Now, you listen to me! I want trading reopened right now. Get those brokers back in here! Turn those machines back on! TURN THOSE MACHINES BACK ON!
—Mortimer Duke
The first time I woke up today (my attempt to hibernate the entire winter away proving as futile as any nine Met batters against Jeff Suppan), I found myself thinking about 2000. No, not the World Series — the election. There was going to be a recount right? I mean, seriously, all those people in Palm Beach County didn't intend to vote for Adam Wainwright.
Just one more swing…that's all I want.
Two bits of housekeeping:
1) Congratulations Cardinals. Congratulations Tigers, too. I am reminded again how hard it is to get where both of you have gotten no matter how much you do to get there.
2) This was our 205th consecutive day of blogging. It was our pleasure, believe us, but even unshakable Faith requires a bit of a break. FAFIF takes a holiday this weekend but returns Monday and on a recurring if not necessarily daily basis through the long, dark, cold, gaping maw of an offseason.
Seriously, they can't get everybody back on the field? It's just one swing.

Now, you listen to me! I want trading reopened right now. Get those brokers back in here! Turn those machines back on! TURN THOSE MACHINES BACK ON!

—Mortimer Duke

The first time I woke up today (my attempt to hibernate the entire winter away proving as futile as any nine Met batters against Jeff Suppan), I found myself thinking about 2000. No, not the World Series — the election. There was going to be a recount right? I mean, seriously, all those people in Palm Beach County didn't intend to vote for Adam Wainwright.

Just one more swing…that's all I want.

Two bits of housekeeping:

1) Congratulations Cardinals. Congratulations Tigers, too. I am reminded again how hard it is to get where both of you have gotten no matter how much you do to get there.

2) This was our 205th consecutive day of blogging. It was our pleasure, believe us, but even unshakable Faith requires a bit of a break. FAFIF takes a holiday this weekend but returns Monday and on a recurring if not necessarily daily basis through the long, dark, cold, gaping maw of an offseason.

Seriously, they can't get everybody back on the field? It's just one swing.

Welcome to Flashback Friday, a weekly feature devoted to the 20th anniversary of the 2006 National League Eastern Division Champion New York Mets.
Twenty years. Countless Fridays. This is one of them.
As I recall my beloved 2006 Mets here one more time from the vantage point of two decades on — just as I've been doing at the end of every week throughout this 2026 season — I thought it appropriate to draw a parallel and dig up something I did with regularity way back when.
With all my excitement over this being the 20th anniversary of 2006, you might be interested to know that another 20th anniversary provided an undercurrent to '06. That year we made a big deal about it being 20 years since 1986.
I did, anyway.
Well, it wasn't just me. The Mets honored the 1986 team in 2006. Brought back the players and coaches (most of 'em…one was in jail and a couple held grudges) and gave them a long overdue reunion, what used to be known as Old Timers Day, except it took place at night and nobody called them old timers. It's a phrase that's gone out of circulation which I suppose I'm grateful for, having looked in the mirror recently and discovering I'm 63. But hey, 63 is the new 43.
That would make me 43 back in '06. Funny, I didn't even feel that old then. I think it was baseball keeping me young all those years, especially in my late 30s and early 40s. That and blogging.
There was a time when if you wanted to write about something, even baseball, you had to find a job with a newspaper (it was like a printout of a whole bunch of Web sites if you've never seen one) or maybe submit an article to a magazine editor. It put me in a funny position. I liked to write about baseball, except I didn't have an audience. I had other jobs when I was entering my “middle age” years (seriously, we used to think of 40 as some kind of maturity milestone) and I wasn't a “sportswriter”. But I loved the Mets and I loved typing my thoughts on a computer. For a while, I'd e-mail friends of mine and that was sufficient. Then blogging came along and me and Jason gave it a shot and the rest is history. We were only available in English when we started in 2005 and some of the screens that were used to read us were actually more than a couple of inches wide, but it wasn't all that different.
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, 1986 and 2006 and the Mets. When Faith and Fear in Flushing was in its infancy, we were coming upon the 20th anniversary of '86 and I thought it would be splendid to commemorate that year, which up to then had been the most recent world championship in Mets history, by writing something about it every Friday all that year. It was dumb luck that the 2006 Mets themselves were on track to replicate the '86ers' achievement. Every week I'd have to take a moment from writing about the fortunes of the current team and indulge my nostalgic impulse — the same way I've been doing the 20th anniversary of 2006 this year.
Now that I'm wrapping up the '06 retrospective, I thought I'd give you an idea of how each season ended. They had some things in common yet they sure were different.
Forty years ago, in 1986, the Mets played a seventh game of a World Series. You might not have heard much about it considering all that's happened to the franchise in the last couple of decades. Shoot, you probably don't think the Mets winning one World Series is that monumental an achievement. Believe it or not, it was. And the seventh game, while not as famous as the legendary Mookie play in the sixth game, was quite exciting.
Even by 2006, some of the details had faded for me, but the highlights remained fresh and still do to this day. Though it would be said the Red Sox (the Mets' opponents) didn't have a chance, so demoralized were they when Wilson poked that grounder through the Boston first baseman's legs (his name escapes me; senior moment, I guess), I remember they jumped in front three-nothing off Ron Darling. Yes, the same Ron Darling you've seen on TV! (He wasn't a much better big-game pitcher than he is announcer, but that's just my opinion.) I wasn't thrilled, but because the 1986 Mets were so good, I didn't think it was over.
It wasn't. Sid Fernandez, a starting pitcher, came into relieve (this was before starters were generally limited to three innings like they are today) and shut down the Red Sox. Eventually the Mets got some runners on base and Keith Hernandez — yes, the insane talk show host — was up and I knew somehow he'd get a big hit and he did. He made it 3-2 and about a minute later it was tied and then Ray Knight, the third baseman, hit a home run to give them the lead. It gets a little foggy from there. I remember Darryl Strawberry walloping a homer and the relief pitcher Jesse Orosco singling a run home and before you knew it, he was throwing a third strike past some Red Sock and the Mets were champs.
That was a great seventh game and everything that immediately followed was great. I don't know why, but it's the little things that have stayed with me, how a few days after they won I stopped into this store at Rockefeller Center and bought a World Champions pennant, how I turned on a basketball game and saw Strawberry and another player (McDowell, a pitcher) toss up a ceremonial jump ball, how RC Cola issued soda cans with blue and orange stripes on them, same as the Mets uniforms had.
It was great being a Mets fan at the end of 1986 and we thought it would be great for years to come. But 1987 wasn't so good and 1988 was kind of disappointing and within a few years the Mets were playing like they did a few years before 1986. Funny how that works with them, or at least how it used to.
Well, you don't want to listen me prattle on about 1986, I'm sure. I think I exhausted the patience of our readers with that in 2006. And that's the year I'm supposed to be looking back on today.
Like I said, there was a seventh game in 2006. Alas, it wasn't the same as in 1986, certainly not in terms of who won. It wasn't the Mets. Seemed so strange to realize it then. Even 20 years later, it's strange.
You know what I've been saying every Friday throughout 2026. I've been telling you what a special year that was. I hope you believe me. I mean when you look at all the World Champions banners at Shea…I'm sorry, I keep calling it that because I just can't keep up on the “new” ballpark's corporate name…when you look at all the World Champions banners at Whatchamacallit Field, all the ones we won over the past two decades, you must be wondering why I raise such a fuss over 2006.
Well, for the last time, I'll say it again:
That was a wonderful team. And it was a wonderful time.
Oh I hear you thinking, “there he goes again, rambling on like the latter-middle-aged 63-year-old coot that he is,” but I swear it's true. By all rights there should be a World Champions banner at Whozits Park for '06.
Hmm. That makes it sound like somebody stole it from the Mets or something and that's probably not fair. That year ended when the Mets lost to the St. Louis Cardinals in that seventh game I mentioned, in the National League Championship Series. Cardinals earned it, but it was a tough beat. In many ways it was one of the most scintillating games in the 65-year history of the franchise. Oliver Perez threw a gem. You may be wondering what's the big deal in that, Oliver Perez threw a slew of gems for the Mets during his career. Yeah, I know, but when he came to the Mets he was actually considered “erratic”. You couldn't read or hear about him without somebody using that pejorative.
So you might be asking whether I'm making any sense at all. If Ollie wasn't any good yet and the Mets were so great, why was he pitching? Even nowadays, with the ERA leader routinely just under 5, you don't use your worst pitchers in your biggest games, and you're saying this was a seventh game? Have you lost your mind, relatively old man?
Wait. Let me explain. The Mets really were good. And they even had really good pitchers. They had Pedro Martinez. I know he went into the Hall of Fame with a Red Sox cap but he was a Met. Same for Tom Glavine. He's in Cooperstown as a Brave (they used to be a big team) but he was also a Met. There was another fellow, a Cuban pitcher they called El Duque. Not a Hall of Famer but a real clutch performer.
But get this: Martinez got hurt and Duque got hurt and the Mets were down to Glavine, who was already kind of old for baseball, and just about anybody else they could find. Oliver Perez wasn't considered the hot stuff he'd turn into and John Maine was almost as unknown. But Maine won the sixth game (I was there in old Shea) and Perez started the seventh and gave up only a run to the Cardinals over six innings. Nobody thought he'd last more than two.
Only problem for Perez was the Cardinal pitcher, Jeff Suppan, lasted longer and pitched a little better. The Mets had a great offense that year but for whatever reason, they stopped hitting in that seventh game. It was 1-1 all night. We waited and waited for them to put up some runs. We thought we had a marvelous chance in the bottom of the sixth because in the top of the sixth the Endy Catch took place.
We knew instantly that people would still be referring to it for years and here we are, 20 years later, and I don't even have to elaborate. I say “Endy Catch” and you can still see it (I mean in your mind as well as on those ads for the Chavez Defensive Instructional Download). Anyway, we thought we had some momentum. The Mets had a long history of sensational postseason moments and the Endy Catch was surely one of those. We usually won when those happened.
This time we didn't. The Cards flat outplayed us. Their catcher, whom my wife said was a little too pretty for his own good, hit an unlikely homer in the top of the ninth and they led by two runs going to the bottom of the ninth. We mounted a rally, even loaded the bases, but for one of the only times in his whole Met life, Carlos Beltran didn't come through. With all the info on his Hall plaque, it's no wonder his rare failure doesn't get mentioned much.
I still remember the night that seventh game happened. It was hard to fathom that we weren't going to the World Series to play the Detroit Tigers. We had only been to one World Series since 1986 and we lost it to the American League team they used to have in New York. It seemed only right and fitting that our Mets get there and win the darn thing in 2006.
Gosh that was a good team. Wright and Reyes were just kids then. Heck, they were no older than I was in 1986, except they were playing ball and getting paid pretty well for it. In '06, I found myself wearing shirts with their names on the backs even though I was a young man of 43 then. Seemed a little incongruous, but with all the children who've grown up in the New York area named David and Jose, it seems perfectly normal now.
You have to understand that those Mets had such fun playing. We didn't see that much in professional athletes, especially from the Mets before 2006. But oh that team. Reyes was always smiling. Everybody sang a song for him. Adopted it from a soccer chant or something. Wright was on the cover of every magazine, very happy to do it. Neither one of them came up huge in that seventh game but it didn't detract from the gleam about them and it sure didn't stop from getting better when 2007 and 2008 and the 2010s came along.
But it wasn't just them 20 years ago. There was Beltran, so quietly excellent at bat and in the field. He had a friend, Delgado — same first name — who had a bit of a reputation for surliness when he came over but emerged as this great clubhouse leader, a real wise man. And it wasn't just stars. There was a catcher who redefined gritty. Italian guy…no, not Piazza. I'll think of it (senior moment again)…Lo Duca! That was it. Boy was he a hothead sometimes! But he gave it everything he had. I still have this image of him leaving the seventh game in the ninth inning after walking to fill the bases for Beltran. Willie Randolph (when he was still managing and before he became commissioner) removed him for a pinch-runner because Lo Duca was the potential tying run and he didn't have much speed. He looked so disgusted with himself for not doing more, maybe for not being born faster.
You know who else was on that team? The second baseman, Valentin. Nobody expected anything of him and he produced all year. And Green, the rightfielder who they got because of a bunch of injuries and he had a few big hits that year and the next. Cliff Floyd was practically on his last legs, but to see him come up in that ninth inning and think that he might hit the kind of monster home run he had when he was healthy and in the lineup…well, he tried anyway.
Oh and that bullpen! Not so much that night in that seventh game, but they were constantly bailing out the starters. Heilman was just developing. He shook off that homer to the catcher who was too pretty for his own good and became a star. Wagner, too. He made us nervous but boy could he throw. He had a whole routine when he came in. They played a very loud song for him. The Mets had a whole bunch of songs. It was really very exciting.
I know, I know. I've told you this before all year. I've told you how we figured the Mets were going to be better than they were in 2005 but that they really surprised us with a big start, how they buried Atlanta and Philadelphia, how they won a bunch of those “walkoff” games in May, how they went on the road in June and won like they never won before, how they plugged in players here and there and they all seemed to work.
I know I've mentioned how gratifying it was to be at old Shea the night they clinched their division title against the Marlins (before they were contracted, obviously) and how thrilling it was for me to attend both games of the series against the Dodgers that put the Mets in the NLCS and the first three home games against St. Louis. It was so loud, so raucous. On the night of the sixth game, with Maine pitching, I sat in the upper deck with Jason and the place literally shook. Literally! I told him it had been nice knowing him. He reassured me we'd live because we'd no doubt fall on the levels below us. Jason really hated how decrepit Shea Stadium was, but I sure do miss that place now and then.
Anyway, I've spent a year of Fridays telling you how successful those 2006 Mets were and I've given you an idea of how much we liked those players, each and every one of 'em. So maybe after 20 years I tend to repeat myself. And maybe after 40 years I still idealize 1986 since it sat so alone, it and 1969 (57 years ago; don't get me started) for so long, right up through 2006.
But here's a key difference. As great as 1986 was — and I'd put it up against any of the championships the Mets have won since just missing in 2006 — I shared it with a relative few. Ironically, everybody was a Mets fan but I didn't know that many people. I loved watching those playoffs and that World Series with my folks and talking about it with my friends from high school and college and a couple of people I worked with, but in the end it felt like it was just me.
That wasn't the case in 2006. It hadn't been the case for the decade before then, really. The e-mailing I mentioned brought a lot of people, Met people, into my world. In the late 1990s, just as Bobby Valentine (when he was still managing and before he became prime minister of Japan) was bringing the Mets back to temporary prominence, it became my habit and custom to write to people I didn't even know. A lot of them became my friends. And then, as I recollected earlier, Jason and I started the blog. We found a few readers our first year, 2005, but then kind of exploded in 2006. It had a little something to do with the Mets being as good as they were (oh like maybe 99.99%), but whatever the reason, a stunning number of Mets fans flocked to Faith and Fear in Flushing as the season wore on.
Unlike in 1986, it wasn't just me talking to myself. In 2006, my favorite thing was turning on my computer and writing about the games and the players and reading what our readers said. We would do that all season (205 days in a row; I kept count). As the Mets showed us they were for real, we just got more and more into it. It reached a point that by October, when the Mets were playing the Dodgers and then the Cardinals, it was second nature for everybody who was part of our blog family. Twenty years on, I may be a little hazy on whether it was Bradford or Feliciano who relieved Perez, but I won't forget how during those series it was so imperative that I jump on my ancient (even for the early 21st century) iMac and rally the troops or fire up the base. They in turn got me going. It was like I was watching every Mets game with dozens or hundreds or thousands of friends even if I was just on the couch with my wife and our cats.
More than the 97 wins, more than the division title, more than any moment in the postseason, more even than the pride I took in being a Mets fan even as my team came up a bit short, I think that was my favorite thing about 2006. Knowing those Mets fans were out there ready to read us and write to us again and again made me feel warm all over in the face of that disappointing seventh-game defeat…and I knew I'd never forget feeling that way.
I don't think I ever will.

Well, damn.
Congratulations to the Cardinals and their fans. It wasn't a classic series by any means, but it was an object lesson that you never, ever quit fighting. They showed that. So did we.
If you'd been told we'd get that pitching performance from Oliver Perez, you'd have taken it. That we'd give up three runs? You'd have taken it. That we'd hold Pujols at bay all night? Ditto. And if we'd been told it would come down to bases loaded, a dunker away from tying it and a gapper away from the World Series and Carlos Beltran at the plate, you'd have taken that too. (And if I ever meet Endy Chavez, I'm buying him a beer for a catch that will always have me leaning closer to the TV in disbelief.)
Look, you're going to replay that drive of Spiezio's just missing Shawn Green's glove in your head for a long time. You're going to be puttering through some winter duty and realize that for several minutes you've been muttering to yourself, Called strike three. Called strike three. Goddamn it. It's going to happen, just like I can close my eyes and see Orel Hershiser raising his arms (in a Dodger uniform) or Kenny Rogers missing the plate or Piazza's drive not going far enough. Be ready for it.
But give it a little time and you'll remember other things, too. Carlos Beltran connecting on a better night against the Cardinals and leaping into a waiting sea of teammates. David Wright willing his ball over Johnny Damon's head. Endy Chavez about to take flight in celebration. Paul Lo Duca finding not one Dodger within his reach, but two. Pedro Martinez coolly eyeing Jose Guillen like a gunfighter in a frontier town. Jose Reyes heading for first with him and you knowing his final destination is third, and he'll be there in a few seconds. You'll remember these things too. In fact, close your eyes. You can see them, can't you? In the darkest days of winter, when all the baseball news you have to chew on is some agate-type invitations to spring camp — for the Royals — you'll smile to think of them.
And come this weekend? Take Tommy Lasorda's advice. Get out of the tree. Turn on the set. There's baseball left to be played, and don't be kept from it by the fact that it (heartbreakingly, bitterly, impossibly) won't include us. Because win or lose, romp or get stomped, baseball is fundamentally beautiful. The rising line of a home run, the sleight-of-hand of a 4-6-3 double play, the arc of a curve ball that bends in and hits the black — these are among the most-perfect things ever to spring from the mind of man. In a few short days, they'll be gone. Don't miss what little is left.
And too long from now but sooner than you think, it'll be February in Florida, with guys we've never heard of wearing impossibly high numbers and hopelessly trite interviews and pitchers running on the warning track during games. And a couple of more blinks more and it'll be too cold and you'll be chewing your nails over being 3-4 or celebrating being 6-1, and able to recall every game of the young season. And another blink or two and you'll find yourself at Shea on a lazy summer night, 25,000-odd sprawled in the stands, looking down at some interchangeable game against the Brewers or the Astros or even the Cardinals, and some Met will get on and then someone else will get on and the crowd will start to stir and you'll hear it. You can hear it now, can't you? Listen.
let's go mets. let's go mets. let's go mets. let's go mets. let's go mets.
Someone will poke a single to right and bring us closer, and you'll hear it louder this time.
Let's go Mets! Let's go Mets! Let's go Mets! Let's go Mets! Let's go Mets!
And then the tying run will be out there on the basepaths and the go-ahead run will be at the plate and they'll be hearing it at 111th and at Main Street in Flushing and you'll be yelling it as loud as anybody under the night sky.
LET'S GO METS! LET'S GO METS! LET'S GO METS!
And you'll look around Shea and see all the other loons chanting and yelling and pleading and you'll look down on the field and you'll think that very, very few things in this life can be better than this, than this achingly beautiful sport and this team you love beyond reason and finding yourself caught up in the middle of it.
And you'll be right.
You know what? It's really not so far away.

I won't be at Game Seven tonight, but my stomach is already on a train and my heart is running on the express track.
Next stop…well, we'll find out pretty soon, won't we?
I like Willie Randolph. He said the extent of his pre-Game Six pep talk was to go over travel plans for Detroit. Nice. Willie's been a winner all his life (or haven't you heard?).
I haven't been a winner all my life, but I was very early on. My first experience with baseball was as a winner: six years old, 1969, on top of the world. There was nothing about it that suggested it was to be expected, so I didn't and it wasn't. I've only had three more cracks at it since then and only one that came through all the way.
But this is where I came in, a Mets fan whose team was going to the World Series. That's home for me. That is where I want to go again, that is where we are too close to not get to now. Starting late Tuesday night — that was Game Five if, like me, you've lost all concept of days of the week — the greatest thing there could be was Game Seven, specifically its existence. I've never been to a Game Seven. Most Mets fans haven't. I don't have to be there tonight. As long as the Mets are, that's sufficient.
Technically, the rules are the same as yesterday. Lose yesterday and it would be over. But yesterday was about survival. Today is Game Seven. We win and we go on to greater things. We lose and we don't, just like yesterday, but we're not thinking that way anymore, are we? It's both not as bad and a whole lot worse.
Yesterday I threw everything I had at survival, all my Faith, even the No. 41 throwback jersey I was given as a gift eleven years ago, something I'd never worn to Shea before last night because I didn't want to spill anything on it. I guess really I was just saving it up. I don't know that I have any clothing, any lyrics, any stats, any gimmicks anymore. I just have my team in Game Seven. We're both home.
And I don't intend on losing again.

As we endeavor to complete our 62nd two-game winning streak — and execute our 104th one-game winning streak — of 2006, I think I've finally figured out the deal with this team, specifically why every win has us staking out prime viewing spots on Lower Broadway and every loss has us dissecting traffic patterns on the Whitestone Bridge (should I jump or just lie down in the center lane?).
When these Mets win, they look so damn unbeatable that you can't imagine they'll ever lose. And when these Mets lose, they look so hopeless, you can't fathom that they'll ever win.
For eight innings of Game Six, it seemed impossible that our lovable juggernaut of pitching, defense, timely hitting, crafty baserunning and leadoff homers could technically still be playing its final ball of the year. Of course we were going to win this sixth game. Of course there was going to be a seventh game. I stopped my of courses there out of respect for protocol, but I could connect the dots.
In the top of the ninth, I realized the season could very well be over in a matter of seconds — and no wonder.
We suck!
We can't get anybody out!
Why didn't we score more runs?
Why did we sign this guy for…how many MORE years are we STUCK with him?
COME ON BILLY!!!
I never stood eight innings at Shea Stadium only to end the ninth slumped in my seat as a Met win was secured. I couldn't stand and I couldn't cheer. After spending the preceding 24 hours doing my Metsian best to Believe, I couldn't believe we actually won.
A hundred fifty dollars for that?
Good deal.
Prorated for each Cardinal out and Met run, each of our tickets cost $4.84 per definitively happy element, a bargain at any price if you consider only the contextual thrill of victory and ignore the agony of debit. I'm trying to overlook that earlier in this decade, I paid five bucks to sit in the very same upper deck for an entire game, but it's hard to argue that that version of Met baseball and this version Met baseball are anything but distant relations.
Closer in resemblance across the pages of our family album are these Mets and my favorite Mets, those of 1999. I thought of them at Woodside around midnight as I awaited the Babylon train. The '99 team took a more circuitous route to the postseason than this one but it got exactly as far entering last night. They fought their way to a Game Six of an NLCS, still the most incredible baseball game I ever watched, representing both the climax and denouement of the most intense month I've ever been a part of as a baseball fan. It took me more than five years to stop thinking about that season's horrifyingly wonderful stretch drive and that postseason's dips, climbs and ultimate drop, especially that Game Six, in a continually recurring loop. My life felt defined by the 1999 Mets until Omar and Willie gave me a present which to fully concern myself.
I never got over not so much Kenny Rogers and Ball Four to Andruw Jones, but the lack of a Game Seven in 1999 and what that would have wrought. Rick Reed was going to best Tom Glavine, and the Mets were going to stick it to the Yankees immediately thereafter…I can't prove it but I know it. 2000 was finer and dandier in terms of bottom-line success, but it never eased the justmissiveness of '99. Every grim Met thing that followed 2000 served to enlarge the shadow cast by the Game Seven that was never played.
Last night we won Game Six. It wasn't an epic out of 1999. There was no comeback from 0-5 or 3-7 or a stunning laser to right-center by one future Hall of Famer off another future Hall of Famer (though I'm beginning to like Jose's chances). This duel did not require a tenth or eleventh inning and it steered blessedly clear of Turner Field. It wasn't nearly as awesome an NLCS Game Six as the last NLCS Game Six we were in. But oh boy was it better.
Seven years after we missed Game Seven, I came home after we finally made it there. The most recent message in my e-mail queue (filled otherwise with Wagnerian groans) was an invitation from an online wine seller to purchase a new release: Freemark Abbey Bosche Cabernet Sauvignon. I sent one friend one tiny bottle of champagne one time (to replace the one he had confiscated somewhere one month ago) and now I'm on their list. I delete these e-mails as a matter of course, but this time I did a double take.
The vintage they were selling was 1999.
Well, I'm not buying the wine (at $150 a playoff pop, I'm barely buying diet cola), but this morning I figuratively toast my Boys of another September and October, in many ways my Boys of Forever — my Fonzie, my Oly, my Mike, my Robin, my Melvin, my Benny, my Reeder, my stubbornly swinging Shawon, my unstoppable Tank, all of my 1999 Mets up to if not quite encompassing Mr. Rogers since I don't want to get too cozy with him just in case we meet again in the very, very near future. I'm remembering the thrills you gave me and the Game Seven you tried so hard to include in that package but couldn't.
We've got that Game Seven now. Exactly seven year later, I can finally move on. As can these Mets any hour now. And they can.
Here's to us then. Here's to us tonight.
As ever in Flushing, our Faith endures.