It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart.

It is the Mets Final Exam. It asks you on Halloween to see through the secret identities of 44 Mets who played their final game for the Mets in one of the 44 different seasons the Mets have played, one player per each Mets season. It chooses Election Day to unmask them and show you who they really are. Infer what you will about the timing.

This heartbreaking quiz had its share of pain for the administrator who admittedly slipped, slid and stumbled on five separate questions, twice tripping up on detail, twice not properly clarifying his clues and once out-and-out giving you the wrong question (which has since been simultaneously replaced and reborn as a bonus query). I thank the readers who pointed out my foibles and continued to take the test despite my chipped credibility.

I wanted this to be hard, but after a couple of days I had a hunch that it was too hard, so in the great tradition of Cablevision's public access channels at Regents time, I offered Extra Help. I have to admit I had gone from “oh boy, they'll never get this one” to “oh no, they'll never get this one” and I began to feel kind of bad about that. There's a dark side to me, an ugly sliver of my disposition that wants you to know I know something you don't know. But my ultimate joy is in sharing that piece of data so we both end up knowing it and can talk about it 'til we're blue and orange in the face. (I like learning stuff, too, so feel free to stump me and show me up.) I would never keep baseball secrets from my fellow Mets fans. Not for more than a week and change anyway.

Time's up, fellas. Drop your masks and reveal yourselves.

WHO I AM

1. Given my gang-member background, I was thought to be a dangerous dude to have around two other young African-American players, so I was traded after I helped the Mets win a World Series. Though I got no hits in the final game, I made its existence possible with a big hit in the tenth inning of the previous game, Game Six. According to legend, I got that hit while wearing nothing underneath my uniform pants (I allegedly gave up on the season and was back in the clubhouse making plane reservations home). I'd later win an MVP award for another team while the teammates I had to be separated from — Darryl Strawberry and Dwight Gooden — found other influences. My name is Kevin Mitchell and my final game as a Met came on October 27, 1986.

2. I came to the Mets in a loud deal that involved multiple players and a guy who would win a big award, the National League MVP of 1989. And I left the Mets in a loud deal involving multiple players and a guy who won a big award, the American League Cy Young of 1985 and 1989. But eventually I came back in a manner befitting my personality: practically mum. A players' strike curtailed my last season and I doubt anybody noticed that I didn't return when play resumed. My name is Kevin McReynolds and my final game as a Met came on August 11, 1994.

3. My best years as a Met came early in the club's existence. I came back for another go-round that ended just as things were getting good. By the end of that particular season, I was second to Tom Seaver on the all-time Met victory list with 43 wins. My name is Al Jackson and my final game as a Met came on May 22, 1969.

4. I was at my best in the mid-'70s, winning a Cy Young Award in 1976 and finishing second in the voting to Tom Seaver in 1975. The Mets waited several years after my peak to acquire me. My name is Randy Jones and my final game as a Met came on September 7, 1982.

5. Though Hall of Famers like Johnny Bench and Carlton Fisk had the privilege of catching Tom Seaver, it was I who caught him more than anybody. If you were filling in your scorecard when The Franchise started, he was 1 and I, more than any other receiver, was 2. My name is Jerry Grote and my final game as a Met came on August 23, 1977.

6. My first start in the Major Leagues was the same night the Mets honored their Hall of Fame broadcaster, Bob Murphy, on the occasion of his final game. My brother Tom was thrilled to find me at first because he was pitching. It was like we were kids again! And though I was the starting first-sacker, the guy who finished the night at that position — though I'd hardly call him my caddy — was none other than Mike Piazza. My career ended three days later, but it was a memorable ride. My name is Mike Glavine and my final game as a Met came on September 28, 2003.

7. I pitched for the Tigers before they won the World Series. Detroit was the first of nine Major League stops for me. The Mets were my last, a good seven years after I won the National League Cy Young Award and set a record for most appearances (106) in one season. My name is Mike Marshall and my final game as a Met came on October 2, 1981.

8. In many ways, my career parallels that of all-time Mets great Jerry Koosman. But my big years were 1968, when I went 3-0 in the World Series despite laboring in the shadow of Denny McLain, and 1971, when I lost the American League Cy Young Award to Vida Blue. I'm yet another pitcher who the Mets picked up when he was past his prime, though I mostly pitched in hard luck, going 8-13 but with a decent (for then) 3.22 ERA. The Mets got me in exchange for Rusty Staub, who'd become best remembered as a pinch-hitter deluxe. When Rusty came back to the Mets (I was long retired by then), he wore two batting gloves but rarely a fielder's mitt. My name is Mickey Lolich and my final game as a Met came on September 20, 1976.

9. I wasn't a Met for very long. I was only with New York — essentially rented from the Angels at the end of my contract — because Ron Darling had gotten hurt against St. Louis and we were short a starter. In my brief Met tenure, I went 2-0 with a 5.84 ERA. My name is John Candelaria and my final game as a Met came on September 28, 1987.

10. Yes, I gave up a double to Frank Robinson that scored Pete Rose and Vada Pinson in the middle of very important pennant race game for their team, the Reds. (Can you believe Robinson is managing all these years later?) I'm better known for surrendering a home run to Roger Maris at Yankee Stadium in 1961. It was his 61st. My name is Tracy Stallard and my final game as a Met came on September 27, 1964.

BONUS: I used to be the answer to Question No. 10 before Greg realized that what he thought was my final game as a Met was really just the final game of my first tour of duty with the Mets. Too bad, because in that game, I beat the Houston Colt 45s and — get this — Don Larsen, 3-0. That's beautiful because my nickname was The Yankee Killer (derived from my success as a Tiger) and I defeated the man who threw a perfect game for the Yanks in the 1956 World Series. If Interleague play had been around when I played, I'll bet Mets fans would've adored me. As it was, I was traded to the Braves about a week after I beat Larsen. My name is Frank Lary and what Greg thought was my final game as a Met came on July 31, 1964. The Mets got me back in 1965 and traded me in mid-season to the White Sox where I finished up. I can't be the answer for 1964 and I'm not the answer for 1965, so never mind.

11. In 1965, which was Casey Stengel's last year of managing the Mets, he said something really nice about Ed Kranepool, that he was 20, but in ten years he had a chance to be a star. Casey couldn't just leave it that. Referring to me, the skipper added that I was 20 and in ten years I'd have a chance to be 30. Thanks for the vote of confidence, Case (and by the way, I was 19 when you said that). Still, I hung around the Mets for a few more years before catching on with the expansion Pilots. In 1975, I got to where Casey always said I would. I turned 30. My name is Greg Goossen and my final game as a Met came on July 16, 1968.

12. I may have finished as the Mets' second baseman, but I played a good year-and-a-half at third. The promotion of David Wright rendered my services unnecessary. My name is Ty Wigginton, and my final game as a Met came on July 29, 2004.

13. If Mets fans remember me, they'll remember me for two things. One, the Mets almost never scored for me, particularly in 1968 when we were shut out in five of my first seven starts. And two, I hailed from one of the most unusually named hometowns in America: Lost Nation, Iowa. My name is Jim McAndrew and my final game as a Met came on September 15, 1973.

14. To be fair, the Mets didn't just get some kid in exchange for me — they got The Kid. It's the only reason you'd trade a player who came up and hit .407 as a September callup, don'tcha think? Alas, I went with Hubie Brooks, Mike Fitzgerald and Floyd Youmans to Montreal for Gary Carter. My name is Herm Winningham and my final game as a Met came on September 30, 1984.

15. I'm known for a lot of things in baseball, my playing career as a Met not being one of things I'm most not remembered for. I was retired as a player for a full year before joining the Mets. My on-field comeback was short on length (all of four games), something else that's little-remembered by those with a long memory. Perhaps I'm most famous for declaring that there are various degrees of finality befitting a situation that looks hopeless but still appears to have some hope when you look at it. So when I say “it was over,” I mean it. Because, you see, it was me who told the world that it ain't over 'til it's over. My name is Yogi Berra and my final game as a Met came on May 9, 1965.

16. When I broke my left wrist sliding toward second against the Cubs, it ended my Met career, one that had been promising (got three hits my first night and the Mets got themselves a division title) and intermittently productive. I played both first and third as a Met, finding a home, I thought, at first, until the front office brought in future Hall of Famer Eddie Murray. Then I found myself back at third. Anyway, I was more a hitter (.328 one year) than a fielder. Then I was no longer a Met. I enjoyed nine more seasons with six other teams before hanging 'em up in 2001. My name is Dave Magadan and my final game as a Met came on August 8, 1992.

17. My whole Met career was weird, but right away I helped the team get to the playoffs, hitting .315 in the process, so I was allowed my idiosyncrasies for a while. It was my second year when things really went sour. On a Friday night against the Marlins, I hit a ball to deep left. I thought it was gone, so I went into a trot. Instead, it bounced off the base of the wall and I was held to a very long single. The manager and the GM had seen enough. I only got into the next afternoon's game because the Mets were running out of players (they used a pitcher to pinch-hit that day). When my plaque goes up in Cooperstown, this incident will not be engraved. My name is Rickey Henderson, and my final game as a Met came on May 13, 2000.

18. If you've read Jane Leavy's biography of Sandy Koufax (and if you haven't, you should — it's probably the best baseball biography of recent years), you'll know she weaves the story of Koufax's life around the narrative of Sandy's best outing, his perfect game of September 9, 1965. I was the opposing pitcher on that occasion and I threw my greatest game: a complete game one-hitter. The only run I gave up was unearned. I wasn't perfect. He was. I was a Cub then. Two years later, I'd end my career as a Met. My name is Bob Hendley and my final game as a Met came on September 3, 1967.

19. Not unlike Johnny Cash, I've been everywhere, man. I've been with San Diego, Cleveland, St. Louis, Cincinnati, Tampa Bay, Seattle, Boston, Arizona, Long Island and a team in Japan. Some of those organizations dumped me before I could play a game that counted for them. My most recent stop was with Washington where as a National I had evolved into a reliable pinch-hitter and occasional cleanup hitter of all things. And of course I was once a Met. For them, I had a bad last day. Shoot, we all had a bad last week, losing five in a row and blowing our grip on the National League Wild Card. My name is Carlos Baerga and my final game as a Met came on September 27, 1998.

20. The Chicago White Sox led the Los Angeles Angels three games to one when the Halos handed me the ball for Game Five of the 2005 American League Championship Series. I won Game One for them, but Game Five didn't go as well and we lost the pennant. Still, I had come a long way since my generally undistinguished Met tenure. My name is Paul Byrd and my final game as a Met came on September 29, 1996.

21. The Mets were teetering on the edge of contention extinction when they traded a starting outfielder to get me for an unlikely Wild Card push. It didn't work out. Later on, I'd go to their nemesis, the Braves, and I would work out great for them. So what else is new? My name is John Thomson and my final game as a Met came on September 27, 2002.

22. Technically, I'm not an ex-Met yet, but considering that a) they took on the final year of my contract only to get rid of one they wanted even less, b) I was diagnosed with a serious injury that curtailed my season to three appearances and c) I've been suspended for steroid use, I don't expect to be back. My name is Felix Heredia and my final game as a Met all but certainly came on April 18, 2005.

23. The guy I was traded for had 8 inches and 151 Met home runs on me, so, no, I didn't measure up. Yet in the scheme of things, Mets fans will almost certainly manage to remember me more fondly (or at least more strongly) than they do Dave Kingman. My name is Bobby Valentine and my final game as a Met came on September 29, 1978.

24. You know why my last Mets' pitching appearance was so darn representative of all my Mets pitching appearances? Because it was my only Mets pitching appearance. I was extremely versatile my one year as a Met, playing second, short and third…and even pitching once when we were hopelessly behind. Unlike the other Met position players to trudge to the mound (Bill Pecota, Matt Franco, Derek Bell and Todd Zeile), I delivered the goods. Three up, three down, baby. My name is Desi Relaford and my final game as a Met came on October 7, 2001.

25. I wasn't Tug McGraw but I was traded for Tug McGraw. We were the lefty relievers who swapped sides in the six-player deal that also brought the Mets John Stearns and Del Unser. Considering that the Mets gave up their one of their most legendary characters and greatest pitchers to get me, you'd figure they'd give me more than one batter to prove myself, but that was it. I gave up a game-winning hit to Richie Hebner and next thing I knew, I was traded to Cincinnati for Tom Hall. Ya gotta believe my Met appearances weren't plentiful. My name is Mac Scarce and my final game as a Met came on April 11, 1975.

26. Yeah, I was quite the winner, playing for seven division champions in nine years before being traded to a Mets team that had no shot with or without me. Playing in New York reminded me of my offseason job, which was digging graves. With my attitude and generally crummy play, I suppose I dug my own grave with the Mets. Whatever. I just wanted out. My name is Richie Hebner and my final game as a Met came on September 30, 1979.

27. I know what you're thinking: Bud Harrelson. No doubt about it, Bud Harrelson wore No. 3 with more distinction than any Met ever has. But I didn't say I wore that number, I just said it was what I was synonymous with. I suppose Jim Hickman, Dave Kingman, Gary Carter, Darryl Strawberry and Edgardo Alfonzo might claim that, too, but they probably did other things as a Met besides hit three home runs in one game. Honestly, that's all I can remember doing for the team. My name is Claudell Washington and my final game as a Met came on October 3, 1980.

28. My dossier sounds a bit like Harrelson's, except Buddy went 0-for-2 in his last game. Sounds a bit like Rey Ordoñez, too, but Rey never made the All-Stars or got to the Series (and he was more annoying than feisty). My biggest years were with the Phillies, but I ended my playing days as a spare part for a Mets team that just missed the playoffs. I recently took a job with the Yankees, so there's even less reason to remember me as a Met. My name is Larry Bowa and my final game as a Met came on October 6, 1985.

29. Greg was so anxious to confuse you that he initially made me sound a lot like Kenny Rogers. Kenny, however, wasn't traded after giving up a very important run in a very important game against the Braves; he left as a free agent. And unlike Rogers, who was tagged with a loss in the sixth game of the 1999 NLCS, I was credited with the win in the fifth game, the one know better for Robin Ventura's grand slam single. What's sort of forgotten is I allowed the Braves to take the lead in the top of the fifteenth inning. At least I didn't give up anything else in my three innings of work, putting the Mets in a decent position to stage their miracle resurrection (is there any other kind?). Some people think I should've pitched again for the Mets, in the eleventh inning of Game Six instead of Kenny. Some people are saying that I might pitch for the Mets in 2006, but until that happens, that Game Five was my Met farewell. My name is Octavio Dotel and my final game as a Met came on October 17, 1999.

30. I was voted the most popular player on the worst team in history. Yea for me! Seriously, I was awarded a nice boat for my troubles. Of course I lived in Nebraska nowhere near water. Typical. No wonder I retired as soon as my one and only Met season was over. My name is Richie Ashburn and my final game as a Met came on September 30, 1962.

31. In all the excitement over Mookie Wilson's ground ball trickling through Bill Buckner's legs and scoring Ray Knight, it's easy to forget that there was a winning pitcher in Game Six of the 1986 World Series. That was me, despite giving up the two runs that made the bottom of the tenth such a desperate situation. I was usually a starter back then but was pitching in relief that night. I'd eventually become one of the best relievers in baseball, but was still getting the hang of that role at the end of my Met tenure. Things got better for me in Minnesota. My name is Rick Aguilera and my final game as a Met came on July 30, 1989.

32. Bringing up Joe Torre was meant to throw you off track. Because he's been such an icon of sanctimonious hegemony over the past decade, it's easy to forget he had a very long playing career. While it's true that Torre hit two homers and drove in three runs for the Braves on my last day with the Mets, I wanted words like “derailed” and “express” (and “off track” just now) to guide you. In addition to pointing you toward my nickname, I want you to know now that I didn't want you to know what I was thinking when I was playing, because, really, that's what I was most famous for: not saying anything worth a darn. None other than Ralph Kiner still likes to tell the story of how I came on his show and told him nothing. He asked me where I got my unusual nickname and I told him I didn't know. He asked my wife's name and “what's she like?” I told him, “her name's Mrs. Coleman, bub, and she likes me.” If you know your early Mets, you've figured me out because, for once, I've told you too much. My name is Choo Choo Coleman and my final game as a Met came on April 23, 1966.

33. Joe Torre had gone from the Braves to the Cardinals and was in the process of winning an MVP the night the Mets last used me to pitch. Nearly eight months later they used me for something bigger. When I asked you, “hey, what can I say?” I was hoping you'd put together “say” and “hey”. Then you'd understand that I was traded for the greatest player in the history of the National League. Imagine that: me (and a bundle of cash) for Willie Mays. I still can't believe it. My name is Charlie Williams and my final game as a Met came on September 27, 1971.

34. Those who absorb such things will remember me for dating the lead singer of a pop group whose hits included “Turn To You,” “We Got The Beat” and “Vacation”. Yes, I went out with Belinda Carlisle of the Go-Go's when they were hitting it big. Hitting it big…not something I did as a Met. No wonder Mets fans eventually went head over heels for Dave Magadan instead of me. My name is Mike Marshall and my final game as a Met came on July 12, 1990.

35. Granted, they named a candy bar after Reggie Jackson (1978) long before I made my Major League debut (1991), but I had a candy bar named after me (1917) long before I was born (1968). More saliently, I threw my only complete game of the season the day before I was traded in a six-player deal. My name is Mark Clark and final game as a Met came on August 7, 1997.

36. I collected six hits…as a batter…in my career. Those four hits I mentioned? Those were hits I gave up as a pitcher. Sorry if I misled you. If you were another pitcher, I would've been nicer to you. Those six hits came in 206 at-bats. That left me with a career batting average of .029. Yes, .029. That's the worst Major League batting average by any player with more than 100 plate appearances. Some time ago, I told the Scripps Howard News Service that such offensive lameness at least made me a better bunter. Wearing my trademark specs, I could at least see the sunny side of things. Incidentally, I never came to the plate as a Met but did go 2-2 in 12 relief appearances. My name is Ron Herbel and my final game as a Met came on September 30, 1970.

37. You probably know me for a number of things in Mets history. I rescued the team in one very famous game. Took a dive, but in an extremely fortuitous way. Mobile? I could run and I was from there. I also carry the distinction, if you want to call it that, of being the only Met to lead the team in base hits for a season with a total under 100. To be fair, we all missed a lot of time due to injuries that year, but even the severely strike-shortened seasons of '81 and '94 saw a Met get a hundred hits. Accumulating the least-most safeties is no way to stay safe from a trade, apparently, because the next thing I knew, despite all I did for this organization, I was sent to Houston for somebody named Rich Chiles. Fame isn't just fleeting. It's mobile. My name is Tommie Agee and my final game as a Met came on October 4, 1972.

38. Know why Mets fans are so suspicious of guys their front office trades for? It's because of guys like me and how my credentials get overblown. When I came over as part of a multiplayer swap, I was by no means the key component, but somebody — Joe McIlvane, I think — felt compelled to tell the press that I was “death on lefthanders”. That was incorrect. I was lefthanded and I was death to the Mets' chances of getting out of any inning I pitched in relief. In portions of the two seasons I was with New York, I allowed more than one of every three batters I faced to reach base. Does that sound like death on anybody? If McIlvane or Frank Cashen or whoever had said, “the Padres threw this guy in and we took him,” maybe I'd be remembered merely as a non-entity instead of as a symbol of raging bullpen ineptitude. My name is Gene Walter and my final game as a Met came on July 9, 1988.

39. Truth is I was a starter for only one of my six full Met seasons and it was only because the guy I was always behind was hurt. I batted .231 during my big opportunity and wound up back on the bench. Bench…as a hitter, there's somebody I'll never be mistaken for. But my thing was catching, and I did that for a long time with four different teams. My name is Duffy Dyer and my final game as a Met came on October 2, 1974.

40. Perhaps you've noticed that the Mets don't keep too many players around for more than a decade. But my Mets service spanned three decades. The trick is to 1) Come up late in one decade; 2) Hang on into a second decade; 3) Get traded and blossom elsewhere; 4) Get reacquired by the Mets on the downside of your career and the beginning of a third decade. That's more or less my story. Eventually, I lost all meaningful playing time to a big lummox at a position where I fielded really well. Because of him and his occasional home runs, I didn't get a single start my last year with the Mets. Then me and him were both deemed obsolete when the Mets got a first baseman who could field and hit. I caddied for Dave Kingman, was bumped by Keith Hernandez but can claim something neither of them can — a kinship with Babe Ruth. I was born the same day he died. My name is Mike Jorgensen and my final game as a Met came on June 14, 1983.

41. Terry Mulholland's been around forever. He gave up that home run to Piazza that capped the ten-run inning in 2000 but he was also pitching when I was playing and I was done before Mike ever made the big leagues. My career stretches back to the '70s. That's when people were predicting all-time greatness for me. I played really well (long before I became a Met, natch), but my reputation took a downturn after I took great offense at being named an All-Star reserve. I deserved to be the starting shortstop and made no bones about it. “If I ain't startin',” you might remember me saying, “I ain't departin'.” My name is Garry Templeton and my final game as a Met came on October 5, 1991.

42. I was traded for two guys, see? One of them, a minor leaguer who never made it to the bigs, got traded a few years later and helped bring back two guys. One of them became a Mets mainstay, playing a large role when they made the World Series in 2000; the other was packaged by the Mets for a player you could say the same thing about. The other guy I was traded for was a pitcher who didn't do all that much for the Mets, and he was traded for yet another guy about whom you could say the same thing. That guy went in a deal that brought over two more players. One of them was part of the Mets' 2000 National League championship edition. The other? He was traded for a guy who was traded for a guy who was also part of that 2000 club. So thanks to me, you eventually got Armando Benitez, Mike Hampton, Darryl Hamilton and Joe McEwing, 16% of a pennant-winning roster. Of course you had to launder (among others) Arnold Gooch, Roger Cedeño, Juan Acevedo, Rigo Beltran, Chuck McElroy and good ol' Jesse Orosco to get them. Did I say launder? That's funny. As a Met, I developed a peculiar attraction to bleach. My name is Bret Saberhagen and my final game as a Met came on July 29, 1995.

43. If the only times you ever saw me pitch were in the All-Star Game, you'd think of me as quite a reliever. I made two such squads and pitched out of the pen both times. Never gave up a run and even got a save. And if the only time you saw me pitch was in the World Series, you'd know me as a lights-out middleman. I turned around the deciding game of the Fall Classic one year with 2-1/3 innings of virtually spotless work. But if you're a Mets fan, you know that those were bullpen cameos and that I was a member of the Mets rotation for most of ten seasons. My name is Sid Fernandez and my final game as a Met came on October 2, 1993.

44. By making the final putout of the 2004 World Series, Doug Mientkiewicz did something a Red Sock hadn't done in more than eight decades. But it had been done. What I did, though…that was a first for the Red Sox, though it's hardly to their credit. Boston was the final team to add an African-American player to its roster. According to one account, “irate fans paraded around Fenway Park for three days protesting the Red Sox' refusal to bring [me] up from the minors.” Did you know they waited more than 12 years after Jackie Robinson made his debut with Brooklyn to give a black man a chance? That black man was indeed me. On July 21, 1959, I became the first African-American to play for the Red Sox. Unfortunately, my career was no match for that of Jackie Robinson or Jackie Jensen or Jackie Gleason even (a slight exaggeration; I hit .246 across parts of five seasons). When I finally made it to the big leagues, I was said to have “disappointed even [my] most ardent supporters by being unable to either hit Major League pitching or field Major League hitting.” I compounded those shortcomings by demonstrating an inability to travel with my Major League team. Gene Conley and I hopped off the team bus while the Red Sox were stuck in New York traffic in 1962 and went AWOL. We had a plan to board a flight to Israel, but that went awry and, to put it in a nutshell, I wasn't long for Boston. They traded me thereafter to a team that had just lost 120 games, the Mets. In Can't Anybody Here Play This Game?, Jimmy Breslin suggested that “anybody who does not stand up and root for [me], and root hard, simply has no taste for the good life.” My name is Pumpsie Green and my final game as a Met came on September 26, 1963.

The answers are flooding in. They're coming by comment, by e-mail, by posting in other venues. Many of them are correct. The help is helping. But there are a few runners being left stranded in scoring position on called third strikes.

While we await the Tuesday posting of final answers to the Mets Final Exam, I thought I'd let you know which questions nobody has proffered a guess on here or in any forum of which I'm aware (unless you want to count the guy who asked if shouting out Craig Swan 44 times would make him right once). Since these particular 19 questions have daunted so many, I thought I could drop an extra dollop of extra help.

If you haven't already, take a shot at these babies. Be a hero. Get 'em right. Get 'em wrong. But get 'em tried.

1. I would be a bigger deal to baseball at large after I left the Mets than I was when I was on the Mets.

2. My second Mets season was my best Mets season.

3. I was on the Mets before Tom Seaver was out of high school.

4. I was on the Mets after Tom Seaver was traded by the Mets but before Tom Seaver was traded to the Mets.

6. Somebody who wouldn't usually have a hand in player transactions played an enormous role in getting me on the Mets.

9. I pitched against the Mets a lot more than I pitched for them.

10. The player I gave up that last hit to is still managing.

11. What was said about me was probably the most interesting thing about my career.

13. If pitchers could really sue for non-support, then I'd have won the biggest cash settlement in Mets history.

16. My debut was a lot more memorable than my finale.

23. I literally didn't measure up to the guy I was traded for.

26. I spent only one year with the Mets; nobody was calling for an encore.

32. Joe Torre ruined my last game but he wasn't the Yankee manager, bub.

33. No matter what it sounds like, I was never an umpire.

36. You'll see I wasn't a Met for very long.

38. The Mets brought me in for a particular task and I failed miserably.

39. I spent one year as a starter for the Mets but that was dictated by the straits the team was in.

41. I had been an All-Star before becoming a Met.

42. I was an award-winner before coming to the Mets.

My teaching license is about to be revoked because I can't construct a test true to its mission.

Each question on the Mets Final Exam is supposed to correspond to one year and one year only in Mets history. HOWEVER, in my desire to offer answers that would be fun and enlightening, I didn't realize that my player for a particular year wasn't playing his final Met game in that particular year. The reason? He was a Recidivist Met. That is he left the Mets in the middle of one year (which I thought was it for him) but he came back in another year.

I'm annoyed with myself for the sloppiness but also sorry because he was one of my favorite answers. I'll reveal him on Tuesday as a bonus player with everything else (because he has one of the greatest nicknames ever in baseball), but for now, I have to give you another No. 10 for that year, so here goes.

10. The last pitch I threw as a Met was whacked for a double that scored two runs. Both the batter and one of the runners who scored were players who would go on to manage against the Mets. I'm most famous for a home run I gave up to another player in New York, one who never managed.

• As many of you have been doing since we posted Extra Help, decide what's most the important piece of information in the question and work from there.

And while we're at it, I've clarified Questions No. 29 and 31 based on readers' keen observation:

29. I gave up a very important run in a very important game versus the Braves. That was the last inning I pitched for the Mets. I was pitching elsewhere when the next season began after a trade.

31. I'd save my best for later, but I'd never win a bigger game than I once did for the Mets. As for my farewell to them, I walked off the mound having paved the way for my successor to surrender a game-losing homer in Chicago (I took the loss) and never looked back.

Sorry for the foul-ups. Must be all this damn football on television that's screwing with my reception. Or perception.

Geometry was never my strong suit. “Never” is an understatement. My only hope for not failing it in ninth grade and not having to repeat it in tenth was the New York State Regents exam, my Get Out of Jail card. Pass the Regents and pass the class.

I never could've done it without extra help. My mother hired a 12th grade National Honor Society student to tutor the hell out of me and I took every practice test I could find in every Barrons book I could lay a hand on. Thanks to all that help, I vaulted over the magic 65 needed to pass the Regents. I got a 71 on the statewide test and was given a 66 for the year. Passed geometry with an entire point to spare.

We all need help at certain endeavors. So consider me your Barrons guide if not exactly your personal David Fried (my patient, diligent geometry tutor of 27+ years ago who presumably went on to garner a Nobel Prize or two). The answers to the Mets Final Exam are scheduled to be posted Tuesday. I want to help you get as many as you can before then. We have the weekend to cram. I'm no David Fried, but maybe I can be your Billy Swan. I can help.

What you need to do is look for the words in each question that will trigger your Met memory. They are often as, if not more important than, the mundane facts surrounding the player's performance in his final game.

I've plucked out some phrases of note from each of the questions and will attempt to help you break them down. This may lead you to the answer directly or spark an idea of who to look for in your previously recommended resource material. (And don't forget that only one player corresponds to any year in Mets history.)

Let's have it, shall we?

1. influence…subject of debate…final hit as a Met was fairly influential…by no means understated

• This tells us that there was controversy about the guy but that he did something very important in a very unusual manner, one that's as much about Met lore as it is box score. That word understated has to be there for a reason. Take the word apart and think about its components. At least one of them must have something to do with the answer.

2. Some guys…loud deals that involve multiple players and guys who've won big awards… I went quietly…

• The loud-quiet dichotomy must have a purpose. The guy was known for being either really loud or really quiet. The part about trades tells us there's something more about this player's career than his exit, as if at some other point he was actually involved in the kind of deal that he says didn't end things for him. Also, think about the juxtaposition of this question as it relates to other questions on the test.

3. When the year I left the Mets was over…second to nobody except Tom Seaver

• He probably left before the season was over. Think of all the ways you can be second to all-time Mets great Tom Seaver at any given moment.

4. I had been second to nobody except Tom Seaver.

• All the ways you can come in second to Tom Seaver.

5. Seaver was 1, then I was 2.

• If you are a baseball linguist, give the wording here some thought.

6. How big a deal was my first Mets' start? A Hall of Famer came on the field and said some wonderful things before the game. A player en route to the Hall of Fame said it was a dream come true to play with me. And another future denizen of Cooperstown finished up for me.

• If this sounds unique, it's because it is. Unique to the point of absurd.

7. I began my lengthy career with the Tigers in the '60s.

• Take a deep breath and realize that the obvious answer isn't always the right answer. In fact, around here, it almost never is.

8. I never really got the attention I deserved…top-notch lefty…more than 200 games…went 3-0 in World Series competition… never as famous as the big-deal righty at the top of the rotation…

• Never, actually.

9. classy lefty in my day…fewer fingers than five that to count how many wins I collected for the Mets that year

• Doesn't sound like somebody who did all that much in his last year. Did he ever do all that much for the Mets?

THE NEW QUESTION NO. 10

10. The last pitch I threw as a Met was whacked for a double that scored two runs. Both the batter and one of the runners who scored were players who would go on to manage against the Mets. I'm most famous for a home run I gave up to another player in New York, one who never managed.

• Decide what's most important piece of information in the question and work from there.

THE OLD QUESTION NO. 10, NOW A BONUS

BONUS: Mets fans should've loved me considering how well I pitched against the Yankees. Heck, in what appeared to be my final outing, I threw a shutout against Houston. In fact, I beat one of those Yankee dynasty guys. Then I was traded to a contender during the season but came back to the Mets a year later. I no longer have a legitimate place in this quiz, but I've got a really cool nickname, so try to figure me out anyway.

• The problem with the Yankees is they've had more than one dynasty. But we'd have to love a guy who killed the Yankees, right? Killed 'em.

11. I was seven years from fulfilling my first manager's prophecy for me when I struck out in my last Met at-bat. My opportunities were limited in New York, but I got a chance in Seattle.

• Do a lot of managers make a lot of proclamations about young players? Your Met history absorption will come in handy here. And Seattle? What's up with that?

12. the guy who replaced me was the right guy in the right place.

• Sometimes it helps to say these questions out loud.

13. I was lost… the Mets scored nothing for me…big country.

• Play with various words here and reputations in Mets history.

14. 3-for-5…6-for-10…some kid

• Sounds like quite a finish to a Mets career. Who would compel the Mets to trade somebody on such a roll?

15. I didn't play in the Majors at all the year before I became a Met and I didn't play in the Majors at all the year after I became a Met. It was over…

• It was over? That seems like a rather definitive statement. Much has been said in baseball over the years regarding when something is over and when something is not over.

16. Heard of being cursed with versatility? That's what I'm beginning to think happened to me. I could play two positions with pretty much equal ability. Though I was known as an above-average hitter, the Mets kept shifting me back and forth in the infield depending on what big-name player they'd just acquired. I didn't make much of a fuss about it. I was taken out of my final game before it ended (having gone 1-for-3) and left the team with little fanfare. Why did they let me go? Maybe they were concerned about my health.

• Sometimes the description is pretty straightforward but might apply to more than one Met. You just have to patiently rewind your mind.

17. a half-inning in the field…the night before, I collected my final hit. It was a long one…run out of town.

• Why was he gone after a long hit? Why was he “run” out of town and not just released or traded? Give it some thought.

18. I wasn't perfect. Few are.

• What you have to do is think about who has been perfect and who might have a reason to relate to that perfection.

19. Nationally noticed…I took the collar. It was a pretty tight one for all of us that day.

• Things apparently didn't go well for the Mets on this player's final day. Must've been a big deal. And look at how he's noticed.

20. Someday, a team would trust me to start with its pennant hopes on the line.

• Can you recall a one-time Met who was handed the ball in the situation described above? There aren't too many instances of that.

21. The Mets brought me in to take a shot at making the playoffs. And you may have heard I helped my team get to the playoffs twice. Alas, that team wasn't the Mets.

• This smacks of Met futility and another team's success. You need to think about other teams who have had multiple successes with futile Mets.

22. The team found a reason to get rid of me anyway…determined to strengthen my resolve.

• A Met the Mets didn't want. A baseball player with strength on his mind.

23. Considering who I was traded for, I didn't really measure up as a Met, but I did manage to go 2-for-4…

• A trade, not measuring up, managing. Analyze your key words.

24. My last Mets pitching appearance was as representative as could be of all my Mets pitching appearances. It ended with a clean inning: three up, three down. And oh yeah — in my final Mets game, I went 0-for-4.

• A single inning that was “as representative as can be” of all his pitching appearances? A perfect inning? And why does it matter what he did at the plate in his final game? There must be a reason the pitching and the hitting are offered in this manner.

25. Ya gotta believe it was stunning to see me traded from the Mets so suddenly. What if my last pitch in relief lost us a game to the Pirates? Didn't I deserve better considering my Mets pedigree?

• Remember what we said about the obvious almost never being right. But ya gotta believe there must be some relation to the obvious candidate in a situation like this.

26. I came to the Mets a winner…I dig winning. Losing? Not so much.

• You can like winning. You can love winning. But it takes a certain kind of professional to “dig” winning. And what would cause him to point out what a winner he was?

27. If there were a number with which I was synonymous as a Met, it was three. Really, when you think of three, there were few other Mets who'd come up in the same conversation. Hence, it hardly seemed appropriate that I got only one at-bat in my final Met game and flied out to right. No, if you remember me, you remember me and three.

• Numbers have all kinds of applications in baseball. Some numbers you wear on your back. Some are the sum total of your accomplishments in a given period. Sometimes the accomplishment and the period combine to be particularly memorable.

28. You can make a case for me as one of the finest shortstops of my generation. I wasn't a heavyweight or a heavy hitter, but I was a Gold Glover and can be recalled as feisty when I needed to be. I finished up 1-for-3 as a Met, batting (what else?) eighth. And it's worth mentioning that I was an All-Star and played in the World Series.

• Details, details. Process of elimination is required. Who doesn't have all these details to his credit and who does?

29. I gave up a very important run in a very important game versus the Braves. That was the last inning I pitched for the Mets. I was pitching elsewhere when the next season began.

• Sounds like it was a big game, the kind where one run appeared to make all the difference. In a big game, there can be more than one run that appears to make all the difference.

30. A rising tide lifts all boats? I don't know about that. All I know is I sailed away after my final game…I was able to sail away (theoretically speaking).

• Somebody sure has a nautical bent. Not the type of thing to show up in the box score, but definitely the stuff of team legend.

31. I'd save my best for later, but I'd never win a bigger game than I once did for the Mets.

• Save…later…win…never win a bigger game…for the Mets. (Thanks to an eagle-eyed reader, a typo of sorts has been fixed in the test.)

32. Joe Torre derailed my final game as a Met, though Mets fans should be used to that sort of thing after all these years…didn't leave me in the mood to express what I was thinking.

• Joe Torre has been around a long time, so that could mean anything. But why was this man derailed? What about “express”? Express as in the noun or express as in the verb? Or possibly both? And why?

33. a little revenge on Joe Torre's team given the way I closed out my Met career…traded me a while after that…Hey, what can I say?

• You have to make a decision? What phrase tells the story of this player's identity and what phrase is there to confirm your hunch? What's with the “a while after” business? And what role does Torre have here? A primary one? An incidental one?

34. turned to me…We got beat… vacation…

• Sometimes you have to know more than baseball to answer these questions. Sometimes you have to know if a player had something to do with somebody who did something else outside of baseball.

35. Reggie Jackson and his bold declarations about playing in New York had nothing on me. Pretty sweet.

• Reggie Jackson? The guy who said something about what would be named after him if he played in New York? Could our mystery Met be thinking about how he was born into such an honor?

36. I was known as a terribly dreadful hitter. Historically dreadful. They didn't get much worse than me at my position…I, however, had four hits on my ledger that night.

• There are nine positions on the baseball field. How many yield historically dreadful hitters who really, really stick out? And what are four hits on his “ledger” doing here?

37. No Met had more hits than I did in my last year as a Met…rescue…mobile…dive… “Rich. Very rich.”

• Some questions make you put the pieces together. When you do, you have an idea of what you're looking for.

38. death…lefties.

• You need to pay attention to the sorts of things team executives say when they trade for certain players.

39. In two years' time I went from starter to rarely used backup…I donned a Mets uniform.

• Aside from this player's timetable, what gets me is that he “donned” a Mets uniform. Didn't wear it, didn't put it on. He had to don it. Hmmm…

40. My years with the Mets spanned more than a decade…Babe Ruth reincarnated…

Have the Mets had a lot of guys who spanned more than a decade with them? And what do any of them have to do with the Babe? He died on August 16, 1948.

41. I didn't start…I departed the team…

• Starting and departing seem to be the key verbs for this player.

42. set the stage for an eventual pennant.

Sometimes you trade a guy and you get a guy who helps you win a pennant. Sometimes you have to trade that second guy to get where you're going. Sometimes…

43. My performances on the All-Star and World Series stages as a reliever were excellent, but my last appearance as a Met came as a starter.

• Why would someone who pitched relief in All-Star and World Series competition be used as a starter? You have to ask yourself about this pitcher's role on the team.

44. I did something no Red Sock before me could lay claim to. Yet Boston overlooked my historical contribution to their team and I ended up on the Mets.

• Take another deep breath. Consider that there are very few things that “no Red Sock” had done before any other. Remember that even if something was done for the first time in a very long time that it was done before. You have to think about somebody who was a pioneer at doing something “historical” as a Red Sock and understand that doing something “historical” can be about more than winning.

I hope I've been of some assistance or at the very least not confused you any more than you already were. It may not seem like it, but I want you to do well on your final exam. Good luck.

It has come to my attention that a reasonable guess for Question No. 28 on The Quiz fits almost as well as the actual answer. Only problem is a) it isn't the answer and b) the good guess unravels under the one player-one year rule. Therefore Question No. 28 has been clarified. It now reads (with italics added here to emphasize the clarification:

28. You can make a case for me as one of the finest shortstops of my generation. I wasn't a heavyweight or a heavy hitter, but I was a Gold Glover and can be recalled as feisty when I needed to be. I finished up 1-for-3 as a Met, batting (what else?) eighth. And it's worth mentioning that I was an All-Star and played in the World Series.

For those interested enough to post potential answers as comments with the quiz, I've been posting replies indicating if you're right or wrong, but have removed my confirmations after a fashion. I don't want to leave any confirmation of answers (right or wrong) up for anybody encountering this brain teaser for the first time.

Thanks for playing!

Terrific profile of a Met legend in a place I wouldn't have expected it — no offense to nycPlus,a free monthly paper “for the 50+ crowd with a zest for living”. My social worker wife brought it home because the November cover story features Keith Hernandez (and the cover features a tabby, though not one as adorable as our Hozzie).

Keith's in this publication on merit. He's 50+ if you can believe that. He's 52. And, as ever, he's candid because he can't not be.

Regarding his lashing out at the Mets as quitters in 2002 and then feeling compelled to retract: “They got all pissed off. I meant what I said, but I had to apologize. It was a blanket indictment of the whole team, and that was unfair. They went on to win seven in a row and then went back to their old ways.”

On his most famous off-field appearance, his Seinfeld episodes: “Terrifying. A live audience. Lots of lines. Not a good experience. Just living in New York makes these things happen.”

The drug habit that eventually got him in trouble: “I basically somoked pot till I was 29. Because I needed to. Somewhere down the road, someone was traded for, again I won't mention the name, and that was that. Cocaine. The slippery slope. Not recommended for anyone.”

And his nickname, the one that bears no resemblance to his heritage: “I hate that 'Mex' and my dad hated it worse. 'Spain!' he'd yell. 'Where is that on the map? Europe!'”

Keith Hernandez has always seemed difficult to pin down in retirement. Fun to listen to but a little slippery himself. Not that what he does is any of our business, but he is one of our greats. We want to believe we know guys like him and Seaver and Piazza. Jerry Tallmer captures Mex (I mean Keith) splendidly.

Also worth reading between taking stabs at The Quiz is Mike Vaccaro's recollection in last Sunday's Post about the girl who challenged him with a “me or the Mets” ultimatum during the 1986 National League Championship Series. Given his profession, you can guess which curtain he chose, but his reflections on why we as fans don't have to think twice about such a choice is moving and, in the wake of the White Sox' breakthrough, relevant.

And if you can get a hold of the October 31 SI or can wade your way through their subscriber/nonsubscriber moat, check out Steve Rushin's tribute to Jack Klugman as Oscar Madison. The reviews of the Lane/Broderick revival of The Odd Couple were lukewarm at best, but to anyone with unfettered access to a television over most of the past 35 years (M-F, 4 AM, Channel 5 these nights), the small screen-version is the definitive one. If you don't read the whole column, read this paragraph:

Oscar's unfettered existence — an endless whirl of football games and dizzy dames — made me want to be a sportswriter. To a 12-year-old, it seemed the ideal life: a cockeyed Mets cap on my head, a meatball hero in my bed.

One more endorsement, a few weeks late and pretty much off-topic. There hasn't been a more controversial baseball book in the past decade than Moneyball, which was not written by Billy Beane no matter what a surprisingly large number of people seem to think. It was written by Michael Lewis and as it good as it was, it's only slightly representative of what this man can do. I'm just now finishing his cover story from the October 9 New York Times Magazine on his return home to New Orleans in the days following Katrina. It is, to bestow Metsopotamia's highest accolade, amazin'. I don't know how the Times archive operates these days (it and my kerosene-powered browser didn't get along before they started selling gym spots), but get your eyes on Lewis' piece. You won't be sorry.

Now that I've distracted you from the business at hand, an update from Quiz Country. A few of those I've heard from are beginning to get the hang of it. Things are not as they appear, you know. It was either clever or sadistic of me, or both, to frame questions in such a way that you would automatically be certain that a famous Met ballplayer is the answer to a particular question, and make it so he is almost certainly not the answer to that particular question. My broadest hint remains read the entire question and think about every word and why, perhaps, each word is there. It's not there to make it simple but it is there to guide you.

And don't be scared of pre-1970 guesses. I haven't received a single grope for between 1962 and 1969. There were Mets playing their last games then, too. Give 'em a shot. Use the resources at your disposal to narrow things down.

I apologize that the flotsam and metsam rattling around in my otherwise unoccupied head isn't one of them.

“Them” referring, in this case, to the Atlanta Braves. The car we're perpetually yap-yap-yapping at as it accelerates and disappears up our street. The football we're constantly watching get snatched away as we aim our latest kick. The perennial kings of our division. The Atlanta Braves.

Much as it pains me, there are two things I've learned the hard way not to do:

1. Bet against Derek Jeter

2. Announce that this is the year the Braves fall out of first place.

The Braves go out there with astonishing ace pitchers and win. They go out there with reclamation projects and win. They yo-yo guys from closer to starter and win. They plug 58-year-old men into the lineup and win. They move Chipper around the field like Bert Campanaris and win. They field Met castoffs and win. They cast off Hall of Famers to the Mets and win. They throw half the Richmond Braves on the field and win. The Braves could stick tomahawks on the chests of the Pepsi Party Patrol, the guys picked for the dizzy-bat race at Keyspan Park and whoever keeps the escalators running at Shea and win.

And yet….

All of a sudden they look vulnerable. On paper. Again.

All those years we saw hope crash and burn in Atlanta in September, one thing was a constant: Leo Mazzone was davening his way through ballgames on the Atlanta bench. No more — he's off to Baltimore, of all places. It's unthinkable to imagine the Braves without him. It's even more unthinkable to realize he'll be replaced by Roger McDowell.

How can that be? Roger McDowell, the merry prankster of hotfoots and goofy masks, sitting beside Bobby Cox as he fumes and stumps and mutters? It hurts to even type his name in this context. And it gets worse. Because rooting for the Braves to finally prove mortal because Leo Mazzone was their secret weapon means rooting for Roger McDowell to be a huge letdown. I know we're supposed to root for laundry and generally we find a way to do so, but I had trouble rooting against Roger McDowell even when he was trading punches with a blue-and-orange-clad Gregg Jefferies. What kind of cruel baseball gods would arrange it so that Roger McDowell plots against us with Bobby Cox?

Then there's the matter of second base, and the talented speedster who's indicated through his agent that he wouldn't be against changing positions to play there in Shea Stadium. Could we really root for Rafael Furcal? Never mind, for a moment, his wandering birthdates or his DUI convictions or the fact that we once cackled over the fact that the Braves were out of the playoffs and their early exit meant he was off to jail. (Though that last part was kind of fun, in a small and mean way.) It's his essential Braveness I can't stand, that indefinable something that put him in the Atlanta Pantheon of Loathsomeness along with Glavine, Javy, Chipper, Eddie Perez, Maddux, Rocker, Klesko, Michael Fucker, Sheffield, Galarraga and of course Cox himself. Some guys — Julio Franco, Marcus Giles, last year's various anonymous Braves — beat our brains in repeatedly and I can't manage to detest them more than half-heartedly. Furcal? I can manage it perfectly well.

Of course, I did eventually rechristen The Manchurian Brave as The Eventual Met, and I suppose if I can warm up to the aloof, excuse-making Tom Glavine I could certainly warm up to Rafael Furcal. And hell, Mr. Met would be a slight upgrade over the all-devouring black hole of wretchedness that was second base in 2005, so who am I to give a cannon-armed player who's willing to change positions the lemon face?

But I keep wrinkling my nose nonetheless. I can register my objection statistically — Reyes and Furcal are certainly exciting to watch, but pairing Furcal's 284/348/429 with Reyes' 277/303/395 atop the lineup seems like a recipe for an unexciting shortage of baserunners. (By comparison, in '86 Dykstra and Backman put up 295/377/445 and 320/376/385 lines, though we were young then, America was strong and the sun always shone, blah blah blah.) I can object that since it seems unlikely we'll find a power bat for first base (unless it's Mike Jacobs, which is what I hope happens anyway) and an outfield upgrade is iffy, second base is where we need to add some thump. I can argue that Carlos Beltran would be much better off in the No. 2 hole, even though Willie seems to consider that the equivalent of admitting the planets go around the Sun. Heck, give me enough time and I could probably come up with some dangerous Furcal-related scenario involving LaGuardia flight paths and the possible sinking of Willets Point.

It all comes down to the fact that imagining Rafael Furcal in a Mets uniform makes me vaguely queasy. Which is the same way I feel when I imagine Roger McDowell ambling out to talk to some Brave reliever when we've cut the score to 4-3 and have the tying run on second with two out in the eighth.

We're Us. They're Them. That's the way it's supposed to be. If we finally win because too many Us's and Thems have switched sides, have we really won?

Keep scrolling down for Greg's Quiz, y'hear?