A royal blue t-shirt that says Amazins. A navy blue sweatshirt that says NEW YORK METS MAJOR LEAGUE BASEBALL. A bright orange hoodie that says NEW YORK. A blue satin jacket that says Mets. A dark green parka just in case.
And that was above the waist.
I was ready for the worst. They said it would be cold and I believed them. As a bona fide veteran of postseason sitting, I learned in 2000 preparation is key. I wasn't going to be caught off guard.
The only thing I wasn't ready for was a loss. There have been so few.
Who remembers the last time the Mets lost before Friday night? It was in another month, another season, with another couple of pitchers still prominent in their plans. Besides the paucity of losses there was the lack of severity surrounding them. You have to go back to Shea Stadium being genuinely frigid on April 5 to find the previous time when a Met loss — the second game of 2006 — carried more than symbolic significance.
That was the night Ryan Zimmerman reached Billy Wagner and the left field stratosphere in rapid succession. How long ago was it? Jorge Julio took the loss. How important was it? It knocked the Mets out of first place…for 24 hours. They recovered and, though we would be intermittently irritated on 64 more occasions between April 15 and September 27, they weren't materially affected. You could argue the Mets hadn't “suffered” a defeat of substance since September 2005.
Until last night. Now that was substantial.
For whatever reason, I wasn't cold. Maybe layering works. Maybe the Shea wind tunnel simply skipped my one particular row of my one particular section of the mezzanine — an area, I have to assess, that wasn't as boozy as my other stops this October and, perhaps as a result, I have to confess, not quite as much rabid fun. Maybe I was just fortunate, luck already having brought me there instead of my couch. I had no prospects at being at this game until rain, rescheduling and religion forced the original ticketholder out of his Friday night slot. I was more than happy to swap him a set of Andrew Jackson trading cards for his admission (and thrilled that he was able to find his way in Thursday, so I didn't feel like a secular Selig vulture feeding off the bum circumstances MLB and meteorology dealt him).
Strange how quickly attending postseason affairs at Shea went from wishful thought to giddy reality to something that by definition became ritual this month. Four games, four go's. Nobody's more surprised or delighted than me.
I suppose you're waiting for the inevitable punchline, the “some prize that turned out to be,” but no. On my way in last night, at the juncture where I step off at Woodside to turn toward Shea, hundreds poured out. Big roar went up. A cacophony of “LET'S GO METS! LET'S GO METS!” mixed with “JOSE! JOSE! JOSE! JOSE!” and even a little “Meet the Mets” (“butcher and baker” verse, no less) ensued. Oh, I thought, here we go again with this.
Slap me. Slap me hard. Don't ever let me find fault in being caught in a nightly crowd of exuberant Mets fans ever again. Yes, some were liquored up and many were too young to fathom. “Isn't it funny that the last time the Mets won was 20 years ago and we were born 20 years ago?” I heard one adult tell another. It wasn't that funny. But the sensation of being in a mass of Mets fans marching to Flushing in October will never not be wonderful.
Can't say the same about a number of other elements, however, including Willie's addiction to Guillermo Mota; the deployment of the Sandman when it's clear the ocean needs to make more sand; John Maine's reversion to Kris Benson sans the mouthy lifemate; the inability to not hit into crucial double plays; the aversion of Carlos Delgado to trickling grounders; the nice try but you got your glove on it so why don't you catch it business in right; and…crap, it was a loss. What do I want? Blood?
A little.
The obvious of October is don't lose games you can win. Don't lose games you lead. Don't lose games you lead twice. Don't lose games in which you make Chris Carpenter look like Karen Carpenter. Don't lose games to which your bullpen just devoted five innings of its finite resources. Don't lose games that could you put in front two-oh.
I wasn't cold, but I came away with a chill, reminded as I arrived home what winter feels like. Basketball and hockey scores infiltrated the 20/20 updates. I could make out my breath. Win or lose in St. Louis tonight, there are no more than five games left at Shea this month if things go various combinations of wrong and right. Go very wrong and there are none. With the unknown being exactly that, who knows if this particular stadium of ours, destined for demolition after 2008, will ever host another night at the time of year when you don't dare not layer?
Approaching Shea, I dared to dream of sweeps and World Series. Leaving it, I envisioned nothing. Absolutely nothing.
It's October 14. It's too soon.

So Taguchi? Ya gotta be kidding me, Billy!
Like every other wearer of blue and orange, I was huddled in worry about Big Bad Albert, who'd shown signs of getting his pilot light relit in his seventh-inning battle against Mota. Worried about Albert. Worried about Billy Wagner pitching in a non-save situation. Worried about So Taguchi? Only on the off-chance that he might eke out a walk ahead of his Pujolsness.
Oops.
In an effort to be philosophical about it all, I suppose Billy was due for a stinker after a half-season of almost universally praiseworthy work. And from early on this game had the look of an ugly, no-rules pig pile with groin kicks and eye gouges and unchivalrous things happening down in the muck: Maine and Carpenter couldn't find their release points, Jim Joyce couldn't find the strike zone, Fox couldn't find a radar gun that didn't add 3 MPH to everybody, and I was absolutely unable to find solace even in a 3-0 lead. Too much unease in the night.
By the way, if you're at home and feel like the anxiety of October baseball may finally shred what's left of your sanity, try TiVo. With Emily at the game tonight, the duty of getting Joshua through bath and into bed fell to me. Reluctantly, I paused Fox at about 7:45 and unpaused it at 8:18, expecting to zoom through half an hour of blather and catch up to live action just in time for first pitch. I quickly realized the game had actually started at 8:05, meaning I was 14 minutes behind real life and wouldn't catch up until the middle innings.
The funny thing? On delay, even an NLCS game seemed less important — at least for me, there's something about watching plays you know already happened that robs them of their power. I actually found myself doing little chores and flipping through a magazine in the early innings, something that's fine for the regular season but borderline treason in October. And then, the instant I caught up and TiVo and real life were once more in sync, the tension arrived so fast and hit so hard that it was like a pile-driver into the couch.
Unfortunately, I caught back up not long before things went awry. With Mota on the mound, I do wish Pedro had called a pitch in from the dugout against Scott Spiezio and that ridiculous thing on his chin, which I believe is known as a landing strip when adorning another region of the other gender. With Wags nearing the end of his implosion, I wish somebody had reminded him that Spiezio seems incapable of hitting anything offspeed, so why on God's green earth would you throw him another fastball? I wish Shawn Green had made what would have been a fairly incredible catch. On the other hand, I got my wish that Spiezio's ball wouldn't go out, which it seemed certain to do, and wouldn't be erroneously but understandably revised into a home run, which it wasn't.
Reyes is awake. Delgado is hammering the ball (and the occasional grounder smacked his way, but oh well). Most of our bullpen did just fine. But we're grasping at straws here. Because tonight sucked, and now we go to St. Louis and trot out Trachsel and Oliver Perez, which could potentially suck a whole lot worse.
For a team that apparently expired in the last days of September, the Cardinals sure are a nasty breed of undead. Can we win three more games before they do? Of course we can. But will we? Going to St. Louis up 2-0 with Carpenter behind us wouldn't have killed the Cardinals, but it would have planted a stake in their collective heart while we hunted around for wafers to stick in the mouth and waited for sunlight to turn them into smoke. Now? It's pitch black and there are things going bump in the night.

Welcome to Flashback Friday, a weekly feature devoted to the 20th anniversary of the 1986 World Champion New York Mets.
Twenty years. Forty-three Fridays. This is one of them.
Over these past 40 (as in American Top 40) Fridays, including this one, nobody has mentioned it to me. I can only assume it's so obvious that it requires no comment or that time has rendered it too obscure to elicit instant recognition. Perhaps it was never up your alley at all. But for the record — or cassette or newfangled compact disc — every headline in this Flashback Friday series since the second entry has been borrowed from a song that charted (or attempted to chart) on the Billboard Hot 100 between the beginning of 1986 and the end of that year's baseball postseason.
Of course you knew that.
Or now it all makes sense.
It's not a particularly unique claim to note that music has always been a big part of my life, dating back to when I was 9 and heard “American Pie” for the first time. As with seeing Tom Seaver when I was 6, I instantly had my all-time favorite…and music joined baseball as my dual obsession.
A lot of people say that about music, so allow me to digress and explain what I mean. “Music” is such a big subject, so I want to be clear on what I am and what I am not talking about.
I don't play an instrument. My mother yeckled me into piano lessons between the ages of 11 and 14. She insisted that when I grew up, I'd be glad I took them because I'd be able to play at parties. Except for trotting out that anecdote from time to time, I take no pleasure from having attempted lamely to play the piano. And I don't go to parties.
I know nothing technical about music. I have only the most passing vocabulary about what those italicized, Italian terms on the sheet music mean. Furthermore, I don't worry too much about individual musicians. I know from “acts” and “artists” but I couldn't tell you who played what kind of horn on any given album and, for that matter, I'm not sure I keep bass and guitar straight in any given quartet.
But I love music as I came into it when I was 9. I loved the radio with their jingles and their identities. I loved the charts with their stats that were just like standings. I loved record stores with their categories for LPs and the slotted shelves for 45s.
Most of all, I loved pop songs. To me, everything I heard was a pop song. I knew there was soul and there was country and there was hard rock and there was easy listening, but I heard it all from the same place. I heard it on what was called Top 40 radio. That's where Don McLean explained what happened the day the music died (an awful lot), where America warned what was missing in the desert (someone to remember your name), where Paul Simon estimated the distance to the mother and child reunion (only a motion away). Johnny Nash could see clearly now, Helen Reddy was woman, a very high-pitched man in the Stylistics was stone in love with you and Chicago spent their Saturday in the park.
I don't know if you like those songs or hate those songs. Furthermore, I don't care. I never cared what anybody else thought, except perhaps for the idea that by definition pop songs were popular. As with baseball when I was 6, discovering music when I was 9 was a way of connecting to something bigger than myself, something that I'd heard about, something that was out there, something that if I enjoyed it must mean that I was somehow more normal than I felt.
Like Gallery, I…I believed in music. I always have. I still do.
This is a topic that could go off in many directions, which is why I've only winked at it here and there in the course of baseball blogging. Me writing about my personal relationship to music — songs, really — is like trying to cover center at Petco Park. There's a lot of ground. I think we'd be best served if I keep the conversation confined to the year a group called The Outfield peaked at No. 6 on the singles chart.
The year was 1986. I was 23. And I was convinced every other song I heard was somehow describing some aspect of my post-collegiate life.
One year before, we got cable, so I was only just immersing myself in MTV and VH-1. One year later, WHN would become WFAN, meaning hours of sports talk would eat into my Z-100, Power 95, Hot 103, Mix 105 and WPIX-FM (“the ballads and the beat of New York”) habits. For the balance of 1986, except for those three or so hours a day devoted otherwise between early April and late October, I listened to music constantly. It's no wonder I thought most of it was written for me. Me and nascent romances that never got off the launching pad mostly.
“Something About You.” I'm sure of it.
“Invisible Touch.” That's exactly how I'd describe it.
“Why Can't This Be Love?” Yeah, why not?
“When I Think Of You.” Wait! I have a whole bunch of emotions I want to share!
“No One Is To Blame.” Aw, don't tell me that.
“The Captain Of Her Heart.” You mean him, not me?
“Taken In.” Whether that was your intention or not, that's how I feel.
It was a little dopey for a 23-year-old to entwine himself with lover's lament crap coming out of a radio or a video, but my development was stunted in a lot of ways. I didn't even own a proper stereo until I was 22. And I still took baseball ridiculously seriously.
There, music worked better for me. Where the Mets and music were concerned in 1986, I wasn't so literal-minded. I just enjoyed having a backbeat to this season of seasons.
“West End Girls” does not get me to thinking of girls from the West End. Instead, I hear the season beginning and the Mets winning those 18 of 19.
“Digging Your Scene” places me midyear into the scene the Mets created atop the N.L. East.
“Two Of Hearts,” “Typical Male” and “We Don't Have To Take Our Clothes Off” are still playing on my car radio as Fred and I barrel down the Jersey Turnpike in August to see the Mets in Philadelphia. (Fred thought Jermaine Stewart an atypical male for discouraging ladies from disrobing.)
“Dreamtime” came out in time for playoff time.
1986 wasn't the greatest year ever for pop music. The greatest year ever for pop music, according to my very particular scientific survey, was 1974. In 2002, I completed my own Top 500 Songs of All Time, “all time” encompassing 1972 (the year I started listening) through 1999 (end of the century…and I had to stop somewhere). 1974 contributed 50 hits, exactly 10% of the list. 1986 was responsible for 17, somewhere in the middle of the pack. Though the songs that came out between Spring Training and the World Series afterglow all carry some Met meaning by association, only one is on the list because it was My Mets Song.
You can find it at No. 483, nestled between the best of Superdrag below it and John Parr above it.
During the week ending February 15, 1986, just as pitchers and catchers were returning to St. Petersburg, a duo far less recognizable than Gooden and Carter debuted in the Billboard Top 40. The 40th most popular song in the land, as Casey would have put it, was by two men, one who had been involved in one the seminal funk bands of the 1970s: Gary “Mudbone” Cooper, a part of the legendary Parliament/Funkadelic. Cooper teamed up with a vocalist named Michael Camacho, and together they became Sly Fox. Their first single — which if you needed to ghettoize it by genre could be described as a dance number — had nothing to do with the Mets and everything to do with the Mets.
It was called “Let's Go All The Way”.
Come on! How could it not be about the Mets? I don't remember the moment I first heard it, probably during exhibition season, but if that driving beat in the intro (zhub-ZHUB! zhub-ZHUB! zhub-ZHUB!) didn't get me, the chorus did.
Let's go all the way.
Let's go all the way.
Yeah, yeah, yeah.
Let's go all the way.
It's March 1986. The near-miss of 1985 is still fresh. The promise of the season ahead tantalizes so. The Mets are a year wiser, a year stronger and enhanced. They're loaded for Cardinal. Davey says we will dominate. This is no time for subtlety, none of the “let's just worry about tonight's game…no, just the first inning…make that the first pitch” caution of later adulthood. This coming year was gonna be our year. Why hide it?
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Let's go all the way.
I started writing it down in my journal. It became my private rallying cry. I didn't share it with anybody. I somehow thought it would take off on its own. Hell, it even mentioned where we were!
Living in New York.
Looks like an apple core.
Asphalt jungle.
Got to be a man of war.
Perhaps it peaked too soon. Sly Fox reached their chart apogee in the week ending April 12, climbing as high as No. 7 on Billboard, stalling there for a week and then tumbling out of the 40 in the May 24 survey. By then, the Mets didn't need a song to rev up the Big Apple. And when it seemed like a great idea to have one in August, “Let's Go Mets” was created with the blessing and participation of the club.
But “Let's Go All The Way” remained My Mets Song. It stayed in my head all summer. When the playoffs approached, I thought it would be a good idea to actually own the single to play it outside my mind (and perhaps clear up the “traffic jam of the brain” that Sly Fox said “makes you want to scream and shout”). On the eve of the Houston series, I drove to TSS Record World in Oceanside to look for the 45 — I couldn't imagine I needed an entire Sly Fox album. Since the song had been off the charts more than four months, I had to pick through the oldies section to find it, but couldn't. I checked the 12-inch singles, and there it was. Well, I reasoned, five dollars for one song is a little steep, but it's what I want. Still, I'd rather keep this thrifty. There was another record store in the strip mall next door, the Record Den (the one with the Haulin' Ass poster in the window). Maybe they have the 45.
Here's the Amazin' thing from this particular October morning. I ran across the parking lot to the other store. They did not have “Let's Go All The Way”. OK, I thought, I'll ante up for the overpriced 12-inch. I get back to TSS…and it's not there.
It's not there! The Mets are about to play the Astros for the pennant and this song which I decided was MY song for MY Mets has disappeared. In a matter of maybe 20 minutes, somebody else must have come along and decided owning a copy of “Let's Go All The Way” right this very minute was crucial.
Damn. So I bought the album. As I predicted, the seven other tracks made no impression on me (nor on the United States; Sly Fox's only other hit was “Stay True,” which rose to No. 94 in June and quickly sank out of sight), but I didn't care. I got my money's worth out of playing “Let's Go All The Way” to psych myself up, to send out good vibes, to fulfill whatever mission one assigns a song out of its original context.
The Mets won the pennant. They were one step closer to going all the way. And their opponent, if you listened to what Camacho was singing, was a lock.
California dreamers sinking in the sand.
The Hollywood squares are living in Disneyland.
Yes, obviously we were going to play the California Angels and our apple core-man of war toughness was going to dispatch them from our asphalt jungle. No doubt they were going home to Orange County emptyhanded. Sly Fox wouldn't lie to me.
Except the Red Sox beat the Angels and we played Boston. Who knew?
The verses may have been failing me, but the chorus was still operative. Let's Go All The Way.
I played it to mixed results as the World Series got underway. The Mets showed no signs of going anywhere but down in the first two at Shea. It wasn't pleasant, but I honestly didn't fear for our lives. You're gonna tell me, I told myself, that this Mets team, this 108-win juggernaut, can't take four of five from ANYBODY? I knew better. Games Three and Four proved me not crazy, and we tied it up at two. Game Five wasn't so hot and we returned from Fenway with no margin for error.
Game Six was Saturday evening. I still thought/knew we'd win the World Series, but it was going to take all the exhortation I could muster. I kept my record by the turntable just in case I would need it.

The email came at mid-afternoon: Two tickets for tonight, did I want them?
I nearly broke several fingers replying in the hell-yes affirmative, then fired off a note to Greg. (You never know, he might have been busy tonight or something.) And so it was off to the ballpark for Faith and Fear — a rambling odyssey home, then to Penn Station for the securing of tickets, then out to Shea on the LIRR, then to Gate E where Mr. Prince was waiting, resplendent in his orange Mr. Met jacket. Endless thanks to our original benefactor, a Yankee fan who felt strongly that the two tickets he couldn't use should go to raving Met fans (a kingly gesture — there is some good in Yankee-fan hearts, folks), and to pals Aileen, Keith and Nick for their kind middlemanning.
Greg and I made our way along the mezzanine during the top of the first, and the roar of the crowd told us exactly what was happening. We were in a fine section, too — lots of high-fiving and high spirits and no horrible drunkenness — the worst thing we saw was scattered Cardinals getting rough vocal treatment, but even that seemed to be in good fun, though obviously the blue-and-orange masses enjoyed it far more than the lonely outposts of red. (OK, the worst thing was actually poor Greg getting nailed in the face by a vendor's bag-of-peanuts missile, but that was really just startling. He was fine and the guy behind us, for whom the peanuts were intended, felt so bad that he shared them.)
If this had been a game on a sultry July evening, we'd have praised it to the skies as a classic pitcher's duel, a modest little baseball gem. I suppose that's still true — but this was October and I, at least, wasn't in a frame of mind to admire the ratcheting tension and all that. Instead, I was bouncing around in my seat in complete terror, aware that something was gonna break and aware that it could well be us. Glavine's pitching line came out looking spectacular, but appearances can most definitely be deceiving: He benefited from seemingly innumerable balls hit right into gloves, a great catch by Endy (replacing Cliff Floyd, now our pinch-hitter deluxe) and some boneheaded Cardinal baseball. After Pujols was doubled off first, he was left standing in the center of the diamond, alone except for the umpires, for an excruciatingly long time, waiting for someone to bring him his hat and glove already. Of course we occupied his time by serenading him with various critiques of his baserunning.
Meanwhile, I don't know if some heretofore-unknown Weaver brother was impersonating Jeff for most of this year, when he sucked, or has been doing so this fall, when he hasn't sucked. But something is definitely up. Weaver was well-nigh unhittable, and it was interesting to hear the crowd's bloodlust slowly diminish and turn to befuddlement and then desperation. In the sixth, with two out, the crowd was begging Lo Duca just to work the count and get Weaver somewhere in the vicinity of 100 pitches. His modest little single through the hole didn't exactly fire up the faithful, particularly not when Beltran immediately found himself in an 0-2 hole. But then, that thunderbolt into the night — it didn't exactly have the trajectory and acceleration of the game-ender off Isringhausen, but we all knew exactly where it was heading. By the time Beltran came home, our section and every other one had dissolved into a happy pandemonium of slapping hands and screaming and spilling beers and fans falling into each other and nobody minding. Of all the magical things about baseball, I think this is my favorite part of all: one swing — a few seconds of bat meeting ball and ball in urgent flight — blasting hours of frustration away like a cork from a bottle, turning worry into joy so quickly and thoroughly that it actually hurts a bit, like a mild case of whiplash from toes to fingertips.
That was of course the signature moment of a marvelous game, though there was drama yet to be witnessed. When Guillermo Mota went 3-0 on Preston Wilson with Pujols looming on deck as the go-ahead run I could barely watch. And there were some anxious moments as Wagner recorded his outs on a hard shot right at Delgado, another one speared by Valentin and a dunker that sure looked like it would drop between Valentin and Green.
Were we lucky tonight? Maybe. Oh, make that probably. But you know what? Luck's part of it too — balls with shoe polish on them and backup catchers not called for running inside the baseline and right-fielders making foolhardy but marvelous catches and balls hitting off the top of walls and rebounding right to outfielders and little rollers behind the bag and tagging one runner out and then finding a second bearing down on you.
Luck, the kindness of friends and strangers, and thrilling baseball on an October night. I'm grateful for all three.
(Keep going — we're doubling up. It's October, after all.)

Pitching. Defense. Two-run homer.
Mets baseball.
Learn it. Know it. Live it.
It's one game. One game does not make a series. But better to win one game than lose one game.
We won. The Cardinals lost. A perfect equation.
And at Shea, all was good. We waited six years to rereach the NLCS and five days to get it started and I waited an hour plus a few pitches for my co-blogger to arrive with two out-of-the-blue-and-orange tickets he laid his mitts on just this very evening. It was, as I have to imagine a headline or two will say somewhere, worth the wait.
I love Queens in October. I love that where once I could stand in peace and wait for my blogger half I now have plenty of company. I love the flood of Mets caps and Mets jackets and Mets jerseys that roll off the trains in waves. I love that when I saw one or two splashes of red, they seemed lost in the tide. I love that the object of our derision tonight was in the building. It was Cardinals fans who elicited semi-good-natured implied comparative chants regarding rear orifices and such. It was Cardinal players whose abilities were derided, wrongly (Pujols) or rightly (Looper).
And Mets who were loved, by me and by 56,000.
I love the way we start and end double plays, how our defensive replacements defend, how our big-time free agents — Glavine, Beltran, Wagner — pay off, just like our spare parts — Chavez, Mota, Valentin on this night. It's a team effort.
I love our team effort.
I love our team this time of year.
I love Shea Stadium this time of year.
I love my new Faith and Fear t-shirt and so will you who are part of the smart set who ordered one or more.
It's a good night to be a Mets fan.
It's a good month.