Back and back together by popular demand. Schlep your tree to curb. I think I just saw the sun.

GARY: Be sure to join us Sunday, October Second, for Fan Appreciation Day when the Mets close out the 2005 regular season. The first 25,000 fans attending the game with the Rockies on the Second will receive a blue fleece Mets cap, compliments of I Love New York. For tickets, stop by the advance ticket window at Shea or Keyspan Park, visit the Mets Clubhouse Shops, log on to mets.com or call 718/507-TIXX.

Lefthander Jason Vargas takes the mound for the Marlins with a one-nothing lead. Well, this WAS to have been the night when Mike Lowell played his first-ever game at second base in the Major Leagues, but it's not gonna turn out that way. Because Miguel Cabrera, after being hit on the knee by his foul ball has come out of the game. So Lowell has moved to his natural position at THIRD base and Joe Dillon is gonna play second base instead.

So Lowell's big night at second base is short-circuited. So Dillon is now the number THREE hitter in the Marlins' order, he's playing second base.

Jose Reyes leads off against the lefthander Vargas. First pitch, looped in the air, shallow centerfield, that may fall in, and it will for a BASE hit. Played on a couple of hops by Juan Pierre, and Reyes aboard with a bloop single to center.

So after Pierre led off the TOP of the first inning with a BUNT single, Reyes, the only player in the league with more stolen bases than Pierre, leads off the BOTTOM of the first with a bloop hit and we'll see how quickly he can run.

HOWIE: Is this not the way things have gone for the Marlins lately? It's bad enough that they lose Cabrera, but because he was hitting third, they are forced to put Dillon, a very inexperienced player at the Major League level, into the THREE spot, and that hampers the Marlins in a couple of ways, not the least of which is you lose Cabrera's bat, and now who knows for how long?

GARY: Reyes leads at first, the pitch coming to Cairo, taken outside, one and oh. Cairo, just six for his last sixty-one, getting a start at second base tonight after Anderson Hernandez started the last two days.

Cairo hitting just .241, two home runs and only FIFTEEN runs batted in in two hundred and NINETY at-bats. With a lefthander that he's probably never seen before, it's gonna be difficult for Reyes to get a read here. Basestealers will tell you lefties are either very easy to run on or almost impossible.

Here's the one-oh, he's RUNNING, and a foul ball back into the crowd, and Reyes did not have ANY jump at all. Not sure if that was a hit-and-run play, because Reyes did not have any kind of a jump. Had Cairo not swung at that pitch, he could've been out by a mile. Even with Lo Duca struggling right now with that hamstring.

It'll be interesting to find out after the game if that was a designed hit-and-run because that was the jump Reyes had, a hit-and-run jump where you make sure you don't get picked off.

Reyes with fifty-five steals, he's been caught thirteen times.

Vargas with the one-one, check swing on a changeup and he went around, and now Cairo in a one-and-two hole.

For Jason Vargas, this is his ELEVENTH Major League start. He also has made four relief appearances. Got off to a TERRIFIC beginning, but he has struggled lately, and that's kind of been his history. They feel as though he wears down late in seasons, and over his last four starts now, Vargas is oh and three with a 7.41 ERA. Lost to the Astros his last time out.

Throw to first, not in time.

Vargas overall five and four with a 4.37 ERA. He's walked twenty-six batters in sixty innings, and that's a few too many. But the Mets are seeing him for the first time and generally that has not worked in the Mets' favor.

Snap throw to first and Reyes falls back into the bag.

The Marlins' defense is now Carlos Delgado at first base, Joe Dillon at second, Robert Andino the shortstop and Mike Lowell at third. Jeff Conine in left field, Juan Pierre in center, Juan Encanarcion in right, Paul Lo Duca catching. And another throw over and this time Reyes is back easily.

So Vargas spending a lot of time working on Reyes at first base. Carlos Beltran waits on-deck.

One-nothing Florida as the Mets bat in the bottom of the first.

Vargas stepped into the number five spot in the Marlins' rotation around the first of August.

One-two to Cairo taken high as Reyes runs, the throw to second is over the head of Andino and backed up by Dillon, and Paul Lo Duca just couldn't stride at ALL as he made that throw to second base and he sailed it, and Reyes has his fifty-sixth stolen base of the year.

HOWIE: And that TIES Reyes with Scott Podsednik of the White Sox for the Major League lead now in stolen bases.

Remember last night on a stolen base attempt Lo Duca came out of the chute and threw SIDE-arm and FLAT-footed and here he got up a little better but had nothing on the throw.

GARY: It's awfully difficult for him to come out of his stance to make a throw with that hamstring injury.

Two-two to Cairo, fouled back underneath us and out of play, still two and two.

And YET, when the Mets were down in Florida a couple of weeks ago, Lo Duca after throwing from his KNEES once and throwing poorly, was able to gun down a couple of Met baserunners, but there he made a bad throw.

So the Mets have the tying run in scoring position with nobody out, Cairo trying to get the ball to the right side if nothing else to get Reyes to third with Beltran on-deck.

Vargas the lefthander looks to second, Andino makes a run to the bag, but Vargas holds the ball as Reyes wasn't far away.

Time for the Home Depot Hit For The Cycle Contest. Home Depot: You Can Do It, We Can Help. Tonight's contestant, Sean Campanella from Mount Vernon. If a Mets' player hits for the cycle in tonight's game, Sean will win a new 2005 Jeep Grand Cherokee Laredo.

Two-two to Cairo, swing and a foul ball back. And of course it's courtesy of your Tri-State Jeep Dealers.

So Cairo, with a long turn at-bat here, hangin' in, tryin' to move the runner up. And if he can, then Beltran will get another chance to get a runner home from third, and that has really been bedeviling Carlos lately, trying to get that runner in from third with less than two out. He's been so impatient in those spots.

The outfield a step to right, here's the two-two to Cairo, SWING AND A MISS, he got him with a changeup away. Vargas, with a strikeout, fans Cairo for the first out of the inning.

Let's pause for station identification on the WFAN Mets Radio Network.

VO: Second inning, Yankees and Orioles are scoreless. Same scoreless game, Red Sox and Devil Rays are also in the second. Indians and White Sox coming up at eight. We'll have more later on WFAN New York.

GARY: Gary Cohen, Howie Rose with you from Shea Stadium in New York. Bottom of the first inning, Marlins one, Mets nothing, Reyes at second and one out, Carlos Beltran the batter, Reyes runs, pitch inside, THROW TO THIRD is offline and Reyes steals third base!

Lo Duca had a chance because Reyes did not have a great jump, but his throw was way to the inside of the bag and he was fortunate that Lowell was able to lunge and grab it to keep it from going down the line, otherwise Reyes would have scored.

So Reyes, who stole second, steals third as well, now has the Major League lead in steals with fifty-seven. And the Marlins are gonna bring the infield in here in the first inning with a one-nothing lead.

The pitch to Beltran, swing and a ground ball off the pitchers' glove, TRICKLING into centerfield, a base-hit! In to score is Reyes, Beltran takes a turn at first, holds on with an RBI single, and the Mets have tied the game at one and one.

So, Carlos Beltran, who has had SUCH problems getting runners in from third with less than two out, that time BANGED one right back toward the middle, and Vargas got his glove on it, slowed it down so that Andino the shortstop was able to make a dive, but he came up empty as it trickled into the outfield. And the Mets have tied it.

And now Jack McKeon is heading to the mound to talk to Jason Vargas. And it is not often that McKeon goes to the mound in these situations, but he is delivering a tongue-lashing right now to his rookie lefthander.

HOWIE: And this is really hot stuff, literally, coming from Lo Duca, hot in terms of the anger and, I tell ya what, Jack looks like a bobblehead doll right now. His head's goin' up and down, up and down, he's doin' all the talking. Vargas just standin' there with his glove to the side of his mouth absorbing it…

And I tell ya, if you can remember back to the Dodgers-Mets championship series of 1988, when Tommy Lasorda came out and READ Jesse Orosco the RIOT act, that's about how this looked. I mean McKeon did all the talking just now. And that's, y'know, one batter after he struck out Miguel Cairo with Reyes in scoring position, so exactly what message he was delivering, I'm not sure, but he delivered it with a lot of GUSTO.

GARY: He was angry, no question. Now Beltran at first and one out, Cliff Floyd the batter, the game tied at one. Pitch by Vargas, fastball call-strike, nothing and one.

Cliff has driven in nine runs in his last five games, now has ninety-four runs batted in for the year. With a dozen games to play, including tonight, Cliff has every shot to get to a hundred. He's hitting at .276, thirty-two home runs. That's a career high.

The oh-one pitch, swing and a miss, good slider by Vargas to get ahead on Floyd.

Now Vargas has been very tough against left-hand batters. The lefties are hitting just .200 against him, and that pitch, the slider that breaks away from the left-hand batter, has been his big pitch against lefties.

The Mets have a couple of lefties in the lineup tonight.

The oh-two to Floyd, swing and a MISS, he got him with that slider, and Vargas strikes out Floyd on three pitches, and he was very tough.

So the second strikeout for Vargas, now there are two away, Beltran still at first and David Wright coming up.

You know, it's interesting, watching Vargas go after Floyd there with that slider because Mike Jacobs tonight is in the lineup for the first TIME against a left-hand pitcher, and it's hard to think of a lefty who has made Cliff Floyd look worse than Vargas just did. We'll see how Jacobs is able to handle him later on.

HOWIE: Go get 'em, kid.

GARY: Yup.

Well, here's David Wright. Wright doubled and scored the winning run in the twelfth inning last night, driven in by Jacobs. David now hitting .310 on the year, sixth in the league.

And a throw to first and Beltran is back.

Wright with twenty-one home runs, eighty-nine runs batted in, now has FORTY-one doubles, that's tied for fourth in the league and he's been the Mets' best hitter all year against lefties, hitting .347 against southpaws.

Now Vargas delivers to Wright, swing and a miss at an offspeed pitch, nothing and one.

Mike Piazza, hitting sixth in the order, is on-deck.

So, Jose Reyes with a bloop single, stole second, stole third, scored on Beltran's base hit, and the Mets have tied it up. Here's the oh-one to Wright. Fastball strike on the inside corner, and Vargas gets ahead on Wright nothing and two.

Vargas throwin' that fastball at eighty-nine miles an hour.

Jason Vargas in just his SECOND year of pro ball. He came out of Long Beach State University. He's just twenty-two years old.

The oh-two pitch, popped up foul off to the right out of play.

Vargas had a college baseball odyssey. He played for national power LSU as a freshman, then TRANSFERRED to a junior college for his SOPHOMORE year before moving onto Long Beach State, another national power for his junior season. Then the Marlins took him in the second round in the draft last year.

The oh-two pitch, fastball misses inside, one and two.

The biggest question about Vargas was that they questioned his ability to stay strong late in the season because he wore down last year in the minors. He's got something of a hefty body.

Fastball WAY inside, and Wright has to jump out of the way, and you wonder if that was a message pitch there. Remember that Jae Seo threw high and tight to Miguel Cabrera in the top of the inning. But Wright jumping back from that knee-high, inside fastball, two balls, two strikes.

Beltran at first has not attempted to run.

Here's the two-two pitch to Wright, swing and a ground ball to second base, a grasscutter right to Dillon, he makes the toss to first in time to get Wright, and that retires the side. But the Mets fashion a run to tie it. Two hits and one man left.

One inning complete at Shea. Mets one, Marlins one on the WFAN Mets Radio Network.

The year in New York baseball? Look at it through Gotham eyes.

A year after making my musical theater debut and farewell simultaneously in a tenth-grade production of Li’l Abner, I volunteered to review that next spring’s show, Once Upon A Mattress, for the school paper. High school musicals being what they are, there was a lot of double-casting for the leads — the people in the key roles on Friday were different from those who were in them on Saturday. The director and head of the music department asked me one favor: say what you want, but don’t compare the kids in the same roles.

So I didn’t. Whoever was really good on whichever night they were I gave thumbs-up to, and whoever wasn’t all that great, I acknowledged with a parenthetical “…played the role Friday/Saturday.”

Thus was I introduced to the world of being despised for what I wrote.

School theater productions, as I should’ve understood from firsthand experience, exist so the students in them can harangue their friends and parents into coming and telling them how wonderful they were. Afterwards, everybody goes to the East Bay Diner for sundaes. They aren’t performed so an amateur drama critic can not pay homage to everybody in the cast.

The biggest complaints I got for anything I wrote in that review (or in high school…or at any time in my entire journalism career) were for not mentioning “me” or “me” or “us”. “We worked really hard!” was the biggest protest I received. “How could you not mention me/us?”

This crosses my mind a quarter-century or so later because I want to tell you about my three favorite Met bloggers, but I do so with trepidation because it implies that there are dozens and dozens of Met bloggers who aren’t my favorites. That’s hardly the point of this. We run a whole list of our fellow bloggers over on the sidebar (under the heading The New Breed) because we have a ton of respect and admiration for what all our peers do in the name of keeping up on and figuring out this silly team of ours. Anybody we don’t list isn’t there probably because we haven’t found him/her/you yet or because we generally update the links the way I tackle everything that requires constant vigilance — sporadically.

That sincere disclaimer in place, I send a holiday salute to three Met bloggers who make the Metsosphere a better place for us all. I’ve gotten to know each of these three wise men to varying degrees since we all began making our respective rounds, and I’m fond not only of their work but of them. You can take that as a disclaimer, too, but I see it as my good fortune.

Mets Walkoffs and Other Minutiae is a concoction that could only be mixed in the mind of a Mets fan, and not just because of the team in the title. Yet there are few Mets fans, I’ve learned, quite like Mark of MW&OM. His grasp of Mets history is practically, well, me-like. I was blown away by his concept when I first stumbled across it in the middle of the season and I never find myself not amazed by it. Who knew that a game the Mets won in their final at-bat could just keep getting better? That’s Mark’s impact. He finds contemporary tie-ins, he tracks down yesterday’s heroes, he keeps the magic alive. For Christmas, he wishes his historical spotlight upon a most unobvious yet homophonic star.

The Musings and Prophecies of Metstradamus slays me. The author is, night in and night out, the funniest person I’ve ever read on the subject of the Mets and associated ephemera. He provides that rarest and most aspired-to attraction, the curiosity of “I wonder what Metstradamus is going to write about this game.” It’s a rare enough talent to reel off great lines on the same recurring subject, but Metstra (he prefers to go through this phase of life by his nom de plume, so I’ll respect that) brings insight to each of his zingers. When he pokes fun at the Mets, he does so knowingly and achingly. His Christmas gift to his readers comes in 50 tantalizing pieces which, unlike the toys in the hands of so many parents last night, he had no problem assembling in advance and leaving under the tree for the rest of us to enjoy.

Mets Guy In Michigan piles Massapequa savvy on Midwestern wry. Dave Murray’s Long Island background is leavened by a humanity that’s hard to find around these parts, though I suspect he had it in him all along. Dave’s heart is clearly tied to the Mets but he uses baseball mostly as a jumping off point to what he calls his adventures in life. They’ve taken him to fascinating places actual and spiritual, visits that I’ve enjoyed tagging along on in completely vicarious fashion. For Christmas, he doesn’t just watch It’s A Wonderful Life, he discovers who’s caused it to be one for him.

Good guys. Good blogs. And to all, a good read.

It may be Christmastime in Hell (seven circles down, two burning to go), but let's take a break from accentuating the negative for a couple of minutes at least.

On Xmas afternoon three years ago, I drifted off into a beautiful nap. When I awoke at 5 PM (I looked at the clock), CD 101.9 was playing a festive version of “My Favorite Things”. Inspirational lightning struck inside my refreshed head, pushing me out of bed. I strode to the iMac and ripped off Rodgers and Hammerstein, among others.

Borrowed not just the melody to create a parody, but also ripped off the idea of parodying “My Favorite Things”; I'm certain I saw Rick Reilly or Steve Rushin do it in Sports Illustrated somewhere along the way. It's an old chestnut, and as Denis Leary said in The Job, there's a reason something becomes an old chestnut…because it works.

The lyrics created to fit the subject at hand reflect the history of our team as well as the state of the Mets, particularly my perception of them as they stood on December 25, 2002. I was going to update them to incorporate the past three seasons, but I'm too lazy. And, besides, I think I have a topical hook.

You'll see an early and bitter reference to two events that took place that month, the Mets' classless failure to re-sign Edgardo Alfonzo and their baffling decision to hire Tom Glavine. At the time, I was devastated by both, especially — as I've mentioned previously — the dismissal of Fonzie. This week, the No. 9 Greatest Met of the First Forty Years was on the move, traded by the Giants to the Angels for Steve Finley. My first thought was LAA is on Kaz's list of approved teams for a trade, let's get going. My second thought was, wow, it sure was a long time ago that Edgardo Alfonzo seemed the difference between past Met success and imminent Met debacle. (Glavine, as noted repeatedly down the stretch, belatedly proved himself a keeper.)

I'd still like Fonzie back. I envision him in some vague elder statesman/backup IF/2B tutor capacity. I can't picture him in the American League. I can picture him coming home and fulfilling the Mazz '86 role…though I can also see a Cedeño '02 thing. Probably isn't gonna happen either way, but it's nice to think about.

As for what follows, a tiny handful of readers may recognize it. After I wrote it, I sent it to my beloved e-mail group, among whom it was remarked upon favorably for a couple of days, which warmed me no end. Now I'd like to share it with any of the Faithful and Fearful who are yearning for a stockingful of baseball references, obvious and obscure, two nights before Christmas.

Hum the whole thing, taking the time to get the cadences just right, and Santa will be here before you know it. I believe in length.

Merrys and Happys all around.

My Favorite Things, 1962-2002

Apples in top hats that rise to occasion

Fran Healy announcing a summer vacation

Steve Phillips' cell phone when it doesn't ring

These are a few of my favorite things

Extra Dry Rheingold and Carvel in helmets

Four-fifty pretzels and three-dollar peanuts

Durocher's black cat and the dogs we let out

These are the things that I sing about

Eleven-game win streaks and two ten-run innings

A happy recap born of humble beginnings

High fives and low fives and Steve Henderson

These are what bring me back time and again

When Fred Wilpon

Pays Tom Glavine

While Fonzie goes unsigned

I simply remember I root for the Mets

And it's much too late for me to resign

Field level boxes from corporate connections

Changing at Woodside and catching the Seven

Liza Minnelli and Jay Payton hug

These are the things that I dig and I've dug

Shipping Puleo and bringing back Seaver

Since Seventy-Three saying I'm a believer

Olerud's hard hat and Shinjo's wrist bands

These are some reasons I'm one of the fans

Serenading Chipper by given name Larry

Exchanging Harry Chiti for Chiti, yes, Harry

Takeoffs and landings o'er everyone's head

These must be why I'm loyal 'til I'm dead

When the GM

Gets Matt Lawton

And casts off Rick Reed

I simply remember the Mets are my team

That must be all I need

'Rock and Roll Part Two' as Mike circles bases

Shock and dismay on the Rocket's two faces

David Mlicki picking his spot

Makes me glad the Mets won and the Yankees did not

Len-ee! and Ben-ee! and that Theodore stork

The National League returns to New York

Alex Ochoa hits for the cycle

These are the things that still make me smile

Banners and placards and the original sign man

Agee making catches that nobody else can

Swoboda's dive…Cleon's shoe polish

Miracles Orioles had to acknowledge

When Ordoñez

Learns some English

And calls us all stupid

I simply remember I've been a Mets fan

Ever since I was a kid

Throneberry, Strawberry, Koosman comma Jerry

A Todd Worrell fastball for HoJo to bury

Corners of K's and Ojeda's dead fish

Make summer's arrival my next birthday wish

Davey's short in the outfield, so uses Orosco

Joe Orsulak's swing, which was sweeter than Bosco

Hernandez on bunts and Kranepool in a pinch

When it comes to the Mets, I won't give an inch

Not sitting in front of a loud, drunken yeller

Wes Westrum proclaiming another cliffdweller

Lindsey tells me Shamsky's around in right

These are what I recall by day and by night

When Grant Roberts

Is caught toking

In Newsday or the News

I simply remember that nobody's perfect

And don't let the Mets give me the blues

Ventura's grand, but Tank stops him from scoring

Bobby V wore disguises but never was boring

Mora crossed home on a pitch that was wild

Things that make me cry like some kind of child

Grote going back and grabbing a pop-up

Sisk coming in but, relax, just to mop up

Mookie Wilson's nubber trickling fair down the line

What happened next will always blow my mind

Not yet a no-hitter, but anticipation

Gregg Jefferies for five weeks a rookie sensation

Knight against Davis and Buddy v. Pete

These are the things, I admit, I find neat

When Armando

Blows his next save

As he inevitably will

I simply remember the leads he held onto

And then I don't feel so ill

Number twenty-four staying mostly retired

Thanking the Good Lord when Torborg got fired

Kingman's second stay when he handed out pens

Ralph breaking it down right after the end

'Lazy Mary' plays and we keep on stretching

Mel Rojas would pitch and he'd get us all kvetching

Mettle the Mule, DeRoulet, Richie Hebner

Seventy-Nine, I can't help but remember

Gary Carter's knees all wrapped up like a mummy

DiPoto made butterflies float in my tummy

Thinking we're set because we've got Mike Vail

Yet I stick with the Mets, succeed or fail

When Burnitz and

Alomar crash

When Cedeño and Mo go down

I simply remember they all had bad luck

And convince myself they'll turn it around

Calvin Schiraldi preceding Bob Stanley

A superstar catcher explains that he's manly

Franco plays Santa and Rusty serves ribs

The Mets speak to me my second language

M. Donald Grant burning in hell

Knowing AY can't be charged with an L

Clearing the clubhouse of sparklers and bleach

And knowing the Wild Card's still within reach

A general manager who knows what he's doing

Every position manned by McEwing

Best infield ever, or so said SI

They're all gone now, though I don't know why

When the Mets are

Labeled quitters

And demand apologies

I simply remember they're sensitive people

And then I don't go, 'oh geez'

Casey could choose from a pair of Bob Miller

Al Jackson, pre-Michael, the original Thriller

¡Yo la tengo!, Ashburn called out to Chacon

With the Mets on the West Coast, I don't sleep alone

Part of 'Men In Black' and a scene from 'Odd Couple'

Scrappy platoons like Backman and Teufel

Staiger, Mankowski, a parade of third basemen

When the Cubs finished sixth, we stayed out of the basement

Shea in the daytime, enjoying it all

Gil Hodges eventually making the Hall

Clendenon and Brogna and even Todd Zeile

Glad tidings to Mets is the feeling I feel

When Steve Trachsel's

Paid by the hour

Or works as if that's his deal

I simply remember his good Earned Run Average

And he's practically a steal

Al Leiter's cutter and buddy Mike Bloomberg

A mayor to whom our team is more than a rumor

Dave Magadan speeds to a deliberate crawl

Gosh I hope that the Mets are around in the fall

Prospects from Norfolk and before that Visalia

Jane Jarvis's organ would never assail ya

Chief Noc-A-Homa taking knocks from The Dude

If only Mets ushers weren't nearly as rude

Old Timers Day inspiring Terry Cashman

A less uptight version of bowtied Frank Cashen

Pretending Nolan Ryan had stayed his career

Wishing Sojo had been kicked in the rear

When the Mets win

None in August

And I'm there for every loss

I simply remember things can only get better

And then my cookies don't go for a toss

Brent as in Mayne, not the Maine of Ed Muskie

Schofield who's skinny and Butch who is Huskey

Piling on Rocker a surfeit of malice

Sunny Frank Howard, the tart tongue of Dallas

Dependable backstops, the Gonders, the Dyers

The weight-lifting antics of Randall K. Myers

'Bring on Ron Gaspar,' a gaffe of F. Robby

Waiting for Reyes becoming a hobby

Clipping coupons from a Dairylea carton

The serendipitous wrist of the great J.C. Martin

McCarver says triples are better than sex

Just call Five Oh Seven T-I-X-X

When team meetings

Are more frequent

Than team victories

I simply remember when they'd shut up and play

And then I don't feel unease

Bring your kids to see our kids, said with a straight face

Beating the Expos and entering first place

It not being over when it hadn't expired

Trading Bonilla when his act grew tired

McReynolds bolting to beat city traffic

Rickey drawing walks and then wreaking havoc

Debating Gerry Moses's lifetime Met status

Responding when Bill Hands was throwing right at us

Don Bosch and Don Hahn and good old Don Cardwell

Suddenly recalling the right fielder's Gus Bell

Topps, Upper Deck…Pinnacle, Fleer

Each pack should include at least two Bruce Boisclair

When one player

Accosts another

About his rookie card

I simply remember we're talking grown men here

And then I don't take it nearly as hard

Revising the yearbook to include Lenny Randle

A roller toward Schmidt and Schmidt losing the handle

Removing the tarp to scattered applause

A call to the bullpen, back after this pause

Hypothetical swaps causing Howie to go nuts

A roster of players, not twenty-five robots

The grass all torn up, irritating Pete Flynn

Who cares if he's angry, so long as we win?

A fortunate bounce from a top-of-the-fence shot

Overcoming the scuffwork of devious Mike Scott

Dave Liddell disappearing after one plate appearance

Not losing an out on lame interference

When Tarasco

And Mark Corey

Are found dabbling in drugs

I simply decide that it's none of my business

And then I don't blame those lugs

Carl Everett's slam off of Uggie Urbina

Tomatoes by Piggy and not Contadina

An unlikely dinger by speedy Esix

Shortstops like Elster not committing e-six

Darryl Hamilton is served his release

Rich Rodriguez packs his valise

Counting on phenoms like Pulse and Tim Leary

Forgiving Hank Webb, he must've been weary

Happy birthday to dads, Kiner's Father's Day greeting

The occasional smart move at some winter meeting

Nineteen-inning games won by dawn's early light

Followed by fireworks, oh what a sight!

When our rivals

From across town

Win on our own field

I simply remember to turn off the TV

And then my venom might yield

Applauding old heroes when they first come back

A Baltimore fly ball that's caught at the track

Bobby Jones beats the Giants, a Fresno one-hitter

Making Baker and Jeff Kent both act kinda bitter

Rain delay anecdotes that never grow moldy

The Polo Grounds forever a goody if oldie

Greg Goossen projected to some day turn thirty

Finding no cork when Whitey played dirty

Game Three leadoff batters each hitting one out

Scoring twenty-three runs en route to a rout

Two-dozen straight games with hits by Hubie Brooks

The rosin was Wendell's, the tantrums were Cook's

When the playoffs

Elude the Mets

Thanks to five straight defeats

I simply remember to wait 'til next year

And then I go buy my seats

Bass and Barrett strike out, sending gloves in the air

Our new stadium outdraws the World's Fair

During those first years no hint of a rise

Then by Eckert's lot, we draw The Franchise

Simons and Walter and southpaws of woe

They didn't get saves but at least were let go

Payson seemed generous, Doubleday dotty

Mazzilli's a traitor but once was a hottie

Pitchers who'd battle throughout a run dearth

Decreeing D'Amico'd inherit the earth

Shawn Estes took aim, no way he could miss

All he hit was a homer, but that shot was bliss

When Mike Scioscia

Got to Gooden

And turned Game Four around

I simply remember results two years prior

And my mental state's more sound

Hampton before he worried 'bout schools

Escobar when the hype said that he had five tools

Dan Norman's aborted switch-hitting trial

After Montañez tailed off, he still had style

With nobody out, taking a pitch

Learning to spell Gary Rajsich

Rally caps topping noggins when contests get tight

That arm-twirling lady, her hex worked all right

Spahn and the Duke and surly Eddie Murray

Immortals perhaps, gone from here in a hurry

Four pennants waving from the outfield flag pole

Terry Leach coming through in almost any role

When Pendleton

Hit that home run

And stopped us in that race

I simply remember something else would've gone wrong

And then I don't feel disgrace

Promotional items handed to adults

Jumping on Nen and on Hoffman and Smoltz

Picking up the FAN in any location

Our runners not running from station to station

Gary and Murph broadcasting in sync

Sweeping the Pirates when pushed to the brink

Sasser's throw to the mound arrives on the fly

Twelve years of Ron Hodges, that seems rather high

A lineup that featured Youngblood and Taveras

Showing Oil Can Boyd that he didn't scare us

A new media guide, its cover so glossy

Ends with Don Zimmer, begins with Don Aase

When Atlanta

Beats the Mets out

Every time it counts

I simply ignore their stellar track record

And cheer for our boys in greater amounts

Sadecki, McAndrew and every fifth starter

Timo except when he could've run harder

Roger McDowell wearing mask after mask

The answer's the Mets, you don't have to ask

Salty and Cubbage and interim skippers

Todd Hundley's record for receiver round-trippers

Lance Johnson never getting thrown out at third

Never mind 'Grease,' the Mets are the word

Teddy Martinez waved home by Eddie Yost

St. Lucie datelines in the Times and the Post

The Magic Is Back, 'Ball Like It Oughta Be

Printing World Series tickets in Two Thousand Three

When they make bad trades

And guys lose their skills here

Amazing but it's true

I simply remember the phrase, 'Let's Go Mets!'

And there's not much more that I can tell you

Clowns to the left of me

Jokers to the right

Here I am

Stuck in the middle with you

—Stealers Wheel

Just to remind you of where we've been on this journey, I recently set out to flag, tag and mark the sole resident of the Sixth Circle of Met Hell. I had to take an elevator DOWN to the 1979th floor of M. Donald Grant's personal favorite lodging, the Windsor Hotel in Montreal. Then I had to steer my way further DOWN the Hallway to Hell. Led by my .000-batting guide, Sergio Ferrer, I discovered the object of my quest waiting behind Door No. 3.

I dug deep and found Richie Hebner.

With Hebner identified and safely ensconced in his own resentful juices, mission accomplished. Or so I thought. I was looking forward to a nice, relaxing flight back to New York when I found myself squeezed into the middle seat between two almost identical large men. I looked around the cabin and realized we were the only three passengers in coach, and wondered why Air Canada saw fit to issue boarding passes that covered only one row on one side of the aisle. I knew from personal experience that Air Canada was no bargain, but I didn't remember it being quite this Hellish.

But I wasn't flying Air Canada. I was flying Air Harazin.

I've really got to check my boarding pass more closely.

Air Harazin is a terrible airline. They overpromise on everything and they underdeliver like crazy. What's more, they're supersmarmy about it.

“Hi, I'm Steve, your flight attendant.” I looked up and there was a sandy-haired, smarmy man with a beverage cart. He laid a napkin on my tray table and on top of it, a V8.

“Excuse me,” I said, “but I didn't ask for a V8.”

“Well, it's what you're getting. I know what you want.” Then he tossed me a bag of honey-roasted peanuts. I hate honey-roasted peanuts.

“I didn't want this either.”

Steve the flight attendant walked away without acknowledging a thing I said. They don't usually do the beverage service before takeoff, but with Air Harazin, it's always a bumpy ride, so they're not sticklers for regulations. Either way, I didn't want this beverage or this snack, but it didn't matter. The guy in the window seat grabbed the V8. The guy on the aisle took my peanuts.

It was going to be a long flight.

“Folks,” came the voice from the cockpit, “welcome to Air Harazin. I'm Captain Torborg. We know you had your choice of airlines…ah, who am I kidding? You're here because you came looking for the Seventh Circle of Met Hell, and Air Harazin is the only airline that flies there without having to connect in Pittsburgh. In fact — and this is the kicker — this is the Seventh Circle of Met Hell, Flight 6667. To drill that point home, we're not actually going anywhere for quite a while. We're just going to circle. So buckle up and endure the ride. Your flight attendant Steve will be back through the main cabin in a little bit with your headsets.”

With that, we took off. It was turbulent. Captain Torborg didn't seem like much of a pilot, so I fastened my seat belt tight. Not that there was much of risk of hurtling through the cabin. Wedged as I was between my seatmates, it was going to be tough to get up at all during this flight.

Flight Attendant Steve came back with the headsets. Well, they weren't headsets. They were more like earplugs. The window seat guy said “gimme” and grabbed a pair. He placed a plug in each ear like he had done it before. He was a real pro with the earplugs. The aisle seat guy was fairly non-responsive. I would've liked a pair myself but Steve wouldn't give me one. Just another V8 (Captain Torborg had a thing about prohibiting alcohol) and another bag of honey-roasted peanuts. They too were scarfed by up the guys to my left and right.

“Man,” said Mr. Window Seat. “These are good earplugs. It's like I can't hear nothin' nobody's sayin' about me.”

“Really?” I asked out of reluctant politeness.

He didn't respond. The earplugs were that effective. They plugged up his ears real good, but that didn't stop him from talking on his own terms. Though I stopped being polite, he didn't shut up. Started telling me his life story between sips of my V8s (Steve just kept bringing them).

Let's see, what did I learn? That he was from the Bronx, originally. Said he'd show it to me sometime. That it was always his dream to work in Queens. Then he laughed like a hyena because, he said, he never could say that with a straight face. “Seriously, man, it was always my dream to get a lot of money.” He went on to tell me that he got paid lots of money, that he could be in first-class if this particular plane, the Seventh Circle of Met Hell, had first-class. Told me I was lucky he was talking to me because he was known for not talking to people when he decided they were doing something he didn't like, though all I was doing was sitting between him and his near-doppelganger, listening to him drone on and watching him drink the beverage I didn't want.

“Y'know something else about me? I'm spot-on about taking credit and assigning blame.” I noticed he had removed the Airfone from its cradle and was pushing buttons. “Hey, Jay?” he shouted into it. “It says E-9. That's got to be wrong!” Since he didn't slide a credit card in to make it operable, I didn't think he was actually talking to anybody, but he got a big laugh out of it.

“Y'know what else about me? I can't be stopped. There was this one time some dude gave me the stop sign. I said I don't have to listen to that. I just kept running. Ha! Showed him!” The dude was really amused by this.

At last he took the earplugs out and addressed me directly. “So,” he asked, “what do you think of me?”

“Well…”

Before I could say a word, he got up to go the lavatory. I assumed that was where he was going. I was going to rise to get out into the aisle to let him out, but the guy in the aisle seat wouldn't move and the guy in the window seat didn't care. He just stepped all over me. He cackled his way toward the back of the plane. I heard piano music and more cackling. Turns out Air Harazin had a lounge on board. Who knew?

This left me alone with the sullen character in the aisle seat. Since he didn't say much, I didn't think this was a bad deal. However, he chose this moment to start talking.

“Hey,” he said while poking me in the ribs. “Got any more of those honey-roasted peanuts.”

“Uh, no. You ate 'em all.”

“Man, this airline sucks. When they bringin' out some meat?”

I didn't know so I didn't say anything. Hadn't seen Flight Attendant Steve in a while. I think I heard him in the lounge being slapped by one his female associates.

“That guy, huh?” the aisle seat passenger said. “Some piece of work.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Me, I don't care all that much about anything. I'm happy to show up and get paid and maybe complain if things don't go the way I want them to or get into a fight with the boss or maybe with one of the customers. Otherwise I don't care what happens.” He reached into the pouch on the seat in front of him. “Hey, cards! Wanna play?”

“Sure.”

I didn't really want to play cards with this guy, but there was nothing else to do. The only book I had brought with me, The Worst Team Money Could Buy was one I'd read too many times. With the window seat passenger up, however, I just noticed we had those seatback TVs like on JetBlue. Mine was tuned to ESPN Classic. It was showing Game Six of the 1999 National League Championship Series, the most exciting game I ever watched. Forget the cards, I was going to get wrapped up in this.

The picture went blank.

“Nah, don’t watch that,” the aisle seat guy said. “Let's play cards instead. I'd rather do that.”

“Well maybe I wanted to watch it.”

“Nah, I don't care.” He began dealing.

“You don't, do you?”

“Nah.”

“Y'know, you look a lot like the guy who got up to go the bathroom or wherever he went.”

“Yeah, I get that a lot.”

“You do?” I had a lousy hand. I don't know what we were playing, but I could tell.

“Sure. Y'know why?”

“Why?”

“'Cause I'm him.”

“How's that?”

“I'm him. Me and him, we're the same guy.”

“No wonder you look so much alike.”

“Gin!”

“I didn't know we were playing gin.”

“We're not. I just remembered I brought a flask with me.” He had himself a swallow. Didn't offer me any.

It was my turn to shuffle and deal. I mostly shuffled since it was never made clear to me what we were playing.

“How is it you and him are the same person?”

“Well, he's Bobby Bonilla from 1992 to 1995 and I'm Bobby Bonilla from 1999.”

“Oh, I get it! He's Bobby Bo from his first time with the Mets and you're Bobby Bo from his second time with the Mets.”

“You got it.”

I began to deal…five, six, seven cards apiece. I lost track.

“You're not just one person.”

“No, but we're basically two of a kind. Just like I have here. Go fish.”

I didn't know we were playing Go Fish. “Could you please explain how this works?”

“The cards?”

“No, how you and him are each Bobby Bonilla?”

“Easy. One of us would be pretty bad, right?”

“You bet.”

“You don't want to bet me. I'm getting paid into perpetuity, so eventually I'll win. But yes, the Bobby Bonilla you remember from 1992 to 1995 was a general pain in the ass, wouldn't you say?”

“Of course.”

“I mean he was one of the real bad guys. You had a lot of hope for him, coming over as he was from the Pirates as the big free agent catch of 1991.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And it was a big deal that he was from New York and grew up rooting for the Mets.”

“I heard him say that on Kiner's Korner once.”

“Sure. But the whole thing backfired.”

Bobby Bonilla '99 had just put me in a very bad place. I was jetting back in my mind to the winter of '91 when one by one Al Harazin was collecting big names. The Mets had had a bad finish to what had looked like another good year. They were 53-38 a little after the All-Star break and there was no reason to believe they wouldn't chase or even catch the Pirates in the second half. The Mets had finished first or second (mostly second) every year since 1984. This was business as usual. But all at once the bottom fell out of 1991. They finished 77-84. Elias said only three other teams to that point had fallen so far so fast.

Signed for $29 million over five years, Bonilla was going to change all that. He was going to drive in runs and lead the team. Indeed, he drove in far fewer than he had as a Bucco and led the team down a hole. His misdeeds and personality traits are legendary. There would have been no Worst Team Money Could Buy without him. From the media boycott he led in his first spring training to the earplugs he wore to drown out the fans' vocalizing their opinion of him to his calling the press box to change his error to somebody else's hit during a game to his threatening one of the authors of the aforementioned book with a tour of the city's northernmost borough to his disregard for third base coach Mike Cubbage — figures the only time he ran hard was when he was running through a stop sign in plenty of time to be thrown out at home — Bobby Bo was emblematic of his Met era the way Keith Hernandez was emblematic of his. That was a problem.

Yet the Bobby Bonilla of 1992 to 1995 also had some big moments. Not a lot, but just enough to allow one to occasionally look past his wretched behavior. He did hit two homers on his first night, the second winning the '92 Opener in St. Louis, though that was actually kind of mean since all it did was tease us. He did show up Rob Dibble but good on a Sunday night that August with a walkoff blast that made Dibble look like a far worse person than Bonilla. A year later, he was the '93 Mets' lone All-Star. That's sort of like being voted Humanitarian of the Decade by Jeffrey Dahmer, but he had raised his game: 34 homers, 87 ribbies. He managed to maintain that level of performance in strike-shortened '94 and made the All-Stars again in '95. Bobby Bonilla was doing so well (.984 OPS through 80 games) that he was desired by teams who were in a playoff hunt. The Mets, no longer viewing themselves as one of those clubs, sent him to Baltimore for Alex Ochoa and Damon Buford.

Bobby Bonilla seemed to have redeemed himself by the time of his trade. He seemed kind of, sort of all right. He hosted a charity bowling tournament. Heck, his status as the outstanding offensive contributor of 1993 through 1995 was enough to snag him a spot as the No. 78 Greatest Met of the First Forty Years.

“Doesn't sound like that Bobby Bonilla should be buried all the way down in the Seventh Circle of Met Hell, does it?” the guy on the aisle asked.

“No,” I agreed. “He was a jerk to extreme proportions in 1992 and intermittently thereafter, but I was able to look past that by the time he left.”

“Yet here we are on this flight.”

“Yes, here we are.”

“And you know why that is?”

“I've just figured it out.”

Bobby Bonilla's mixed Met legacy was shaded clear to the dark side by the second Bobby Bonilla — the older, larger, exponentially more sour version of himself. Bobby Bonilla from 1992 to 1995 has his ups and downs. Bobby Bonilla from 1999 wiped away all ambiguity. The prodigal Bon was a horrendous mistake forged by two Steve Phillips actions. One involved his pants and the failure to keep certain items within. Because he was out on sexual harassment leave in the fall of 1998, Met GM duties fell briefly to an otherwise retired Frank Cashen. It left The Bowtie enough time to make one trade.

And who did he trade? Mel Rojas, the rotting fruit of Phillips' first make-a-splash trade from right after he took over for the fired Joe McIlvane. The Mets braintrust, which presumably included Phillips in some horned-out capacity, decided merely paying off Mel Rojas wasn't self-defeating enough. Instead of releasing him and eating his contract, they swapped him to the Dodgers for a decreasingly effective Bobby Bonilla.

Bobby Bo had kept us his 1995 rampage and gave the Orioles two good months. He drove in 116 for them a year later when they won the A.L. Wild Card. After that, he signed with the Marlins, and though he wasn't the most positive influence on team chemistry, he collected 96 RBI and hit a very important homer in Game Seven of the '97 World Series. After Florida won the World Series, they broke up their team and tucked Bonilla into the care package of pricey stars they sent to L.A. in May '98 for Mike Piazza and Todd Zeile. Bonilla was on the DL three times that year and suffered a dramatic falloff in skill and output.

That's when we got him back.

“See, man,” Aisle Bonilla said defensively. “I was hurt.”

“Sorry that you were, but that doesn't mean the Mets should have traded for you. In fact, it would suggest they had even greater reason to avoid you.”

“Where's the meat at?”

Bobby Bonilla '99 wasn't solicitous of my opinion since it was not sympathetic to him. Besides, it had been five minutes since he finished the last bag of peanuts. Similarly, Bobby Bonilla came back to the Mets with a hungry look in his eye, but it wasn't the lean kind. He had not devoted himself to training but was handed the right field job anyway. This was typical of Met thinking during that period. We have a great catcher and real solid infield…no need to dependably populate the outfield from left to right.

He couldn't play the outfield anymore. He couldn't hit either (.160 in 60 games). Worst of all, he couldn't be remotely pleasant about it. Snapped at Bobby Valentine and nearly got into a fight. Snapped at a fan in early July and nearly got into a fight. Was shuttled to the Disabled List and the world's longest pre-Heredia rehab stint only to mysteriously re-emerge in October as one of 25 men on the post-season roster. There was some hope beyond hope that his experience and his power (4 HRs in '99, each of them against Cincinnati, though not in the one-game playoff so you don't get the wrong idea) and his paycheck would come alive. He went 1-for-4, though nobody remembers that. What everybody remembers is Bobby Bonilla played hearts with Rickey Henderson while the Mets fought furiously for the pennant in the final game of the 1999 National League Championship Series. Henderson took a good bit of heat for abandoning the bench. Bonilla didn't. Nobody expected anything out of him.

OK, so the second coming of Bobby Bonilla was surly and hateful and massively unproductive, but it didn't really kill the Mets, right? They made the playoffs, right? What was really so bad about his being around again?

Consider this: Bobby Bonilla had a year remaining on his contract, the one he signed with the Marlins, after '99. He was owed $5.9 million. Thankfully, the Mets learned a lesson from their decision to trade Mel Rojas and didn't feel the need to exchange Bonilla for the late Cap Anson. Instead, they were willing to swallow hard and release him. Check that…they swallowed nothing. They still haven't. But come 2011, the Mets will be paying Bobby Bonilla — a dozen years removed from cards in the clubhouse while Kenny Rogers melted down — $1.19 million a year every year through 2035.

That's to gag from, but it's not a gag. That's for real. The Mets will be issuing checks payable to Bobby Bonilla that will total, with interest, $29.75 million over a 25-year span that will end when Bobby Bo is Bobby Blow (as in Bobby Blowing out 72 candles on his enormous birthday cake). That's slightly more than he signed for in December 1991. But this will be for doing absolutely nothing but being a bad citizen in 1999, being untradeable in 2000 (when he was free to sign for veritable pennies with anybody and was picked up by the Braves…for whom he batted 95 points higher than he did with the '99 Mets) and being the Bobby Bonilla the Mets thought they were getting for 1992 just long enough circa 1995-96 to rate the contract that the Mets accepted so they wouldn't have to pay Mel Rojas.

Follow that? Maybe not, but you get the general idea. Maybe $1.19 million doesn't sound like a lot in terms of what baseball players are paid these days and in future days. But there is a distinct chance that a Wilpon or another owner down the road will not be able to afford some useful player's salary request because there's $1.19 million in the annual budget that has to go the care and feeding and feeding some more of Bobby Bonilla, who did nothing to earn it but sure had a smart agent.

“You have no shame,” I told the one Bobby Bonilla who remained in my row.

He shrugged, got up and looked for meat.

We circled some more, but the two Bobby Bonillas had abandoned my row. Everybody else was living it up in the lounge — Bobby Bonilla 1992-1995 cackling, Bobby Bonilla 1999 chewing, Flight Attendant Steve Phillips dispensing checks and grabbing cheeks, Captain Jeff Torborg finding every turbulent pocket, Air Harazin Flight 6667 being every bit as miserable as I would've guessed. At least Bobby Bo the Second left me his cards. I played solitaire, not very well, until we landed at LaGuardia.

The instant I heard the door creak open, I raced out of there with nary a buh-bye. Left the deck and my copy of Worst Team behind. I didn't want to think about what I'd just experienced or what percentage of what I spent on every knish at our new park from 2011 on would go to the Bobby Bos. I couldn't look that far ahead. I just wanted to see a Bonillaless, Phillipsless, Torborgless, Harazinless Shea. I ran through the terminal, past the cabs and onto the shoulder of the Grand Central. There it was, my beautiful Shea Stadium. Even though it was winter, it was wonderful.

The only thing left to do was to go home. From the Seventh Circle of Met Hell to the 7. Perfect. Fortunately, I'd remembered to bring my Metrocard. I wandered over to the Willets Point entrance and swiped. And swiped. And swiped again. No dice. I walked across the street and gave it another several tries. It wouldn't work. I was left standing forlorn on a brutally cold Roosevelt Avenue afternoon. No way home.

Then a really ostentatious SUV limo pulled up. It was the Bobby Bonillas.

“Hey, dude from the plane! The subways went on strike while were in the air! Need a ride?”

“Gee, that's awfully nice of you…”

Before I could answer in full, their limo sped off. The Hell with them, too.

Air Hockey? Billy Wagner? Mark Grudzielanek? Happy holidays from Gotham Baseball.

In hell there’s a big hotel

Where the bar just closed and the windows never opened

No phone so you can’t call home

And the TV works, but the clicker is broken

—Billy Joel

It’s true. There’s a big hotel here. It’s the team hotel. It’s not a Westin or a Hyatt or even the Travelers near LaGuardia. It’s the Windsor. Yes, the Windsor, the very same hotel where M. Donald Grant deposited his charges in Montreal when the Expos came into existence. George Vecsey described it as such:

…the ancient Windsor Hotel, formerly the showplace of the city with its high ceilings, great dining rooms, and ornate luxury of the Old World, but now it was merely a run-down old barn, dark in the corridors, musty in the rooms, dreary in the lobby. The players knew they stayed at the Windsor because M. Donald Grant had grown up in Montreal and had relatives who had helped to run the hotel during its days of splendor.

Those days were long gone when I arrived. Ever longer gone than they were when George offered that little Fodor’s writeup. But I don’t want to get ahead of myself.

This is a weird place. Most hotels have the lobby where you walk in at street level, maybe an escalator ride up. Not here. You go straight into an Otis Elevator and there’s only one button.

DOWN.

So I pressed it. There was a great zhusshing sound. Where were we headed exactly? The logical answer would be 6, as in the Sixth Circle of Met Hell. That’s where I said I was going. But the elevator didn’t work like that.

I noticed the digital readout. It said in bright red letters 2006. I turned around and realized I was in a glass elevator, that I could see what was going on on every floor. Every floor except 2006. I caught a glimpse. There was a runty reliever, walking off of a mound in a dejected hunch. He wore 13, which seemed ominous. I thought I saw a Jheri-Curled leftfielder laughing his ass off silly even though a baseball had obviously landed over his head, but I couldn’t be certain. Honestly, I’m not sure what I saw on 2006, but it wasn’t great. What do you expect, though? This is the Windsor, official hotel of the Sixth Circle of Met Hell.

I turned back toward the panel with the DOWN button and pushed it. I must’ve pushed it too much because it had the effect of flipping a light switch on and off. The glass gave me fleeting views of other floors. I saw 2003 and 2002. There were surly first basemen who could barely walk and sullen second basemen who would barely field. I saw 1998 and a succession of zeroes on a scoreboard that went on for like 45 straight innings, though they were a bit hard to read in the late September sun. We stopped for a moment at 1996 and I caught three strapping young pitchers, two righties, one southpaw. Each was rubbing his pitching arm. None of them was smiling.

The elevator fell all at once. When we halted, the digital readout flickered between 1962 and 1963. There was lots of dark green and pigeon droppings and no numbers on the uniform. There was a very old man sleeping on a bench. There were lots of guys running around in circles. It didn’t look like much fun. We popped up to 1964 and 1965. The setting was different, the action was the same. Then, as if levitated, it said 1987. A man in a gray uniform with a red cap circled the bases. We creaked up a little to 1988. A man in a gray uniform with a blue cap circled the bases.

Then the elevator stalled for a while. I watched out of the glass as that man in gray gave way to another man in gray, this one limping but also circling the bases. This was more than I needed to see. Slowly, however, the lift pulled itself up. The next readout said 1991. Everybody looked very sad. Then 1992. Everybody looked very angry. I could feel the elevator almost exhaustedly climbing one more level.

Oh, I get it. I’m about to get a look at…

NO! I wasn’t! The elevator wasn’t going to stop at 1993. (That just seemed too obvious.) Instead, we took a moderately precipitous drop. The door opened underneath a digital readout that read 1986.

Could it be? Could it be Paradise? Am I going to going to get to experience the single, greatest moment in Mets history? Oh man! I turned to the glass to check out the reflection so I could fix myself up for this.

I squinted at what I saw. I looked at my sleeves. They were navy. I was wearing a team jacket.

A Red Sox team jacket.

I pushed the button and forever left 1986. The jacket turned royal blue. Geez, that was scary.

The elevator shot downward again. This time the readout told me I was at 1969. There! That’s more like it! I was still in Mets garb, so it was OK. When the door opened, I was going to take part in the miracle of miracles.

The door opened and there was a blowback of confetti and ticker-tape. Whatever great thing that happened had already happened and I missed it. I cleared the paper out of my eyes and for the first time I saw another passenger on the elevator.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Oh, I’m just a kid ballplayer. I play for the Mets. Well I did.” With that he pushed a button.

“Gee, I don’t mean to insult you, but I don’t quite recognize you. Who are you?”

“I’m just Amos Otis. Feel free to use my elevator though. I’m getting off here.”

We stopped at 1970. Amos Otis got off. Joe Foy got on.

“Uh, hi.”

“Yeah, hi. I’m on the Mets now. I don’t plan on doing much. Mind if we make a couple of stops? I’m gonna pick up some buddies of mine.”

Before I could respond, we stopped at 1971. Foy got off. Bob Aspromonte got on. Then we stopped at 1972. Aspromonte got off. Jim Fregosi got on. Then we stopped at 1973, but only long enough for me to push Fregosi out. The door slammed shut before I had a chance to escape.

I hated the Windsor Hotel. I had seen so many bad things in what felt like an interminable ride. I wondered where it would end.

With that, another drop. A really steep drop. The digital readout went blank. The glass became concrete. I had no idea of knowing where I was going. It was like all time and space disappeared. It didn’t feel hot as much as it did desolate…very lonely, very scary, very, very hopeless.

At last, we landed at rock bottom, the basement of the Windsor. There was still no readout, but the door did open and it stayed open. I stepped out and tried to turn a corner but couldn’t. There was no corner to turn. There was just a brick wall and a dead end.

I walked into it anyway. I walked into it once, bounced off and fell down. I got up and did it again. I did a third time. I did it exactly 99 times until the wall disappeared and finally the lobby of the Windsor Hotel appeared before me.

It was terribly musty. The oxygen must’ve been sucked out of this joint at least two years earlier. This was the last place I’d expect to find any sign of life. But at least there was a front desk. I went over to it and rang the bell.

The bell didn’t work.

“HELLO? IS THERE ANYBODY BACK THERE?”

There was no one behind the desk, but there was a bellman. He looked very familiar. And haggard. He had a real bout of 5 o’clock shadow. When was the last time this guy shaved?

“Hello, welcome to the Windsor Hotel, official hotel of the Sixth Circle of Met Hell. My name is Joe. How can I help you?”

“Joe?”

“Yes, Joe.”

“May I ask you something, Joe?”

“Sure.”

“Where am I?”

“Why, I just told you. The Windsor.”

“Yeah, but, uh, this will sound like a strange question but when am I?” I began to explain my elevator adventure, how I seemed to bounce from floor to floor, shooting up and down from one disturbing stop to the next until I got out here and there was no digital readout.

“I have to apologize about that. The owners of the Windsor have been a little reticent to fix things up. There’s talk about them selling. That’s why they’ve been slow to hire a full staff. In fact, I’m not really a bellman. We don’t even have bellmen. We don’t even have a working bell.”

“Yeah, I noticed. But if you’re not the bellman, what do you do here?”

“I’m the manager.”

“You’re Joe the manager?”

“Yes. And I’m all alone here. No Rube, no Piggy, no nothin’.”

“All right. But my other question, you know…when? Or what floor am I on?”

Joe flashed a half-smile and led me back to the elevator. He dug into his uniform and fished out a sign that read ELEVATOR DOES NOT STOP AT THIS FLOOR and taped it to the wall next to the elevator door.

“Ever see a sign like that?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Yeah, I gotta do everything around here,” he muttered as he pulled a screwdriver from his pocket. “Two ladies own this place and they don’t know squat about diddly.” He pried open the elevator door, shoved a broken piece of wood between it and the shaft to keep it open and, with the screwdriver, fiddled with the DOWN button.

All the lights went out. Then all the lights came on. And then all the lights went out. And then the only light that there was glowed from the digital readout display.

“There ya go,” Joe said in the harsh glare of the red light. “It’s fixed and now ya know when ya are.”

Yes I did. The readout was quite clear. There was no doubt about it.

When I stepped off that elevator, I had stepped into 1979. All the lights came back on and I looked down at the frayed carpet. I realized I had stepped into something else.

“Oh sorry,” said Joe, who didn’t sound all that convincing. “It’s that damn mule again. I tried to tell ’em the Windsor’s no place for a mule, but they just cackled and said we need to show more mettle, whatever that’s supposed to mean.”

With that Joe had himself a chaw and spit.

“So, what are you doing here? We don’t get many guests. We’re not even gonna draw 800 this year.”

I was about to explain to Joe the slightly bewildered manager that I was on assignment from a blog in 2005 to seek out the one Met who would inhabit the Sixth Circle of Met Hell, but the more I attempted to articulate it, the more I was like Joe with the chaw. Except I couldn’t quite spit it out.

“No offense, buddy. But this is kinda high-concept and we’re at a low point around here. If ya don’t mind, I gotta go make some lemonade.”

“Lemonade?”

“Well, I’m not a soda jerk if that’s what you’re getting at, but like I said, I have to do everything around here, and those crazy ladies who own the joint gave me 25 lemons. So what else am I supposed to make?”

Frankly, I was lost without Joe. He didn’t seem like much of a manager and I couldn’t imagine he’d ever amount to a very good one, but he was all I had. Joe the manager disappeared and there was still nobody behind that desk. Without any real ideas as to what to do next, I walked back into the heart of the lobby and sat myself down on the pilling couch.

Funny, I thought I was alone, but I found myself sitting between two men. One was kind of old and one was very young. They also looked familiar. The funny part was depending on the angle I looked at them from, I couldn’t quite ascertain which was the young one and which was the old one. I mean the old one was old but I could swear I’d seen him when he was 17. And the young one was young, but weirdly enough, he also looked like he’d been 46 when I last saw him.

“Hi,” said the seemingly older one.

“Hi,” said the seemingly younger one.

“Hi,” I said.

“What are you doing here?” the older one asked.

“Yeah, nobody comes here,” the younger one said.

“Nobody comes here because it’s too crowded?” I chuckled.

I was met with two of the blankest stares I ever imagined.

I’m terrible with small talk, so I got to the point. Told them I came to Hell, to the Windsor, to find a guy who fit the description of being the sole occupant of the Sixth Circle of Met Hell.

“Met Hell?” the older one asked. “I don’t get it. This is my eighteenth season here. Actually it’s all I’ve ever known and I’ve been pretty comfortable.”

“Eighteenth season?” I asked.

“Yup.”

“Uh, is your name Ed?”

“Yeah, how’dya know?”

Then the younger guy interrupted. “Eddie’s always going on about how old he is or how long he’s been here and what it used to be like. I think he thinks he’ll be here forever.”

“Shut up ya whippersnapper,” Ed demanded. “You just got here. You’ll be lucky if you stick around at all.”

I looked over the younger guy a little more.

“Say, are you really that new?”

“Sure am. Barely made it to the hotel staff this spring.”

“Um, is your name Jesse?”

“Sure is. They even gave me a number.”

Up to this point I hadn’t noticed that the fellas were wearing Windsor Hotel Temporary Help uniforms. You’d think I would’ve noticed that sooner. Ed wore 7. Jesse wore 61.

“61?” I asked. “That’s kinda high.”

“Oh, it’s just temporary,” he assured me. “They’re gonna get me 47 pretty soon. They promised.”

“They’ll promise you lots, kid. They promised me I’d grow up to be better than Hank Greenberg.”

“Are you?”

“Do I look better than Hank Greenberg?”

I hated to interrupt their repartee, but for the first time on this journey, I was getting excited. “Hey,” I asked the older guy, No. 7, “Did you know you used to be 17?”

“My number?”

“Your age.”

“Uh, I think so.”

“And you,” I told the younger one. “You’re gonna be 46!”

“Uh, I hope so. They told me I’d be 47. I feel a little silly in 61.”

They didn’t understand. Time and space really weren’t a factor. But I had seen them. When the elevator stopped at 1962, the older guy was there looking really young. And when it stopped at 2003, the young guy was really old but he was striking out that sullen second baseman.

“It’s an honor to meet both of you.”

“If you say so,” they said in unison. The older guy, No. 7, whipped out a can of Gillette Foamy and started shaving — right there in the lobby. He was getting hair all over the carpet, but quite frankly, given what that mule was doing over in the corner, it wasn’t that bad.

“Fellas, you know your way around here, around the Windsor, around this floor.”

“Ya mean 1979?” the older guy who was shaving asked (the younger guy was too young to shave).

“Yeah, 1979. That’s where I am, right? Or when I am?”

“Boy,” the younger guy said. “You’re kind of stupid.”

“Regardless, I need your help.” I asked if they could introduce me to some of the people who were staying on and/or in 1979. Both laughed. They said nobody was interested in any of them. Not even 800 were coming to see them.

“Tell ya the truth,” the older one whispered, “none of us much care for any of the rest of us.”

“I understand, but I need to seek one of you out. I can’t say just who just yet, but I need to confirm something. A hunch.”

“Hey,” the youngster asked. “You’re not the repo guy, are you?”

“No.”

“‘Cause the repo man came last week and took the bullpen car with the cap on it. That thing was cool.”

I assured them I was on the up and up, that I wasn’t the repo man, that I wasn’t the Post beat man, that I wasn’t Bill Stoneman. I was just a man on a mission and that I actually liked them.

“You do?”

“Yeah. I always have.”

They both laughed and pointed me at a lot. But they agreed to help. Next thing I knew, they led me down one of those dark corridors George Vecsey mentioned.

“Help yourself,” the older one said. “Knock on any door you like.”

With that, the older one and the younger one disappeared. I was on my own one and/or in 1979. Time was running short and the high concept was threatening to run out of steam, so I knew I had to act quickly.

I started knocking on doors, trying as hard as I could in the crummy light to make out the room numbers.

I knocked on 41. No answer. I knew there’d be no answer, but as long as I was here, why not?

I knocked on 40. A gaunt, bearded figure with his left foot all bandaged up answered the door.

“Whaddaya want?”

“Maybe I don’t have the right room.”

“And maybe I don’t have the right team. Things haven’t been going all that well for me these last couple of years.”

“Uh, what happened to your foot?”

“Oh, the foot.” He shook his head. “The foot. Why don’t you ask me what happened to my SOUL?”

“Uh, OK…what happened to your soul?”

“Why don’t you ask me what happened to all our souls?”

I followed the gaunt, bearded figure with the bandaged left foot into the room. He wasn’t alone. It was him, a fella with a guitar and two other fellas practicing their swings. The whole room was bathed in red.

“Gosh,” I said. “What an eerie yet somehow pleasant shade of red.”

“Hey,” twanged the guy with the guitar. “Maybe I’ll write a song about that.” He let out a squeal of delight and started fooling around with what sounded like Procol Harum’s Whiter Shade of Pale.

“Yeah, it’s damn pleasant,” said one of the guys swinging. “It’s pleasant thinking you’re gonna be Big Red someday, part of a Machine, and then you wake up one Thursday morning and you’re here.”

The other guy swinging didn’t say anything. He just kept switching from right to left, from left to right. To be honest, it didn’t seem to be helping.

“Damn Rose!” shouted the gaunt, bearded figure with the bandaged left foot. I didn’t know if he was cursing the shade of red or perhaps the lack of rosé in the hotel minibar. Or maybe the lack of a hotel minibar, one of the amenities that the Windsor surely lacked.

“National TV! And I’m giving up a record-tying hit. Of all the Jack Billingham, Fred Norman…”

“Did you want me?” asked the guy switching from right to left, left to right without any success.

“No. Sorry man. Rose!”

A door that was connected to the very red room opened up and out stepped a man in camouflage.

“Huntin’ season start yet?” he asked as he stroked his beard. “Or do I gotta learn to play another infield position?”

“Yee-haw!” shouted the fella with the guitar. “Blood’s always ready to go huntin’! Huntin’ season don’t start ’til our season’s over, Blood.”

“Dang.” The camouflage guy stroked a three-day beard. “Hey, blood red! Nice touch. You guys still aren’t over it either, are ya?”

“I can still make it, you know,” said the fella swinging — not the one who was switching right to left, left to right sans results; the other one. “You watch me. I’ll hit a big home run one night. They’ll remember me for something else besides not being Red.”

“Yeah,” said the suddenly melancholy guitar picker as he put down his instrument and picked up his glove. “I’m gonna be golden.”

“You dopes are dreaming,” said the gaunt, bearded figure with the bandaged left foot who opened the door marked 40 for me. “I was young once. I had it made. I shared something very important. Shared it with a guy named Butch. Now I’m stuck here. ROSE!”

Room 40 was about to boil over in resentment. As soon as I heard the camouflage guy say something about fetching his “shootin’ gun,” I slipped out and into the hall. Just in time, too, because I’m pretty sure I heard shots.

The next door I knocked on was marked 33. I didn’t knock all that loudly but I guess I startled the occupant. When he answered, he seemed all jumpy.

“Whadjadothatfor?” was his greeting.

“I was just looking for somebody.”

“Well, ya broke my concentration.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. What were you doing?”

“I don’t remember anymore. I was trying to concentrate and you broke my concentration and now my concentration is shot. My confidence ain’t doin’ too good neither.”

The concentration guy had a thick Brooklyn accent. And he wasn’t kidding. He really lacked concentration. Self-confidence, too.

“Ya’d think dis’d be good f’me, y’know? When dey brought me here, I was 0-9 against ’em. 0-9! I’m the one guy dey could beat and dey brought me here. Now I don’t beat nobody. Maybe it’s God’s will.”

“STOW THAT CRAP!”

The defeated Brooklyn guy had a roommate, I guess. He was in full catcher’s gear and barking. I got the feeling he barked at everybody. “YOU: PITCH BETTER! DON’T GIMME ANY OF THAT ‘CONCENTRATION’ BULL! I WANNA WIN! DON’T MAKE ME TACKLE YOU AGAIN!”

“Sorry, Dude.”

“AND YOU” the barking guy barked at me. “WHAT DO YOU WANT?”

I don’t respond well to yelling but somehow I felt bad for this Dude. He really wanted to succeed but it was obvious nothing was going to happen to his satisfaction for quite some time.

“Um, I was looking for somebody and I probably have the wrong room.”

“THEN FIND THE RIGHT ROOM! DON’T BE A LOSER ALL YOUR LIFE!” He choked up and started to sob. “I’M NOT A LOSER! I’M GOING TO MAKE EVERYBODY AROUND ME BETTER. JUST YOU WAIT!”

I patted him on the back. Poor guy. Still and all, this wasn’t the room I was looking for, so I kind of backed out toward the door.

“Hey, did you want something?” asked the guy who plead no-concentration. “I don’t remember because I can’t concentrate. 0-9. Go figyah.”

I was back in the hall. I was going to knock on 27 but I heard something that sounded a lot like rolfing and decided not to find out what that entailed. Instead I chose 16.

“Yo.”

“Hi, I’m looking for somebody…”

“Must be me.” The Bee Gees were blasting in the background. “C’mon in. I’ll sign a poster for ya.”

Sure enough, the guy had his own poster. He was the only one I’d seen here with such a thing. Had a lot of mirrors in his room. From what I could tell, he needed them.

“Ya got here just in time,” he told me while he fixed his hair.

“I did?”

“Yeah. I’m goin’ to 2001 in a little while.”

It took me a moment to realize he was talking about a night club, not the floor.

“They love me there. All the broads wanna be with me. All the fellas wanna be me.”

“Guys from here you mean?”

He laughed. “You kiddin’? They’re barely stayin’ alive with or without me. How deep is our batting order?”

I thought it was a rhetorical question. It wasn’t.

“I’ll tell you how deep is our batting order…it’s me.”

He turned off the Bee Gees and grabbed a Sharpie from the bureau. “Now how ya want me to make out this poster. To your sister?”

I told him I’d take a raincheck.

“Suit yourself, though you won’t find nearly as nice a suit as I’m wearing.” True enough, I hadn’t noticed that he had donned a really nice white polyester number. I think he bought it as part of a two-for-one at Bonds. “Whoa, it’s like an inferno in here. Burn baby burn!”

He was gone in a puff of smoke. When it cleared, I came to a room that had no number. In fact, the door was open. There were a bunch of guys drinking and laughing and, to the naked eye, having a great time.

“Hey,” one of them shouted, “come on in! They call you up, too?”

They had mistaken me for one of them. I didn’t see how since I was old, out of shape and by no means athletic. But I thought if I could blend in maybe I could find my way to who I was looking for.

“Uh, yeah. Just called up. On the phone. Next thing I knew…”

“Hey,” one of them asked. “Did they call you collect, too? Cheap bastards.”

Everybody laughed. They passed a bottle of tequila around. When it got to me, I took a swig. It was nasty stuff.

“Yeah,” one of them said. “This is no life for a ballplayer, staying here with this team at this hotel. You know we’re not even gonna draw 800 this year?”

“I hadn’t heard.”

“But what do you expect? C’mon fellas, let’s tell the new guy…on the count of three…”

They counted to three and let out a hearty “WE SUCK!”

I laughed along but for all of us it was tears of a clown stuff. I didn’t recognize the faces but I saw all their equipment bags — no bigger than gym bags — lined up against a wall. The names were as interchangeable as the faces:

KOBEL…ELLIS…HASSLER…TWITCHELL…CARDENAL…FLORES…MURRAY…DWIGHT FUCKING BERNARD…

That’s what it actually said, I swear.

I didn’t want to hang out with these guys. They were having a good time, all right. Too good a time. I never saw so many people so happy that they sucked so much. I backed out into the hall, shaking my head

“They’re not happy, you know.”

A small figure approached. He put a hand on my right shoulder as if to comfort me. “They’re not happy. They merely laugh to keep from crying. To keep from realizing where they are and how powerless they are in these circumstances.”

Such wise words from such a diminutive (5′-7″, 145 lbs.) man.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Think of me as your guide.”

“My guide?”

“Yes, you need a guide. I know of your quest and I am here to lead you down the hall, as it were, to where you need to be.”

“Gee, thanks.” Like a lot of the faces I’d encountered here on 1979, he looked familiar but didn’t seem disconcerting or upsetting. I almost wanted to smile at the sight of him.

Who could possibly be prowling 1979 to make it seem almost bearable? Who awaits us in the Sixth Circle of Met Hell? Why can’t we find a blog host that will allow us to post Hellishly long entries all in one shot? Find out in the exciting conclusion that follows.

When Part I of our journey ended, we were greeted by a guide who promised to help us find what we were looking for. We now return you to floor 1979 of the Windsor Hotel to discover who resides very much alone in the Sixth Circle of Met Hell.

“Say, you wouldn’t happen to be…”

“That is right. I am Sergio Ferrer.”

It was! It was Sergio Ferrer!

“Hey, I remember you!”

“Yes, I know you do.”

“You’re the guy who me and my friend Joel…” Here I tailed off because I was about to tell him that in high school Joel Lugo and I had adopted Sergio Ferrer as the mascot, the symbol of the Mets as they stood as we ended tenth grade and began eleventh. It wasn’t complimentary.

“It’s all right. I know what you thought of me.”

“Well, I’m sorry, Mr. Ferrer…”

“Call me Sergio.”

“I’m sorry, Sergio. We were kids and the whole team seemed so absurd and futile and…”

“And I was most absurd and futile of all, no?”

“Well your batting average in 1979 was .000.”

“I walked twice. On Base Percentage wasn’t yet in vogue, but I walked twice.”

“Sergio, you batted .000 for the entire year.”

“I had some hard-hit balls. Remember the ten-run inning against the Reds?”

Did I remember the ten-run inning against the Reds? Of course I did. It was the 1979 Mets’ finest hour. It may have lasted an hour. It might have gone on forever except Sergio Ferrer made the last out.

“Ray Knight robbed me. That thing was going down the line.”

“Sergio, you batted .000 for the entire year.”

“I scored a run in that inning.”

“You were pinch-running for Ron Hodges.”

“How many runs you score for the Mets that year?”

“I’ll never forget Steve Albert’s call. ‘Even Sergio Ferrer is going to get a hit!’ But you didn’t.”

“What’s your point?”

“You were practically an object of derision to your own team’s announcer and he was a really bad announcer.”

“So?”

“Sergio, you batted .000 for the entire year.”

“It was only seven at-bats.”

“And on a team that lost 99 games you only rated seven at-bats.”

“So?”

“So what does that tell you?”

I felt bad that the conversation had gone this way. I didn’t really blame Sergio Ferrer for 1979. He was right. He was a bit player. He wasn’t why I had come all this way. If anything, I liked Sergio Ferrer then and now. What wasn’t to like? Except for the .000 batting average for an entire year.

“You know, Sergio, you’re right. You were one of the good ones.”

“That’s what I tried to tell them, but I wound up here with the rest of them. At least I tried, y’know? Elliott Maddox couldn’t wait to get out. He was all, ‘I’m really a Yankee, I made a big mistake.'”

“I know. I hated reading that after the fact!”

“And didja see how bored Willie Montañez looked that second year?”

“I did!”

“And Frank Taveras? Sure, he could run, but did he ever run after ground balls?”

“I was at a game where he struck out five times!”

“What about Mike Scott?”

I bristled at the thought. “That cheating bastard.”

“Sure, later. But do ya think he ever thought to try sandpaper when he was a rookie? He never wanted to be in New York. Even though they kept reasonably quiet about it while it was happening, almost none of them did. I don’t know why not. It’s not like there was any pressure. Did you know that we didn’t even draw 800 that entire year?”

This seemed to be a big bone of contention on 1979, that the paid attendance at Shea Stadium was all of 788,905. The largest market in the country, the proud National League tradition and fewer than 800,000 people bought tickets.

“I was four of those 788,905,” I told him as if to regain his trust.

“I know you were.”

“And if I had been older, I probably would’ve been more.”

“I know you would’ve been. You and I may have our differences on what I did then…”

“Sergio, you batted .000 for the entire year.”

“…but I know your heart is true. Not that will do you much good here, eh?”

With that, we arrived at end of the hall, to what Sergio Ferrer said was my destination. No more false starts or dead ends. I was in the deepest, darkest corner of 1979. Time to confront my Demon.

The number on the door read 3. Sergio knocked on it and called inside. “Hey, Digger, man! You got company!” He turned to me and wished me good luck. I was gonna need it. With that, Sergio disappeared from view. He was still batting .000 for 1979, but he was OK in my book.

It was a different story regarding the figure who opened Door No. 3.

“Yeah?”

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

This was awkward. The man inside didn’t look too happy to see me. He didn’t look too happy in general. But he wasn’t shooing me away or anything. Looked like he had nowhere else to go.

“Uh, mind if I come in?”

“Suit yourself. I’ve got nothing but time.”

I entered his room. The very first installment of SportsCenter, from September 7, 1979, was on the television. No sound. “TV works,” said the room’s occupant. “But the clicker is broken.”

Too bad the sound wasn’t on. There was a long, awkward silence as we watched a continuous loop of Pirate and Phillie highlights. I’d once heard the original SportsCenter actually showed no highlights but the Windsor apparently had its own feed.

“Lucky bastards,” my host grumbled.

“How’s that?”

“Pittsburgh. Philadelphia. Look at ’em. They’re contenders.”

“What do you care about them?” I was irritated by the tone in his voice and my irritation gave way to emboldenment. “You’re a Met.”

“Don’t remind me.”

At last we got to the heart of the matter. This is why I journeyed all the way to this particular hotel in this particular Circle of Hell — the Sixth — and this particular floor — 1979.

“I wish you wouldn’t talk that way.”

“What’s it to ya?”

“I’m a Mets fan.”

“So?”

“That doesn’t mean anything to you?”

“Should it?”

The nerve of this guy. He grabbed a bat and started swinging as if in the on-deck circle. I thought it was a bat. It was actually a spade, the kind a gravedigger might use.

“Listen, no offense…”

“No offense. Coming from you, what else is new?”

“Hey, that’s a low blow. I led the team in RBIs.”

“You were tied.”

“Nobody had more.”

“You had a lousy 79.”

“Who was I supposed to drive in? Ferrer?”

“Flynn had 61 and he was batting eighth.”

“Whaddaya want from me?”

Yes, what did I want from him? What did I want from the man who stood before me so disillusioned, so down, so damned? He looked so much more comfortable with the shovel than I remembered him being with a bat.

“I want you to apologize.”

“To who?”

“To us. To me.”

“To you? For what? Look, you may not like that there weren’t many men on base for me or that I tailed off dramatically in the second half or that I practically invented The Wave by the way I merely motioned toward hard grounders to either side of me as they traveled to the outfield or that I lost my temper one day when you were there and gave the crowd my special salute…”

“You know, you’re not making a case for yourself here.”

“What I’m getting at is it wasn’t my fault.”

I was incredulous. It was one thing to suck. Sucking was rampant up and down this hallway. Supporting those who sucked became a badge of honor for me and for Joel and for however many of the 788,905 who never gave up more than a quarter-century ago. Well, we gave up but we never gave out. We remained Mets fans no matter how bad things got, through all 99 losses, despite finishing 35 out of first and 17 out of fifth and no matter how dumb and dopey the vast majority of our peers accused us of being.

It was one thing to suck. It was another thing to not own up.

“How can you say that?”

“Well, it wasn’t.”

“You say you have lots of time on your hands here. Explain.”

“First off, we sucked.”

“We’ve established that.”

“Everybody and everything sucked. That fucking mule. The time our game was called for fog. The time somebody called time to go to the bathroom and the game had to be picked up the next day. The way nobody came. The way they couldn’t even have Orosco’s uniform ready for Opening Day. Those crazy ladies. Did you know they wanted to reuse the balls from BP in the games?”

“Do you really think I’d come all the way here if I hadn’t read Jack Lang’s book?”

“It was so goddamn depressing. There was no talent. Haven’t you looked around here?”

Geez, what did he think I’d been doing since I got the Windsor. Joe Torre’s running around the lobby trying to fix everything but he has no clue. Ed Kranepool’s been here too long and Jesse Orosco got here too soon. Mike Scott and Neil Allen and Kelvin Chapman, too. There’s nobody in 41, which is where the problem started. Next door I find all the ex-Reds: Zachry, Flynn, Henderson, Norman, Youngblood. They were lost souls before they ever checked in. Falcone? Never could concentrate. Stearns? Always was chippy. Swannie? Always had a hunch he was more a rolfer than a pitcher, not that he was a terrible pitcher. Mazzilli? He wasn’t Tony Oliva and he wasn’t Tony Manero. Everybody else? It’s like George Washington told the Continental Congress: I begin to notice many of us are lads under 15 and old men, none of whom could truly be called soldiers.

“Yeah, I’ve looked around.”

“So why you picking on me?”

“Because…”

“What? Say it. SAY IT!”

“BECAUSE YOU, RICHIE FUCKING HEBNER, SAID YOU DIDN’T WANT TO BE A MET, NEVER EVEN PRETENDED YOU WERE HAPPY TO BE A MET AND COULDN’T WAIT TO STOP BEING A MET!”

I felt better.

“That’s it? That’s what you’re so pissed off about for more than 25 years? That’s the rock you’ve been carrying on your shoulder since 1979?”

“Yes.”

“You think I was the only one?”

“No.”

“Fuckin’ A right ‘No.’ You found out that Elliott Maddox regretted being a Met, that Mike Scott was never comfortable in New York that Frank Taveras was marking time.”

“Yes, I found that out.”

“So I ask you again, why do you have in for me, Richie Hebner?”

“Because you were the only one who was so fucking obvious about it back when it was going on.”

“Don’t I get credit for honesty? I said I didn’t want to be traded here.”

“You’re not supposed to say stuff like that! Not when I’m 16 years old and still believe the Mets are full of Mets who like being Mets.”

“Look kid…” — suddenly I was ‘kid’ to him — “…sorry to bust your bubble, but that’s life. I grew up in the family funeral business, so I know something about how there are no happy endings. Why waste a lot of breath on happy talk when we’re all gonna die?”

OK, this was getting morbid.

“Jesus, Hebner, will you listen to yourself? Baseball is the annual rite of renewal and spring and all that and you’re sitting here totally plunging me into the morass?”

“Well, how do ya think I felt? I’d been a Pirate for eight full seasons and we won five division championships. Then I signed with the Phillies and we won two more division championships. I was the starting third baseman on the team that won the 1971 World Series. I played with Roberto Clemente and Willie Stargell and then with Mike Schmidt and Steve Carlton. I was on some of the best teams of my time. I was a winner! And then on March 27, 1979, with like a week to go before Opening Day, I’m traded to the last place New York Mets. Their best player was Chico Escuela. Spring training was almost over! So don’t tell me about how great spring is.”

For a second, he had me going. Everything he said was true. His number had actually been retired by Pittsburgh. Technically, it was retired for Pie Traynor but they took forever to do it so Hebner got to wear it. I had always looked at him as a good player when he was with the Pirates and the Phillies. I was excited when we got him for Nino Espiñosa. I was overjoyed to watch him on Opening Day 1979 when he got four hits and four RBIs and the Mets won for what seemed like the last time all year. I told him this.

“I always looked at you as a good player when you were with the Pirates and the Phillies. I was excited when we got you for Nino Espiñosa. I was overjoyed to watch you on Opening Day 1979 when you got four hits and four RBIs and the Mets won for what seemed like the last time all year. I’m telling you this.”

“So you see what I’m saying.”

“I absolutely do not.”

“What part?”

“All of it. It’s bullshit!”

“What do you mean?”

“If you were a good player, you’d go to the team you were traded to and say, ‘all right, how can I make my new team better?’ Instead, you were like every dick in every gym class who looked pained that the gym teacher assigned him to a team with the likes of me. You don’t whine and sulk and pout and let every fan know right away that you hate being where you are.”

“Well I did hate being where I was.”

“Do you hate being where you are, too? At the Windsor? In the Sixth Circle of Met Hell? Forever trapped on 1979 and in 1979? Do you hate knowing that as far as Faith and Fear in Flushing is concerned, you were never traded for Phil Mankowski and Jerry Morales, two non-prizes to put it mildly but at least they weren’t you? Do you hate knowing that even though I have a baseball card saying you became hitting coach of the Durham Bulls that in fact you will forever be the crappy third baseman on the crappy 1979 Mets and that you can sit in this crappy hotel room with your Pirate and Phillie highlights watching those teams go on and win without you while you finger your gravedigging shovel and stew in your own resentment? Do you hate all that?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

“Well too fucking bad!”

I walked out and slammed the door behind me. Man, that felt good! I opened the fire exit and it led me right out onto the street. I hailed a cab and asked the driver to take me to Dorval Airport. I was out of Met Hell. Nothing was gonna stop me now. Got my boarding pass, sailed by customs, got on my flight to LaGuardia. Found my row. I was given a middle seat, but the flight was fairly empty, so I wasn’t too worried. They got through reading the emergency instructions and I figured I was home free.

Not so fast. Two large men appeared and told me that they had the respective window and aisle seats. They looked pretty much alike to me. Both pretty big, both kind of obnoxious. One was a few years older and probably a few pounds heavier than the other. They each alternated dopey grins with suspicious grimaces. They literally rubbed me the wrong the way. I hate the middle seat. But I was happy to have emerged from the Sixth Circle of Met Hell, so I tried to make the best of it.

“So,” I asked, “you fellas looking forward to getting to New York?”

“Oh no, this flight isn’t going to New York,” said the window passenger. I gulped.

“He’s right,” the aisle passenger said to me. I breathed hard.

“Uh, where are we headed?”

They both laughed Devilishly and answered in unison.

“This,” they informed me, “is the flight to the Seventh Circle of Met Hell.”

Oh no.

The Sixth Circle of Met Hell is still being wrangled. You'd think with temperatures in the 20s that it would be fun to warm up there, but it's a job.

In the meantime, we get letters, this one from reader Joel Fradin. He knows who he wants to play second for Los Metropolitanatos en el Nuevo Año. It's not Japan's greatest shortstop, it's not the 1-for-18 guy and it's not the man whom a dear friend who used to post here refers to as Mark Unpronounceable.

Joel Fradin, tell 'em who you want:

I suspect the Mets hierarchy is influenced by blogs like yours. Do me a favor: please publicize the fact that Kepp has hit everywhere he has been, including 30 games in the bigs. He's a younger Grudz and deserves a full shot. Please help.

Not exactly a long-distance dedication, but there ya go, Joel. If Omar Minaya is the least bit influenced by the Faith and Fear Faithful's call for Jeff Keppinger, I'll be a Mookie's uncle. But thanks for your confidence in our pull.

For our next trick, we'll roll back box seat prices to 1977 levels and revive Banner Day. Of course my banner will require like twelve bedsheets.

Back to Hell…

I go marginally soft on Bernie Williams at Gotham Baseball. I think it's out of releaser's remorse where Mike is concerned.

The New York Mets today signed 47-year-old Julio Franco to a senior league contract. He will report to their Frostproof, Fla. affiliate in time for the early-bird special.

OK, got that out of my system. Y'know what else is out of my system?

Cairo, DeFelice, Graves, Mientkiewicz, Offerman, Heredia, Takatsu and — this should send everybody dancing into the snow barefoot — Gerald Williams. Looper, too. (Not so sanguine about the disappearing of Robero Hernandez, but you can't have every old thing.)

We talked about dead roster spots in the second half of last season. Episodes of deadwood, really. Julio Franco's older than them all…combined. And that's not counting his real age, whatever it is (it probably ain't 47). He calls Jose Valentin “kid”. He calls Jose Reyes “as yet unborn”. Remember that charming story about how Lou Brock mistook Tom Seaver for the clubhouse boy at the 1967 All-Star Game and Seaver, awed, brought him a soda?

Big deal. Julio Franco does that sort of thing every day. Leo Mazzone spent the last five years leaving Geritol by his locker and waiting for tips.

YES, he's old. And YES, that's the stuff of about a jillion obvious jokes for us slightly younger middle-aged unathletic sorts. I'm not going to crack any more of them until further notice because last I checked, that old bastard could hit. It probably helped he was wearing an Atlanta uniform, but he's doin' somethin' right. (“Doin' somethin'” is the necessary construction here because the practice of spellin' words so they'd end in “ing” hadn't been invented when Julio was comin' up.)

As for Jose Valentin, I'll tell you what I know about him:

1) He put up great power numbers before injuries curtailed him.

2) That's the sort of thing we acquired Mo Vaughn based on EXCEPT Jose Valentin isn't penciled in as our cleanup hitter.

3) He's not John Valentin, a mistake I commonly made before John Valentin summered here in 2002.

4) I once sat in a hotel room in the vicinity of O'Hare, breathing in fumes and straining to pull in a staticky Mets-Brewers game from Milwaukee and heard Bob Uecker continually refer to the Mets manager as Bobby Valentin.

If I haven't mentioned it before, I'm psyched for Tike Redman. This is based completely on two performances against us, Bob Murphy Night when he got three hits and Murphy's Law Night last July in Pittsburgh. What could go wrong did go wrong, though Tike was as responsible as ex-Met Braden Looper for that. If he doesn't produce for us as he did against us, it will take me months to acknowledge it. “Don't you remember what he did to us? He's GREAT!”

Of course he may literally not do a damn thing for us. A year ago we were probably cooking up snarky lines on our own about Kerry Robinson, Ron Calloway, Luis Garcia and The Old Cat Andres Galarraga. They wound up not helping us but they didn't hurt us a bit.

It's December. We've got Julio Franco. I hear the cold works wonders at preserving old treasures.