjamin Franklin!”

“Uh, sorry man. It's December and all…”

“Barry, the New York Mets want you.”

“Yeah, I heard about them. They're like coming here with that Omar guy.”

“Barry, you don't need a visit from Omar Minaya.”

“And I'm supposed to get a call from like Tom Glavine or something.”

“Barry, you need not be courted like a belle choosing among suitors for a colonial cotillion. A man wrapped up in himself makes a very small bundle.”

“Dude?”

“Barry, you're an adult. I hear good things about you, things that indicate you're far more than the greedy, one-dimensional surfer/stoner stereotype some Mets fans have come to think of you as during this free agent season.”

“Dude!”

“The point is, Barry, you control your own destiny. The riches that you will collect are so far beyond the dreams of anyone that after a fashion, you will not be able to tell the difference between a six-year contract for $96 million or a more reasonable version from the Mets. If you desire many things, many things will seem few.”

“Dude, are the Mets gonna lowball me?”

“That is not a healthy outlook, Barry. Consider all you will reap by becoming a New York Met. Who is rich? He that rejoices in his portion.”

“Like?”

“Like playing on a contender. Your net worth to the world is usually determined by what remains after your bad habits are subtracted from your good ones.”

“Yeah, the Mets were in the playoffs last year, weren't they?”

“They came very close to the World Series, Barry. He who waits upon fortune is never sure of dinner.”

“Closer than we did.”

“You'll be supported by several young superstars who are signed well into the next decade.”

“Yeah, I remember those guys! Um, right?”

“Yes, David Wright is one of them. And you'll be playing in New York.”

“Dude, I do not like that place. Their ballpark is a toilet and their fans bum me out.”

“No, Barry, do not let what you've seen create a confusion. You're thinking of the other stadium in New York. This is the Mets.”

“Oh yeah. They have a nice place?”

“They will. And their fans will love you.”

“Dude, that would be so sweet, because in Oakland most of the time we have like no fans.

“That won't be a problem in Queens. If you would be loved, love and be lovable.”

“Queens?”

“New York. The Mets.”

“Dude!”

“What's more, Barry, New York is the virtual capital of the world. In fact, in my day, it was the capital of the newly formed United States!”

“Dude?”

“What I'm saying, Barry, is your opportunities as one whose interests extend across the arts…”

“Arts? You mean like Howe?”

“I mean music.”

“Oh. I'm into that, totally!”

“Everything is going on in New York, Barry. Outstanding National League baseball, outstanding entertainment industry, just…outstanding! The United States Constitution doesn't guarantee happiness, only the pursuit of it. You have to catch up with it yourself.”

“But I gotta take less money?”

“Barry, are you worth $16 million a year? A good conscience is a continual Christmas.”

“Dude, I'm worth whatever they pay me.”

“Did it occur to you that Mister Hicks wanted to pay you so much to make you forget you'd be stuck in Texas? Experience is a dear teacher, but fools will learn at no other.”

“Dude, that makes so much sense!”

“If the Mets offer you a little less, it's only in the name of fiscal sanity and because pitching for them will pay off in so many other ways. If you know how to spend less than you get, you have the philosopher's stone. ”

“But I gotta…”

“Gotta what, Barry? Gotta play one team off against another? Gotta drive up the price? Gotta string this out well into the new year? Never confuse motion with action.”

“Don't I?”

“You don't have to do anything of the sort. You're Barry Zito. You can make the right move right away. You don't need romancing and massaging. You need a Mets uniform shirt, a spot in their winter caravan and a plane ticket to Port St. Lucie. It is a grand mistake to think of being great without goodness and I pronounce it as certain that there was never a truly great man that was not at the same time truly virtuous.”

“Who's Lucy?”

“Spring training.”

“Dude, it's December.”

“February is practically anon. One today is worth two tomorrows.”

“Dude, that is so true!”

“How about it, Barry? Are you ready to do the wise thing? Never leave that till tomorrow which you can do today.”

“Dude, I am so stoked!”

Benjamin Franklin fished into his pockets.

“It appears I have discovered my inkwell and another contract, one from the Mets. We can take care of business right now if you like. I assure you this is a more than fair proposition. Time is money.”

“Dude!”

Barry Zito grabbed the quill and dipped it in ink. He was about to sign when the doorbell rang again.

“Dude,” Barry Zito told Benjamin Franklin. “I gotta get that. It's my agent. Don't worry, though. Scott's totally cool that I don't just sign for the most money. I'll just let him in and I'm like sure we can sign the Mets' deal even if it's for way less than Texas's.”

“Sweet Jesus,” Benjamin Franklin said to himself as he stuffed the quill, the well and the Mets contract back into his pockets and prepared to return to the 18th century. “In this world, nothing can be said to be certain, except death and Scott Boras.”

Truly veteran readers of this blog may recall last year's incarnation of this post, and so know that THB stands for “The Holy Books.” In which case your geek-proximity alarms just went off and you're backing slowly away.
Everybody else, here's a quick refresher: I have a pair of binders, dubbed The Holy Books by Greg, that contain a baseball card for every Met on the all-time roster. They're ordered by year, with a card for each player who made his Met debut that year: Tom Seaver is Class of '67, Mike Piazza is Class of '98, Jose Reyes is Class of '03, etc. There are extra pages for the rosters of the two World Series winners, including managers, and for the 1961 Expansion Draft, with the latter including the only man to appear in THB who neither played for nor managed the Mets. (Answer at the bottom.)
When a player has a Topps card as a Met, I use that unless it's truly horrible — Topps has been around a decade longer than the Mets, so they get to be the card of record. No Met Topps card? Then I look for a Tides card, a non-Topps Met card (Upper Deck gets too excited about rookies, which is good for THB), a Topps non-Met card, or anything.
Topps had a baseball-card monopoly until 1981, and minor-league cards only really began in the mid-1970s, so cup-of-coffee guys from before '75 or so are a problem. Companies like TCMA and Renata Galasso made odd sets with players from the 1960s — come on down, Jim Bethke, Bob Moorhead and Dave Eilers! A card dealer named Larry Fritsch put out sets of “One Year Winners” spotlighting players with mayfly careers: Welcome to the books, Ray Daviault, Ted Schreiber and Dennis Musgraves!
But even those efforts don't cover everybody. Brian Ostrosser got a 1975 minor-league card as an Oklahoma City 89er that looks like the intern made it with a photocopier. Leon Brown got one of those (1975 Phoenix Giants) and an Omaha Royals card issued by the police department (yes really) that was equally bad and printed in a nonstandard size to boot. But they're lucky compared with seven Mets — Al Schmelz, Francisco Estrada, Lute Barnes, Tommy Moore, Bob Rauch, Greg Harts and Rich Puig — who have no cards whatsoever. (Greg thinks Tommy Moore's 1990 Senior League card with the Bradenton Explorers should count, and maybe it should.) In fact Al Schmelz — whose name is apparently German shorthand for “aluminum smelter” — never even had a decent color photograph taken while wearing his Met uniform. Believe me, I've looked — I even wrote to him to ask. (He ignored me. I'd have ignored me too.) Those seven plus Ostrosser and Brown are the legendary Lost Nine. Who aren't really lost, but whose existence in THB depends on scrounged photos and my touch-and-go Photoshop skills.
Today's Schmelzes and Puigs don't fall through the gaps: Between the various big-league sets and innumerable minor-league team sets, most any player who signs a pro contract has a card somewhere. As THB keeper, during the season I scrutinize new card sets in hopes of finding a) better cards of established Mets; b) cards to stockpile for prospects who might make the Show; and most importantly c) a card for each new big-league Met. At season's end, the new guys get added to the binders, to be studied now and then until February. When it's time to pull old Topps cards of the spring-training invitees and start the cycle again.
For anyone who didn't have the crap scared out of them by that admission, here's the Class of 2006, THB-style, in order of matriculation….
Paul Lo Duca — Today Lo Duca is beloved by us for his grit, smarts, blunt interviews and general pissiness. A year ago, he was the guy looking possessed at the Christmas party/Anna Benson Farewell whom few of us thought had the skills to be a No. 2 hitter. But he did have a 2006 Met card. For decades Topps has used graphics trickery to put guys in new uniforms, but the trickery didn't used to be so tricky. In the 1960s traded players were recognizable because their cards were head shots without caps, and in the 1970s they were notable because they looked like people sticking their heads through backdrops at state fairs — if those backdrops had been painted by prisoners with only a nodding acquaintance with baseball-team logos and their proper place on caps. Today things are better: Lo Duca's Topps '06 card shows him in Marlins road gear, mask on, standing and ready to throw. Tweak colors in Photoshop and stick the slightest hint of a K under the chest protector and he looks like a Met all right. Unfortunately, this passable Lo Duca card meant he didn't get a new one in the Updates set. With any luck, next year he'll no longer be an anonymous catcher in a Marlin uniform.
Carlos Delgado — More Topps Photoshop trickery gave Delgado a fairly convincing Met card last winter, the illusion betrayed only by the impossibility of a photo existing of Delgado batting in our pinstripes, particularly with a background of Marlins in their home unis. Incidentally, when a new Met hits the roster, I also pull all their Topps cards and stash them in a box. (Why yes, there is more geekiness.) I've got every regular-issue Topps card since '91, so this is normally no big deal. But there are prospect cards that can have two, three or even four players — and over time it's inevitable that multiple prospects from a single card become Mets, forcing me to go buy another copy of that card. I mention this because Carlos Delgado shares his 1993 TOP PROSPECTS: CATCHERS rookie card with Mike Piazza, momentary Met Brook Fordyce and a '92 Yankee draft pick named Donnie Leshnock. Having acquired this card for a third time in '06, I'd like to ask Omar Minaya to just go ahead, sign Donnie Leshnock and let him catch an inning.
Xavier Nady — Alas, poor X. He was never quite as good as we thought he could be, but his exile to Pittsburgh seemed cruel when the rest of the Met pen stepped up and made adding another reliever (at the time an utterly defensible move) look unnecessary. X got a nice card from Upper Deck showing him slapping hands after a victory. He didn't get to do that much as a Pirate.
Jose Valentin — Think Move X by General Manager Y is ridiculous? Before you call sports radio, think of Stache's 2006 campaign. Nobody on God's green earth liked bringing Valentin aboard in February, March or April. If any of us had been GM for a day then, we'd have pink-slipped Stache before you could say “Gerald Williams.” So this winter Omar of course went for double or nothing. Back when I was still calling him John, Jose got a Topps rarity for '06: a Met wrapper around a photo of him in Dodgers garb. Yecch. I went with an Upper Deck card showing him in the proper uniform — unfortunately, it's a horizontal card. Yecch. To be put right in '07, one hopes.
Julio Franco — Having every Topps card back to '91 means even adding veterans to the Box o' Mets is no big deal. Except Julio Franco's first Topps card came in 1984, when I was 15 years old and just three years removed from collecting cards as an actual child. Julio's '06 Topps Series 2 card shows him in those strikingly awful St. Lucie black/blue/orange togs — a common fate for players in their first year with new teams. He looks competent and old. In other words, he looks like Julio Franco.
Billy Wagner — Wags also came with a well-faked '06 Topps Met card, in full Mets pinstripes hurling a pitch. Show-offy of Topps.
Brian Bannister — In the minor leagues he looked like a gutty control artist. In the majors he issued an ungodly number of walks but somehow Houdini'ed his way out of mess after mess, only to be felled by his own baserunning. It would have been interesting to see what 2007 would have revealed: Rick Reed or Rick Baldwin. Now it's up to the Royals to find out. Bannister goes into the THB (probably for keeps) with a decent, no-frills portrait from Topps' '06 Rookie Debut insert set.
Duaner Sanchez — Middle relievers are the bane of THB. Nobody says a LOOGY or a seventh-inning specialist is their favorite player, so they stay stuck in card limbo with backup catchers and pinch hitters. Duaner's flamboyant ways and great numbers earned him a card in Topps' second series, which made me happy — until the card appeared and it was a shot of Sanchez without his goggles. Or at least I assume that's who it was, because I couldn't pick a goggleless Duaner Sanchez out of a police lineup. Upper Deck came to the rescue with a goggles-and-all card.
Jorge Julio — Looked so much like Armando Benitez that he got booed when introduced on Opening Day, never having thrown a regular-season pitch as a Met. Those of you who loathe Met fans' predilection for abuse, that will serve as a trump card for at least three or four years. Went into THB with an Upper Deck card in a Met uniform.
Chad Bradford — Sad he's gone, but the Orioles are insane to give any setup guy a three-year deal. Upper Deck's card captures his submarine, knuckle-scraping delivery perfectly. Just looking at the position Bradford's in will give you back pain.
Endy Chavez — Got a Met card in Topps Updates. And a highlights card of that play where he…well, you know. Really, The Catch should just be his baseball card for the rest of his career.
Darren Oliver — Another exhibit in the Trust Omar Hall of Fame. Good, solid Upper Deck card in a Met uni.
John Maine — For a while it looked like he'd get stuck with half of an old Orioles prospect card. But then he survived a finger injury, his own anonymity, Met indifference and gopher balls to push his way into the rotation and record the last Met W of 2006. Topps honored him with a card in the Updates set, showing him pitching in spring-training garb. Which I guess proves he really did pitch in spring training.
Jose Lima — A Tides card. What is this doing here? Jose Lima never pitched for the Mets. What's that? No, he didn't. No, I won't look it up. He didn't. I'm not listening to you.
Jeremi Gonzalez — 2004 Topps card in the uniform of the Tampa Bay Devil Rays. There's a joke in there somewhere. Unfortunately, it was on us.
Alay Soler — Sent collectors into paroxysms when Topps slipped a last-minute card of him into Series 2 with the odd number RC1, no place on the checklist, and mysterious rumors that less than 1,000 had been printed. I got in early and paid only a moderately absurd amount of money for mine. THB uses an Upper Deck card in which he's wearing spring-training colors and looks like he doesn't want to throw this next pitch. Sad to say, that's probably the right card for him.
Orlando Hernandez — Jorge Julio got a Topps Updates card as a Diamondback, but El Duque didn't get one as a Met. Bizarre. For now he's a 2006 Topps Diamondback. In some parallel universe's Faith and Fear in Flushing, I'm explaining how I broke my own rule and used his 2006 World Series Game 1 Highlights card as his regular card, because when a guy comes back after a leg injury like that, shuts out the Tigers and sets the tone for our third title, you have to honor it.
(I'm going to go off and stare at the wall for a while.)
Lastings Milledge — Got a whole string of cards from Topps, which loves hometown rookies. I chose his oddball Mets team-set card, which shows him digging for third with ambitions about the plate. As opposed to, say, a card of him falling down at Fenway or looking at the latest sign some veteran has hung in his locker. Patience, folks. He's still a baby and very talented. I will now flip back to my THB card for Alex Escobar and scream “NO JINX! NO JINX!” (By the way, Alex Escobar looks like the next Albert Pujols on his 2001 Topps Mets card. NO JINX!)
Eli Marrero — 2005 Topps, Kansas City Royals. Hey, they had to make some Royals.
Henry Owens — Former catcher, late bloomer, studying to be a doctor, Lo Duca carried his bags in during spring training. Divine numbers in AA. Rather back-to-earth numbers in the Show. The Marlins agreed he was an interesting story. Bowman 2006 card, looks like a spring-training shot.
Mike Pelfrey — 2006 Bowman Draft Picks card, shows him at an actual start at Shea, looking determined and very tall. Calls him Michael Pelfrey. In a few years this could look oddly formal and force me to recall that Mike Pelfrey was just a raw kid then, not a household name. Or I might find it bitterly amusing that I ever thought anyone would care what first name appeared on one of the few Mike Pelfrey baseball cards.
Ricky Ledee — 2005 Topps, a Dodger card. I don't like other teams' uniforms in THB, but sometimes I wind up hoping things don't change: Because for there to be a 2007 Met card of Ricky Ledee, Ricky Ledee would have to be a 2007 Met. See also: Offerman, Jose.
Michael Tucker — Tides card. The box seats behind Tucker are nearly empty. No wait, there's a man applauding wildly. He's wearing an I LOVE MICHAEL t-shirt and a Braves cap. Hey, it's Angel Hernandez! Christ do I hate Michael Tucker.
Dave Williams — Tides card, possibly to be rectified in 2007.
Guillermo Mota — A Met card from Topps Updates, rather improbably. From the grip, looks like he's throwing a change-up. Obviously this is not the fucking pitch he fucking threw to Scott Fucking Spiezio.
Shawn Green — A legit Met card from Topps Updates. Man does his swing look long. Trust Omar. Trust Omar. Trust Omar. Trust Omar….
Oliver Perez — No matter what he does, I'll have a soft spot in my heart for him for being about as good as any Met fan could possibly hope in Game 7. 2006 Topps Updates card.
Philip Humber — A surprise as the final Met of 2006 (and the 799th all-time) and a surprise as a baseball card. Turns out he was featured on some random insert card stuck into a 2005 Topps factory set, photo taken before the injury that made us wonder if we'd ever see him again. Here's hoping we do, in cardboard and as part of the starting rotation.
* Oh yeah, the answer. Lee Walls was drafted by the Mets on October 10, 1961 and traded (with $100,000) to the Dodgers on Dec. 15 for Charlie Neal and a player to be named later, who turned out to be Willard Hunter. You could look it up.