60. Hubie Brooks: It is, sadly, the human condition to lock in one’s perception of a situation even when faced with evidence to the contrary. For example, the New York Mets have never been able to do anything with that nettlesome (or Nettlesless) third-base position. We all know that throughout their entire history it’s been one disaster after another, from Cliff Cook to Joe Moock to, god help us, Joe Foy. It’s a charming enough storyline to have inspired the ditty about the Seventy-Nine Mets Who Played Third on An Amazin’ Era, the team’s 25th anniversary video. Yessir, playing third for the New York Mets is like drumming for Spinal Tap: Sooner or later, you’re bound to blow up, and not in the way the kids mean. Except that by 1986, the third-base curse was, for all practical purposes, reversed and buried by Hubie Brooks. The organization did its best to perpetuate the tepid image of the hot corner even when confronted with a competent practitioner. Called up in September 1980, Hubie was handed No. 62, as if to say, third base will eat you alive, kid, don’t even bother. After acquitting himself reasonably in his trial (and working his way down from 62 to 39 to 7), Hubie showed up to spring training 1981 to find Joe Torre handing the job to outfielder Joel Youngblood, who didn’t want it, and then catcher John Stearns, who stepped on a ball and couldn’t play it. Left with only a third baseman to play third base, Torre had no choice but to pencil in Hubie Brooks at the 5-slot, and Hubie Brooks stayed there for the better part of the next four seasons. He didn’t move off of third until, team man that he was, he shifted to short to make room for Ray Knight in the late summer of ’84. Hubie was shortly thereafter packaged for Gary Carter, a trade nobody could rationally dispute. He left two legacies in his wake: 1) Brooks was followed at third by, roughly, Knight, HoJo, Magadan, Bonilla, Kent, Alfonzo, Ventura, Alfonzo again, Wigginton and Wright. Sure there were some gaps and yeah, the total’s grown from 79 when that song was recorded to 129 through 2004 (including exactly one inning of one game played by Kevin Morgan in 1997, the only inning of the only game he ever played in the Majors), but the position’s been held down by reasonably able men for decent stretches of time; 2) When Mike Piazza hit safely in 24 straight games in 1999, it was Hubie Brooks’ 15-year-old mark that he matched with an eighth-inning homer off Vic Darensbourg. Gary Cohen announced it with something like “Move Over Hubie!” It’s not so bad to root for a team on which Hubie Brooks could endure so long as an aspirational figure, even for the greatest-hitting catcher of all time.

59. Todd Zeile: Put aside the inconvenient fact that Todd Zeile never should have been a Met. Forget that Todd Zeile never would have been a Met if Steve Phillips had negotiated with John Olerud instead of recklessly and casually allowing him to walk to Seattle. And ignore that replacing Olerud with Zeile in 2000 weakened what had been The Best Infield Ever and destroyed the L-R-L-R symmetry that was the heart of the 1999 order. If you can do that, you can appreciate what Todd Zeile meant to the last Mets team to win a pennant. Not so much the .368 average and 8 RBIs in the NLCS (though that wasn’t cotton candy) or the .400 clip he hit for in the Series. Todd Zeile proved the living embodiment of that Stengel-period banner, TO ERR IS HUMAN, TO FORGIVE A METS FAN. Todd Zeile was human, as human as they came, and those 2000 Mets were, collectively, extraordinarily human. They were, when all was boiled down, one human, Todd Zeile. He was a third baseman playing first, yet he learned. When you were sure he wouldn’t come through — BANG! — double off the wall. He was as star-crossed as they came. Interference play? Two of them? Same game? Guess who’s on the wrong end of both. His Game One shot in the Bronx was so obviously a homer (dying inches from the hands of the solitary enemy fan who knew enough not to touch it) that as Timo was trotting, even Zeile was pumping his fist. Somehow we forgave Todd, probably because all through that season and post-season, he was the quiet pro who showed up here from everywhere else and became the calm team spokesman: articulate, thoughtful, irritatingly reassuring when the division was slipping away in September, self-aware enough to enjoy everything about October. We’re about to play for the championship of the world — where’s Todd? There he is, shagging flies with his kids. There he is again, posing them with the Baha Men. He’d regularly sign autographs practically up to first pitch and fill a reporter’s notebook with the truth after the final out. When the World Series slipped into darkness, Zeile was told of the polite, preprogrammed remarks Derek Jeter had just made about what fine opponents the Mets had been. Zeile’s response was, “Is he just being patronizing?” At that moment, even the most diehard John Olerud torch-carrier was overjoyed that Todd Zeile was a New York Met.

58. Nolan Ryan: Where Nolan Ryan and the Mets are concerned, there’s what could have been and there’s what was. Under the heading of what was, Nolan Ryan pitched in three post-season games at Shea Stadium. In the first one, Game 3 of the 1969 NLCS, he replaced Gary Gentry and inherited a second-and-third, no-out scenario in the third, the Braves ahead 2-0. Nolan struck out Rico Carty, intentionally walked Orlando Cepeda, struck out Clete Boyer and induced a harmless fly ball from Bob Didier. The home team soon got to Pat Jarvis, and after seven innings of two-run, seven-strikeout ball, Nolan Ryan had pitched the Mets into their first World Series. Eight days later, Ryan pitched in his second post-season game at Shea Stadium, Game 3 of the fall classic. Again, Gentry was the starter, this time ahead 4-0. In the seventh with two out, he walked the bases loaded. Again, in came Nolan. His first batter, Paul Blair, lined a sinking drive to center. Tommie Agee dove for it, nabbed it and saved three runs. Thus rescued, Ryan pitched the eighth without incident, got the first two Orioles in the ninth and then loaded the bases on a walk, a single and a walk before facing Blair once more. Nolan struck him out to end the game. Three times across 9-1/3 innings that October, he hurled with the sacks full and allowed nobody to score. Nolan Ryan pitched his third post-season game at Shea Stadium exactly seventeen years later, Game 5 of the 1986 NLCS. He started, went nine, gave up one run, two hits, struck out twelve and departed with the score tied. It may have been the most brilliant post-season pitching performance that Shea has ever seen. The only problem was that it was performed by an Astro. When it comes to Nolan Ryan, you see, it’s impossible to wipe away what could have been.

57. Frank Viola: Mets management believed its own hype in 1989. Having commissioned a graphic, a blue and orange 1, to symbolize that their team had compiled the best winning percentage in the game over the previous five seasons, Frank Cashen’s front office was profiled in Manhattan Inc. magazine as “The IBM of Baseball”. The story opened with Joe McIlvaine and Al Harazin taking in a spring training game: Harazin needled African-American umpire Charlie Williams for calling out one of the “brothers” and McIlvaine cringed in embarrassment. Caught up in its spiffy logo and its great press, it’s no wonder that when Doc Gooden went down for the year with a tear in his right shoulder, the Mets executive braintrust decided the only pitcher worthy of replacing him was Minnesota’s Frank “Sweet Music” Viola. To obtain the reigning American League Cy Young winner, the pitching-rich New York Mets gave up five young arms, Rick Aguilera, Kevin Tapani and David West foremost among them. St. Louis Post-Dispatch columnist Bernie Miklasz moaned that the big, bad Mets had done it again, buzzing the Eastern Division like they always did with a Big Apple-sized acquisition sure to separate them from the small-time Cardinals, Cubs and Expos. Didn’t happen that way. Viola was ordinary down the stretch in ’89. Aguilera, Tapani and West contributed, in varying degrees, to the Twins’ 1991 world championship. Frankie V never did any such thing for the Mets. But despite three consecutive losses across three critical September starts, he did win 20 games in ’90 — the last time any Met won that many. The Mets have commissioned zero 1 logos since.

56. Richie Ashburn: Future Hall of Famer Richie Ashburn was the most valuable player of and spiritual leader to the most dreadful assemblage of talent in baseball history. A keen observer of irony, Ashburn retired the moment 1962 ended. He bats leadoff and plays center on the All-Kafkaesque Team to this day.

55. Willie Mays:In successive years in the early 1980s, the Mets traded for George Foster, then Keith Hernandez, then Gary Carter. At decade’s end, a deadline deal brought Frank Viola. The winter meetings of 1991 resulted in the arrival of Bret Saberhagen. A pleasant May afternoon in 1998 got a whole lot more pleasant when the word went forth that Mike Piazza was now a Met. And on a cold December morning in 2001, New York was awakened to the news that Roberto Alomar was on his way to Shea. MVPs, Cy Youngs, Hall of Famers in their apparent prime. Trading for every one of them at the time it happened caused waves of excitement for Mets fans. But none of those trades compared to the moment the Mets got Willie Mays. The Mets got Willie Mays! Willie Mays became a Met. More than thirty years after the fact, it’s still hard to believe that the absolute icon of baseball in post-war America was, just like that, one of ours.  It was explained clearly in the papers how it happened. Willie Mays was old, 41. His career was nearing a finish. The Giants’ owner, Horace Stoneham, needed money. The Mets owner, Joan Payson, loved Mays dating back to his days in New York. Now she would bring him home. Made sense as far as that went. But it also seemed impossible that we could come upon him because he was too great a player to fall into the hands of a team like ours. As long as we were dealing in the unfathomable, Willie’s first game as a Met came against the Giants, at Shea. He beat them with a homer. Willie played much younger than 41 in those early days — he reached base at least once in each of his first twenty games as a Met. He was a happening. To commemorate the national sensation that was his homecoming, Life printed a picture of every one of his Topps Giants cards dating back to 1952, the first several of which portrayed him in a black cap with the same NY the Mets sported. (Pretty sharp.) Come June’s Old-Timers Day, when the Mets liked to pile on the sentimental shtick, a cable car rolled down the left field line to the infield. To underscore what had taken place over the last six or so weeks, Willie Mays disembarked. In a Mets uniform. Willie Mays was a Met. Willie Mays said Goodbye to America as a Met. Willie Mays played in the 1973 World Series for the Mets. That he was only technically Willie Mays by then is beside the point.

54. Ron Hunt: “Oh yeah? Well, we have Ron Hunt! What do you mean you never heard of Ron Hunt? He finished second in the Rookie of the Year voting to Pete Rose last year. And this year he started at second for the National League in the All-Star Game, right here at brand new Shea. That’s right — Ron Hunt, not some other second baseman. Not Rose, who probably won’t even be playing second for very long. Not Mazeroski, who backed him up. Not even Tony Taylor of the Phillies. Taylor’s not so great anyway. The Phillies choked and the only thing Taylor did was lead the league in getting hit by pitches thirteen times. Hunt batted .303 and had eleven HBPs himself. Ron could get hit lots more if he wanted to. Anyway, we’re gonna get good someday soon and mark my words: Ron Hunt’s gonna lead us there.”

53. Craig Swan: Amazin’: The Miraculous History of New York’s Most Beloved Baseball Team by Peter Golenbock is unquestionably the worst thing ever written about the New York Mets. Published on the occasion of the Mets’ fortieth anniversary, it is the living, breathing apotheosis of “you can’t judge a book by its cover,” because its cover, like its title, is beautiful. Its insides are wretched. Golenblock, who must have accepted the assignment, gone on a long vacation and returned with a week before his deadline, mindlessly cut and paste a boatload of old quotes from other works, presenting them out of context and with no discernment. He then mixed them in willy-nilly with the few new interviews he bothered to do. The essence of Amazin’ is this: Every season in Mets history between 1962 and 2001 — those first forty years ­ — included one of three players. Ed Kranepool (1962-1979), Mookie Wilson (1980-1989) and John Franco (1990-2001) covered the entire chronological spectrum of the Mets experience. Golenbock interviewed none of them. And yet, in the sense that even a blind pig finds an acorn, the book is almost redeemed by the tenth page of a ten-page chapter recording the ramblings of Craig Swan. Swannie was the ace of the late ’70s and early ’80s losing Mets. On his best days, he was a low-rent Seaver. He won the National League ERA title in 1978. By the time he was deemed obsolete, he stood fourth on the franchise’s all-time victory chart. But what you couldn’t know about Craig Swan without Amazin’ is that he went hunting with Joel Youngblood once. Blood was the experienced hunter, Swannie the novice. After Joel spied some turkeys, he told Craig, “Swannie, go behind the bush over there, work your way over, and flush those turkeys to me.” Swannie wanted no part of it: “He was treating me like I was his dog. I said, ‘I’m not flushing any turkeys to you. Go flush your own turkeys.’ And I never hunted with him again.”

52. Mike Hampton: In the One Year And One Year Only club, Mike Hampton rules. Nobody got more out of a single season in [whatever combination of team colors tickled Charlie Samuels’ fancy on any given day] than Hampton did as lead pitcher of the 2000 Mets. He struggled early in classic trying-too-hard fashion, but ran a 7-2 record over twelve starts between May 9 and July 9, culminating in the crucial-for-our-self-esteem two-zip whitewashing of the Yankees the Sunday night after that fetid cross-borough doubleheader. Hampton finished strong at 15-10 and was voted Most Valuable Player of the NLCS, the only one the Mets have ever had, in recognition of his two wins and sixteen shutout innings, nine of which came in the fifth and final game. (No MVP was awarded in ’69 and ’73, and Mike Scott stole it for the losers in ’86.) He never looked particularly comfortable as a New Yorker, so it wasn’t terribly surprising he bolted as a free agent after ’00. The business about the sterling credentials of Denver-area schools forever erased all goodwill toward him, but the record remains intact: No Mets pitcher since Mike Hampton has stood tall on the mound soaking in the euphoria of having clinched his team a pennant.

51. Todd Pratt: The good news — the very good news — is Todd Pratt hit that homer in the bottom of the tenth off Matt Mantei to win the 1999 National League Division Series, three games to one. The amazing news remains the company Todd Pratt keeps by having done so. He became the fourth player in baseball history to win a post-season series with a last-swing home run. Bill Mazeroski, Chris Chambliss and Joe Carter preceded him. Two others — Aaron Boone and David Ortiz — have followed. Of the six, the five were considered big-time players. Mazeroski’s in the Hall. Carter, Chambliss, Ortiz, even bleeping Boone were All-Stars. Todd Pratt? Tank? An All-Star? Don’t make him laugh. His whole career right up to October 9, 1999 was about caddying, first for Darren Daulton, then in a higher calling, Mike Piazza. Barely 24 hours before his at-bat against Mantei, it was reported that Mike’s elbow ached so severely that he wouldn’t be able to play against the Diamondbacks that night or the next afternoon. It was conceivable…hell, it was sensible to conclude that the great struggle to push the Mets into the playoffs was likely for naught if their biggest hitter wasn’t going to be available. Piazza hit forty home runs in 1999; Todd Pratt hit three. Fortunately, Game Three was a Met cakewalk. Game Four was another story. Leiter pitched a crisp 7-2/3 innings, but Benitez, for the first time in his Mets tenure, couldn’t hold the lead in an extraordinarily tight spot. Only a throw by Mora and a juggle by Tony Womack assured extra innings. Though the Mets enjoyed a 2-1 series cushion, this game was the one to get. Lose it and everybody piles on a plane to Phoenix where it’s Randy Johnson and the BOB’s funky late afternoon shadows versus Masato Yoshii and who knows what. Instead, Todd Pratt swung and launched Shea into hysteria. Yes, that was amazing. The potentially awful news was what happened immediately after Tank connected. It was deep all right, all the way to deepest center. Patrolling the 410 sign out there was none other than ex-Padre Steve Finley, dasher of dreams on so many late nights in San Diego. It was a staple of ’90s West Coast road trips for Finley to rob at least one Met of at least one Jack Murphy home run every visit in. Todd Pratt seemed to know this, for as he left the box, he jogged to first, watching the flight of his ball every step of the way. Steve Finley would spring into the air and catch it and Tank would be out. Or the ball would somehow elude Steve Finley and Tank would be the hero. Either way, Tank saw no reason to run. The third possibility, that the ball would not be caught but would not leave the park, never occurred to the backup catcher. From 410 feet away, Pratt could not have definitively dismissed the chance that the ball would, say, bounce off the wall and into Finley’s glove and that Finley would turn, fire and nail a fatally malingering Pratt at second. But he did dismiss it, because once Finley jumped, Tank pulled up dejectedly near first. As it turned out, a silly millimeter separated Finley’s glove from Pratt’s shot, and the ball indeed sailed over the fence. First-base ump Bruce Froemming twirled his right index finger and Tank broke into a happy sprint for home. Nobody much mentioned the disaster that could have been. The next time we noticed Todd Pratt, he was tackling Robin Ventura between first and second, costing the Mets three thankfully superfluous runs in the fifteenth inning of Game Five of the NLCS. One does not earn the nickname Tank, apparently, without a strong tendency to roll full-bore through life oblivious to the notion that for every action there is a consequence.

Calling Dr. Peterson, calling Dr. Peterson. New project possibly arriving at the emergency entrance…

Jason Phillips for Kaz Ishii? I like it and I don't like it. I like

that, if it's true, the Mets aren't settling for the Ginteriffic

choices in their midst. I don't like it because:

* Apparently Ishii's been walking the West Coast while the civilized world sleeps;

* A correspondent suggested Thursday that “there are only two kinds of

starters you can obtain in trades at this time of year: (a) injured

ones and (b) bad ones.” I don't know if he's right, but that sure

sounds like us;

* Jason Phillips is teasing us in with his monumental spring and I've been buying it;

* Next to Reyes, Jason Phillips emerged out of the muck of 2003 as my

favorite Met of the moment. That wore off last September when during

the Victor Diaz game (before it was the Victor Diaz game), the most

glacial man in the bigs — Magadan 3.0, if you will — was on third in

a bases-loaded situation. With one out, Gerald Williams lifted a deep

fly to left, the kind of ball on which even Jason Phillips can score.

Except Jason Phillips had gone halfway and was in no position to tag

up. Mets left the bags drunk. Oh, and the night before? He was tagged

out on a throw 10 feet to the right of home. I swore off Jason Phillips

once and for all after those feats of baseball inertia. But I can't

stay mad at the guy for long. Still, an established starter for a

backup catcher? Shoot, do it.

As for filling the backstop caddy void, crap, Vance Wilson's looking

pretty good right now. No, I take that back. I also take back the

thought that flashed through my head when I saw Al Leiter threw four

scoreless innings Friday. “Man, that wouldn't be too bad to have now.”

No, it would be. “Hey,

Yusmeiro! We don't listen to that stuff in The Show. Gimme that iPod

and I'll download some Ray Conniff Singers for you. Then I'll take you

to get your hair cut just like mine.” No thank you.

Not many loose ends dangling from Nos. 80-61. The moment I typed in the name Ed Charles I thought of that picture, too. In the summer of '89, Newsweek

found cause to run it. Stephanie sent it to me and it hung over my desk

for several years. And I'll bet  I know the shot of Seaver and Gentry.

They're surveying the damage done to Shea after The Big One, right? I

know a guy who was living in Arizona six years ago and was working at a

discount cigarettes outlet. One of his steadiest customers was the very

same Gary Gentry. He had a standing order for cartons of Marlboros. I hope nobody winds up surveying the damage done to Gary Gentry's lungs.

Your wife has filed an official and reasonable protest over the inclusion of Bobby Bonilla in

any list using the words “Greatest” and “Mets”. I'll tell you what I

told her: Take 668 Mets (the number of 'Ropolitans through the first

forty years) and start whittling it down to a hundred. What should

happen is that it's agonizing to pare and trim and make life-or-death

decisions. That's not what happened at all. This franchise has been

larded with Bautas and Bucheks and Boitanos. You get through crossing

those off and even a charitable reading of Mets history leaves you with

like 125 guys. From there, it was really a matter of symbolism versus

accomplishment, and as much as I liked Shinjo's wristbands and the

Stork's nickname, I couldn't really pass on a two-time All-Star even if

he was an all-time jerk.

Tsuyoshi and Theodore and everybody else whose claim to Met greatness

is they had that certain something that resonated in our tribe will

continue to be represented by M.E.T., Marvin Eugene Throneberry, the patron saint of the fairly futile but lavishly lovable.

“Think about baseball” is what they tell you you should do when your thoughts are where they shouldn't be. In those situations, Dave Magadan

leaps to mind. It may be the only leaping he's ever done. I don't mean

to downgrade his appeal off the field to others, but the only thing

about him that struck me as steamy was his bat that June.

Jason Phillips may replace him in this role if Mo Vaughn hasn't already.

Hey! It didn't rain! And we played a game! It ended in a tie, but

anything that can be managed in between downpours is cool with us right

now.

On to the 60's….

It's a shame Dave Magadan isn't

remembered more (meaning, of course, “isn't remembered more by people

other than geeks like us”). The man hit .328 in 1990 despite the fact

that he was slightly faster than continental drift, looked weirdly like

Bruce Springsteen, and hung around long enough to collect nearly 1,200

hits — Tommie Agee, by comparison, hung 'em up with 999, which always

struck me as faintly tragic. On the other hand, he owned a crappy bar

in South St. Petersburg where in 1992 I decided “Friends in Low Places”

was the greatest song in history and let my drunk pal Pete convince me

it was a good idea to let a temporarily homeless college girl 

stay in my parents' house, from which she stole a variety of small,

expensive things. (What's that? These poor decisions might have been my fault? Who profited from the beer that fueled these bad decisions, then? Huh? Huh huh huh? That's right — Dave Magadan.) Maybe Frank Cashen signed Mike Marshall after drinking seven warm Buds and scratching on the 8 ball at Magadan's.

Speaking of Ed Charles, he was

from St. Pete too, and over the years he's been called upon countless

times by local scribes needing some column inches about old times. He's

always delivered, speaking movingly of being in a crowd of black teens

who ran after Jackie Robinson's train as it headed back north and, once

it was out of sight, pressed their ears to the rails to feel its

vibration. That's love. And he'd talk of how racism marooned him in the

minors for the best years of his youth, summing it up with “Baby, that

was a hurtin' thing.” It's hard to imagine anything could

counterbalance that, but I like to think that whatever he felt as Grote

lifted Koosman into the air helped. If there's a blog running down the

100 Greatest Portraits of Pure Human Joy, the Glider dancing near the

Shea Stadium mound better be in the top 10.

Poor Gary Gentry. A picture of

him and Tom Terrific hangs in our hallway, serving as a warning, I

suppose, that there are forks in young, talented roads. (It could also

just be a cool photo.) Back when Izzy and Pulse and Wilson were being

measured for their Cooperstown plaques, the arguments among the

faithful concerned which Met they were the Second Coming of. Seaver?

Koosman? Matlack? As it turned out, all three were the Second Coming of

Gary Gentry.

I've always had a weakness for powder-keg players, so of course I loved Dennis Cook.

When things started going awry for Cook — as they did fairly often, it

must be remembered — it became a three-way race between He'll Get Out of It (#1), Bobby Will Finally Go Get Him (#2) and He'll Fly Into a Rage at an Opposing Player, an Ump, a Vendor, Etc. (#3). #3 was the winner a fair amount, which was oddly calming — Sure,

a minute ago I was beating my forehead against the coffee table and

biting myself, but Jeez, Cookie's turning purple! Shouldn't the trainer

get out there? And of course he was deaf in one ear and so

instructed each class of first basemen that they needed to scream at

him to get his attention. And as a Ranger he drove his rusting pickup

to the ballpark one February, bluetick hound and beer in the back, to

greet fans waiting in line to buy tickets. As fan relations go that's

not quite handing beers out to all comers from your Winnebago, but it's damn close. Come back, Cookie — we miss you.

Hi, I'm Casey Kasem and this is Metropolitan Top 100. You're hearing us on great radio stations like KENT-AM, your redass connection; W-AY-L, which gives up the hits 27 different ways; and Pacella-FM, where our hat's always off to you. Before we resume the countdown, it's time for our long-distance dedication.

This week's comes to us from Joe, listening to us on I-95, The All-Time Number One Utility Station in Bristol, Pennsylvania. He writes,

“Dear Casey: I'm a big fan of Metropolitan Top 100. You've made me feel a part of it from the very first broadcast. Until very recently, I had a really great job that I liked a lot and I thought everybody there liked me. True, I wasn't always that good at what I did but I always gave it my best whether I was on the clock or not. I tried to be a good friend to all the other guys at this place, particularly when they'd hire somebody new. However, when I saw they were bringing in people with the same job description I had, I could read the handwriting on the wall.

“Casey, even though I'm not there anymore, I'd really appreciate if you could dedicate the next segment of your countdown to all my former colleagues and all the folks who followed what we did. I'll always carry them in my heart.”

Thanks Joe. Here's your long-distance dedication.

70. Dave Magadan: Mags had a habit of busting out all over, which is ironic considering the guy made unassuming look ostentatious. His first moment in the spotlight came on the night of September 17, 1986 when he subbed for the flu-ridden Keith Hernandez, collected three hits and inspired the instantaneous creation of his own passionate core of acolytes (or at least the one guy who wrote DAVE MAGADAN FAN CLUB on an empty pizza box, captured forever in A Year To Remember) in the division-clinching melee at Shea. Mex pulled himself together long enough to take the field so he could be on it for the big celebration, a Met-aphor, perhaps, for the way he showed little inclination to take his eventual successor under his wing. By the time Keith was gone, Dave had to put up with Mike Marshall until he bust out all over again, this time in Chicago. Just as the 1990 Mets were finding their sealegs, Mags batted his way into the lineup, going 4-for-4 and driving in six runs on June 12, a 19-8 thumping of the Cubs. He started the game at third but poetic-justly finished it at first. Marshall was done and Magadan let Buddy Harrelson, who had clung to the washed-up Dodger for too long, know it. When one of the quiet guys is laying down the law to the manager, it probably isn't a good thing, but thank goodness someone did. Dave finished 1990 at .328, the first Met in more than 20 years to rake at that rate.

69. Rickey Henderson: When Rickey Henderson was making his first comeback with the Newark Bears in 2003, Sports Illustrated ran a nifty profile of what made Rickey run. Maybe it was in there or someplace else that Rickey defended his role on the 1999 Mets, the card-playing and the questionable hustle. One quote stood out (paraphrasing here): “I was the best player on that team.” On a club fronted by Piazza, fueled by Alfonzo and defined by Ventura, it seemed a dubious claim. But look at it from Rickey's perspective. He batted .315, highest among regulars. He stole 37 bases. He tutored Roger Cedeño to steal 66. In what we will forever refer to as the Matt Franco game, we could look up when the excitement died down (if it indeed has) and see 40-year-old Rickey Henderson had been on base five times — three hits and two walks — in five plate appearances, scoring three runs. His OPS, playing three of every four games that year, was .889, comparable to Robin's and Fonzie's. And he stole six bases in the Division Series against Arizona. But it was never all good again after Bobby replaced him for defense in the fourth game with Melvin Mora (who immediately threw out Jay Bell at home, confirming what Bobby Valentine knew: that Melvin Mora could play some ball and that Bobby Valentine was a genius). From there, he wrote his ticket out of town. Before then, Rickey wasn't as crazy as Rickey tends to come off.

68. Al Jackson: On June 29, 1969, Tom Seaver won his twelfth game of the season, the 44th of his young career. In doing so, he surpassed Al Jackson to become the winningest pitcher in Mets history. Seaver's career record to that point: 44-28. Jackson's totals for parts of six seasons as a Met, predominantly the character-building years of 1962-65: 43-80. Would have the little lefthander from Waco, Texas fared better on a better team in his salad days? Consider that in the first four years of the Mets' existence, Little Al Jackson threw 10 shutouts. In all of Metsdom, only Seaver, Koosman, Matlack, Gooden and Cone have posted more. Give the man credit, as well, for assessing the state of the team in 1962, as recorded in Can't Anybody Here Play This Game? by Jimmy Breslin: “Everybody here crazy.”

67. Ed Charles: He was the Poet Laureate of the 1969 Mets. That in and of itself is a ticket to Heaven.

66. Gary Gentry: So little-known were the individual Mets even as they ascended the national stage that in a pre-Series workout in '69, Tom Seaver and Gary Gentry switched uniform tops. Reporters furiously scribbled the knocks No. 41 was putting on No. 39, not realizing No. 39 was really No. 41 and vice-versa. It was an easy enough mistake to make since Gary Gentry was thought to be the next model off the assembly line of ferocious righties who would keep the Mets in pennant heat for years to come. Gentry, 22, won 13 games in '69. He never won that many again.

65. Lance Johnson: One of these seasons is not like the others: .333 BA, 50 SBs, 21 triples, 227 hits, 682 ABs. Lance Johnson's 1996 was the most cheerfully aberrational year in Mets history. No Mets centerfielder had done anything like it. No Met playing anywhere had strung together those kinds of concurrent numbers. It was one of the best campaigns in the league, too. One Dog led everybody in three-baggers, safeties and at-bats. Slugged .479 from the leadoff position. Couldn't be gotten out in September as he shattered all kinds of single-season team marks, appropriate as it turned out to be his single, solitary full season as a Met. Damn those shin splints.

64. Kevin Mitchell: His teammates called him 747 because he was jumbo. Then they called him World because his versatility was all-planet. That a high-profile act like the '86 Mets could unveil a secret weapon like Kevin Mitchell in full view of the competition was indication enough to the N.L. East that it could make other plans for the summer. Including post-season, Mitchell collected 95 hits that year. The first 94, presumably, were gathered fully equipped.

63. Dennis Cook: Tom Gorman, meet Joe Sambito. Joe Sambito, meet Randy Niemann. Randy Niemann, meet Gene Walter. Gene Walter, meet Bob McClure. Bob McClure, meet Jeff Musselman. Jeff Musselman, meet Dan Schatzeder. Dan Schatzeder, meet Doug Simons. Doug Simons, meet Rich Sauveur. Rich Sauveur, meet Paul Gibson. Paul Gibson, meet Lee Guetterman. Lee Guetterman, meet Jeff Kaiser. Jeff Kaiser, meet Eric Gunderson. Eric Gunderson, meet Don Florence. Don Florence, meet Bob MacDonald; Bob MacDonald, meet Ricardo Jordan. Ricardo Jordan, meet Yorkis Perez. Now all of you dismal left-handed relievers who clogged up the basepaths with your ineptitude for almost fifteen years, meet Dennis Cook and watch him get batters out. What? He looks so angry all the time? No wonder. Look at the mess you left him!

62. Art Shamsky: It could be said with a modicum of debate that through October 6, 1969, Art Shamsky stood alone as the greatest player in the history of the National League Championship Series, having had the benefit of being present at the creation of the it two days earlier. The left-handed half of Gil's right-field platoon apparently figured out these newfangled playoffs before anybody else did, batting .538 as the Mets swept the Braves in three. Hank Aaron batted .357 with three homers, but his team lost.

61. Rafael Santana: Shortstop is often termed the most important position on the field. The team that wins the World Series is recognized as the best team in baseball. The World Series winner that piled up more victories than any other World Series winner in its time can be considered the best baseball team of that time. Conclusion: Rafael Santana was Man of the Decade for the 1980s. Gorbachev was a distant second.

Now that Super Joe is officially gone, I feel bad. I

know it was the best thing: For all his intensity and hard work, for

all the joy and hustle he brought to playing baseball, it's been years

since he did enough between the white lines to justify a roster

spot. In the Times today

he describes himself as a little New Yorker even though he's from

Philly, and that's sweet, but it doesn't translate to numbers, even though right now I wish

it did.

I have no doubt Joshua will come home from college one day and we'll

discuss how Super Joe has taken the managerial reins in Philly or

Detroit or even here, and we'll note that gosh, he's been in uniform Joshua's

entire life, and I'll say nice things about him and how he owned the

Unit and all the rest. But in 2005, come that day game after a night

game, or the sixth-inning pinch-hitting appearance, I'll take Woodward

or Cairo. Baseball's pitiless that way. We must be pitiless too.

From the Grasping at Straws Department: Matt Ginter had 10 no-decisions last year for a terrible

baseball team. Unlike Aaron Heilman, he isn't afraid of his own stuff.

Unlike Jae Seo, he's coachable. He demonstrates bowhunting in the

clubhouse (nothing could go wrong there, nope) and plays a mean banjo.

I will not throw in the towel just yet, rude fortune cookies be damned.

As the Human Fight noted, it's not like Trachsel's Bob Gibson. And,

hey, if Ginter does flame out, at least the losses will go by a helluva

lot quicker.

On to the 70s. Between Saberhagen, Bobby Bo, Cedeno and Jefferies,

that's a whole lot of problems big (playing cards during Armageddon,

lacking a cerebellum) and small (throwing bleach, not liking Roger

McDowell). This part of the All-Time Clubhouse seems reserved for

Players With Issues.

I was in the stands at the Vet for Bret Saberhagen's

last start in '94. He was masterful, throttling the Phils on a night

when the attention of players and fans alike were focused on The

Strike. I'd paid up for scalped field-level seats, thinking hopefully

that I'd feel like a fool for wasting my money once labor peace was

reached. The next night the Mets lost in 15. They didn't play again in

'94.

I drove up to the Vet several times while I lived in D.C., even

dropping all my plans and getting in the car so I could see Bobby

Jones' debut in August 1993. I wound up sitting in the upper deck with

my back practically against that gigantic Diamondvision they had. It

made these large, vaguely frightening noises all game and you could

feel the amount of heat on your neck change (from, say, oppressive to

unbearable) when things were happening onscreen. Jones pitched OK even

as various Mets wandered around behind him colliding and flailing at

balls, somehow getting the win thanks to a two-homer night from Tim

Bogar. Bogie's second home run was an inside-the-parker: He broke his

hand sliding into the plate and was never the same player again. In

fact, after that he was Joe McEwing.

Gregg Jefferies was my favorite

player in college, something I defiantly proclaimed to the world and

that prompted the Human Fight to declare scornfully that “you only like

Jefferies because he's the Met most like you.” In 1989 I was quite

proud of that, since plenty of reasonable people regarded Jefferies as

a brash, talented prodigy. By the time we left college Jefferies had

curdled into a one-dimensional sociopath; soon after that he became a

resident of Kansas City. Not wanting to be any of those things, I

thought about him as little as possible by then.

Terry Leach makes me feel

guilty. He wrote a book, and I even read about five pages of it at

Chronicle one afternoon, but I didn't buy it. I sometimes feel like

this puts my fandom in question, since I have a

not-quite-Greglike-but-still-impressive collection of Met tomes. (I

refuse to read the Golenbock abortion and that irritating 70s book that

was all in lowercase, but that's about it.) I also worry that Terry

could use the money, unless he made some really wise investments back

in the day. I'm a bad fan.

Whatever happened to Kelvin Chapman, anyway? It's not easy to vanish

from the face of the earth a season removed from hitting .289 in nearly

200 at-bats, but he managed it. Did he become a monk? Get kidnapped by

aliens? Tire of jokes about temperature and Keats? I've always wondered.

By the way, Topps is revving up the PR machine for its 2005 Fan Favorites set

— a neat set featuring old Topps card designs with never-before-seen

photographs of players of that era. The 140-card set contains 19 Mets,

which is startling even before you register that one of them is Barry

Lyons. Barry Lyons?

There was a time when the news of Steve Trachsel's unavailability to take his starts would have been greeted around here with hip-hoorays and ballyhoos. But then his torpor morphed into competence and his absence equals bad news. Being down one dependable starting pitcher is a pretty big matzoh ball hanging out there.

Pending a trade (Cameron and somebody for Oswalt who's presumably going to be making too much money for Drayton McLane soon? Diaz steps into right and wins ROTY? Just thinking out loud…), we'll get stuck with whoever doesn't pitch too badly over the next couple of weeks and then we'll be spun into believing, “Y'know what? Matt Ginter is just as good as Steve Trachsel.”

If it sounds familiar, that was the Ricky Gutierrez/Jose Reyes dynamic of a year ago when our second baseman (aarrgghh) crumbled in pain. Trust us, we were told, you'll hardly notice the difference between the two. Gutierrez followed in the footsteps of the dreaded Rey Sanchez in terms of a low-rent replacement who can quietly and mindlessly pick up ground balls so well that you won't even miss the mouthy guy who used to be here, even if Rey Ordoñez was a three-time Gold Glove winner.

Matt Lawton wasn't exactly in that category. He was more a desperation mid-season move who didn't play too badly but was part of a bad trade nonetheless. (Rick Reed was in the midst of an All-Star season and loved being a Met; Lawton was, like so many American Leaguers we deal for, in the middle of a slump and didn't want to come here.) I wouldn't expect the world at large to recall Matt Lawton as a Met. But I found it jarring when John Discepolo, the empty suit who does sports on Channel 5, showed highlights of the Pirates playing the Yankees Wednesday and referred to the very same Lawton as a “former Twin”.

Huh? You're in New York, pal. If somebody was a Met, he's an ex-Met. Shoot, Lawton was an All-Star last season with the Indians. He hasn't been a Twin since 2001. Stuff like that bugs me no end.

As we wind into the 80th through 71st Greatest Mets Of The First Forty Years, we have primarily guys who will be remembered, when they are remembered, as Mets. Except for the first guy.

80. Bret Saberhagen: The harbinger of Junior Circuiteers to come, a star who was just beginning to inch off the wrong side of the cliff five minutes before we got him, Bret Saberhagen still unfurled one breathtaking season for us in the four years he was here. In 1994, before the strike, Sabes was at his Royal best, going 14-4 and walking only 13 batters across 177-1/3 innings. Bret finished third in the Cy Young voting behind Greg Maddux and Ken Hill. It's probably the most-obscure tremendous season any Mets pitcher has ever filed, fitting in that it took place in the most obscure season the Mets have ever played. 1994 represented a tremendous bounceback from the disaster of '93, improving from 59-103 to 55-58, which works out on a pro-rated basis to 79-83. Given the strike, that relative, quiet success, like the rest of Saberhagen's Mets career, is moot.

79. Ron Hodges: Ron Hodges needed one inning to validate his place in the Mets pantheon. That inning was the thirteenth on the night of September 20, 1973. The details are familiar enough to be told in shorthand: Tie game, two out, Zisk on first, Augustine up, Augustine swings, ball off the top of the wall, ball into Jones' glove, relay to Harrelson, relay to Hodges, Hodges tags Zisk, three out, Hodges then drives in the winning run, Mets go on to win the division. If he had won the game against the Pirates for us, the Haggadah suggests that would have been enough. But instead of leaving on a high note, Ron Hodges, only a rookie in 1973, decided to stick around. And stick around some more. Ron Hodges stuck around, save for a single refresher in Tidewater, clear through to 1984, by which time Davey had replaced Yogi, Doc had succeeded Tom and Jesse, not Tug, was saving games. In between, the Mets played a lot of bad baseball, and Ron Hodges had watched a ton of it from the bench. Whatever percent of life is showing up, Ron Hodges grabbed every last decimal point of it.

78. Bobby Bonilla: Two-time All-Star. Hit 34 home runs in '93. His tenth-inning shot beat the Cardinals on Opening Night 1992, his second dinger of the game. Took Rob Dibble deep in the bottom of the ninth at Shea that August on Turn Back The Clock Night, causing the Nasty Boy to tear off his retro Reds vest and fling it to the ground as he stalked away in defeat. Appeared as himself on an episode of Living Single and was referred to as “Bobby Billionaire”. When he was traded to the Orioles, he ran out to the bullpen during the game to shake hands with his now ex-teammates. That was classy. Um…what else? An All-Star twice…uh…34 homers one year…er…that shot off Dibble…

77. Roger Cedeño: Stealing 66 bases in an era when that level was rarely reached by anyone in the game is noteworthy. Doing so for a traditionally lead-footed franchise makes it all the more remarkable. For shattering Mookie Wilson's 17-year-old team stolen base mark, for batting .313, for making a sensational catch during a scintillating duel between Orel Hershiser and Kevin Brown in September and for his all-around contributions to a playoff team, Roger Cedeño should be remembered for what he accomplished as a Met in 1999. He won't be.

76. Frank Thomas: What a shadow this man cast over the Mets' record book. He hit 34 home runs in 1962 and nobody challenged him for the next dozen seasons. Nobody came remotely close; Tommie Agee was next with 26 in '69. Frank Thomas was a Colossus among power-starved Lilliputians. How weird were the Polo Grounds' dimensions anyway? The first Mets, for all their 120 losses, hit 139 home runs, a plateau that stood as the organization's pinnacle until 1986. It took the best team in franchise history to wipe away a mark set by the worst team in baseball history. Alas, for the Big Donkey, it was all over eleven years before that when Dave Kingman swatted 36 homers in 1975. Overall, Thomas' total has been equaled or surpassed by Met sluggers 14 times. But nobody else got to 34 sooner.

75. Gregg Jefferies: Who was the only player to receive Rookie of the Year votes in two separate seasons? Gregg Jefferies was the perpetual freshman of baseball, the child prodigy who never grew up, at least not on our watch. His promotion to the '88 Mets represented one of the most electric moments in team history. After 13 games, he was hitting .429 with 5 HR, 10 RBI and 13 runs scored while the Mets pulled away from the Pirates once and for all. Based almost entirely on those two weeks, he finished sixth in the ROTY voting. With eligibility remaining, he finished third in the same balloting a year later, but it was a much harder struggle to get that far. He couldn't play second or third, wouldn't be coached and tended to sulk when he didn't hit, which was surprisingly often. Jefferies' veteran teammates, not enjoying their finest hour, resented the hell out of Gregg's golden-child status. The 1989 home season ended with Roger McDowell, by then a Phillie, taking off after him, and the older Mets not looking terribly interested in defending their boy's honor. The kid blossomed later as the Cardinals' first baseman under (sigh) Joe Torre.

74. Terry Leach: With the institution of the five-man rotation throughout baseball, one of the more delightful terms, swingman, has gone away. The best swingman the Mets ever had was Terry Leach, particularly in 1987. He could pitch anytime and he usually did. Penciled in as a long reliever, Terry Leach kept the Mets afloat as a starter when injuries and/or rehab took down every glam pitcher the Mets had at one point or another. In a six-start stretch between June 1 and July 7, Leach pitched to the tune of a 1.67 ERA. He went uncomplainingly back to the bullpen once everybody got healthy and wound up compiling an 11-1 record for the year. Too bad for any number of reasons we couldn't repeat in '87, but particularly for Terry Leach. On Opening Day, after the Mets handed out rings to their remaining '86ers, Terry, who'd made only a cameo the year before, wandered over to the table where the rings had been displayed. He said later he was hoping there might be an extra one.

73. Tim Teufel: By not being Kelvin Chapman, Tim Teufel achieved his purpose. Chapman was the righty half of the second-base platoon in 1985, and when his usefulness expired, the Mets got desperate. Nominally a switcher, Wally Backman just couldn't hit from the right side. With Ron Gardenhire and Larry Bowa not providing short-term solutions, it was as much the inability to effectively pinch-hit for and replace Backman versus lefties that cost the '85 team the division. Teufel, brought over from the Twins in exchange for future genius Billy Beane, filled a specific need and filled it competently. He had one big moment in '86, winning an extra-inning game with a grand slam against Philly, and one huge blunder, the grounder that rolled under his glove in the World Series to cost the Mets the first game. Teufel gracefully fielded every question about it afterwards and by the time the Series was over, nobody much brought up that particular error or that particular ground ball.

72. Steve Henderson: It's one of those World War II movie scenarios, but thankfully we're not at war. The time is the mid-1980s. Everybody wants to pass as a Mets fan. But like in those pictures, the only way to determine who's on the up and up and who's an interloper is to ask a baseball question. And the only question that can prove one's legitimacy and thus allow one to gain entry to field-level seats is this one: Who is Steve Henderson and what did he do? The only applicable answer is: “On Saturday night, June 14, 1980, Steve Henderson stepped up in the bottom of the ninth with two out and two on and the Mets trailing six to four. They had been down six-one entering the ninth after falling behind six-nothing in the fifth. With Allen Ripley pitching, Steve Henderson — also known as Hendu — hit a three-run homer, winning the game, seven to six. It was Hendu's first home run of the year. He was mobbed at the plate by all his teammates, including the newly acquired Claudell Washington, who was so new his name wasn't yet sewn on the back of his jersey. This was no ordinary walk-off home run. It came in the midst of the Magic Is Back run in which the Mets were pulling out miracle wins regularly and creeping ever closer to .500 and maybe even a pennant race. On this night, we believed more than ever that, indeed, the Magic was Back and the Mets would no longer be laughingstocks. It was the unquestioned high point of an otherwise dismal era of Mets baseball and made me proud to be a Mets fan in a way that would carry me forward for several years until the Mets would actually be good again. Even though nobody who played for the Mets on June 14, 1980 was on the team when it took off in 1986, I will always remember it lovingly.” Any other answer and you're a fraud.

71. Roger Craig: Hardly anybody gets the opportunity anymore to test the “you've gotta be a pretty good pitcher to lose 20 games” theory. In 1962, Mets' ace Roger Craig lost 24 games. In 1963, Roger Craig lost 22 games. His ERAs were, respectively, 4.18 and 3.49. He went to St. Louis in 1964 and won the fourth game of the World Series by throwing 4-2/3 innings of scoreless relief at Yankee Stadium. Conclusion: Roger Craig was a pretty good pitcher.

 

Before moving on to ten more Greatest Mets, you’ve spurred me to take one more long look at a few of my first twenty.

* Stephanie referred to Kevin Elster as The Cute One. He was the first Met she publicly took notice of that way and, to date, the only one.

* Maybe if I’d been in a meeting and missed Carl Everett‘s grand slam of 9/13/97, I wouldn’t have felt compelled to vault him onto The List. But I was watching from our living room, hopeless and in despair, explaining to the aforementioned missus that down 0-6, we’re screwed, we’re screwed, we’re screwed, and this wonderful season, it’s over, it’s over, it’s over. Entering the ninth, Stephanie, who hadn’t been in the room most of the afternoon and was a fan mostly by osmosis, said unto me the three words any man would want to hear at that moment: “You Gotta Believe”. That dramatic win was powered by my wife’s faith as much as Carl Everett’s bat.

* Myth: The early Mets were stocked with ex-New York Giants and ex-Brooklyn Dodgers. Fact: While nine ex-Brooks, à la Duke Snider, eventually became Mets, no ex-Jint was a Met until 1966 when Eddie Bressoud joined the cast and set a Met shortstop record for homers with 10 (tied by The Cute One in 1989). The only other NYG to be an NYM was that fella Mays. It is my duty as an occasionally dues-paying member of the New York Giants Historical Society to note former Giant catcher Wes Westrum managed the Mets and Joan Payson owned a piece of New York’s first and foremost baseball dynasty. She was, famously, the only dissenting vote when its board voted to move to San Francisco. And Casey, of course, was ex-everything.

* I’ve had no use for women’s soccer ever since Brandi Chastain nudged Matt Franco off at least one front page, maybe more. I had no use for women’s soccer before that either, but her timing was as rude as your Wednesday fortune cookie.

* I saved just about everything that was printed down the stretch in 1999, at least the stuff I wanted to remember. That includes the Lisa Olson column on Shawon Dunston‘s valedictory, run in the Daily News that October 21. I’d gladly type in the whole thing right now, but I don’t want to violate any copyright laws, so I’ll just excerpt a gut-searing passage:

“‘I am so proud to be a Met,’ said Dunston, voice cracking. Darryl Hamilton looked up, and felt the tears on his cheeks. Someone else sobbed. Al Leiter wiped the water from his eyes. The passion play that was the Mets season had just completed its last, heart-wrenching act, the Mojo dissipating with a 10-9, 11th-inning loss to the Braves Tuesday night.

 

 

“Dunston pointed over at Mike Piazza, his limbs held together by sticky glue, and told him how thrilled he was to have the catcher as a teammate. Piazza’s stony face rarely cracks, and now it took every ounce of energy in his aching bones not to melt into a quivering mess.

 

 

“Dunston motioned to Armando Benitez, staring at the wall. Only the Mets knew how much the stoic closer has been hurting these past few weeks, not because Benitez tells them, but because he can barely walk to the shower. Dunston looked at John Franco, who had just taken his sixth cortisone shot of the season so his shoulder would hold up one more time.

 

 

“‘You guys made me believe again,’ continued Dunston. ‘You made baseball fun for me. I will never, ever forget what this team did.’

 

 

“Grown men aren’t supposed to cry, but Dunston’s words put a quick end to whatever cool machismo the players were clutching. The clubhouse doors opened and it was like a giant flash had gone off, resulting in eyes that were red and oh-so-stunned.

 

 

Dunston, the first pick in 1982, out of Thomas Jefferson High in Brooklyn, is one of those players who observes everything but tells nothing, which made this moment all the more precious. ‘Fans look at Mike and all they see is $100 million,’ Dunston explained. ‘He’s set for life. He doesn’t have to go through that beating. But he acted like he’s making $100,000. All he wanted to do was play.

 

 

“‘Kenny (Rogers), he’s so hurt, but how would we know it? He said, I don’t care about my arm. I’ll throw whenever. I didn’t hear about money, guys talking about how (they could be) fishing, golfing. Even during the seven-game losing streak. All I saw was a team that would do anything to win.’

 

 

“He saw a team that raged, raged against the dying of the light, and when the flash finally went off, when Rogers, working like a heart surgeon afraid to make the wrong move, walked in the winning run, Darryl Hamilton curled up like a turtle in center field. Straight ahead was Ordonez at short, hands to his side as if he were expecting another play. Hamilton is not ashamed to admit he was crying. He thought of all the trepidation he felt when he was traded to New York, how he expected to hate it, and how wrong he was.

 

 

“‘What a great three months I’ve had,’ said Hamilton. ‘It was really neat to hear Shawon speak from the heart like that. It’ll give us something that’ll carry us through the winter and give us the determination to pop the champagne next year.’

 

 

“What a great three months, what a great series, what a great game. When Piazza, limping like Kirk Gibson, hit that home run in the seventh to make it 7-7, Dunston jumped up and screamed, ‘We’re going to the World Series! We’re going to play the Yankees!’

 

 

He was a little kid again, in love with the game. He believed the same way John Franco did when Leiter trudged into the dugout after getting shelled in the first inning and, with the Mets in a 5-0 hole, put his arm around Leiter and said, ‘We’re going to win this thing.'”

 

I got a fortune cookie today, ate it and the fortune said this: HEY

STUPID — IF YOU THOUGHT TRACHSEL WAS THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THE

PLAYOFFS AND NOTHING, YOU WEREN'T MAKING THE PLAYOFFS ANYWAY.

How rude!

In less-weighty news, Angel Pagan, Ambiorix Concepcion, Mike Jacobs, Matt Lindstrom, Blake McGinley and Juan Padilla took that famous 300-yard walk. Wayne Lydon got relocated last week and escaped my notice. And Danny Garcia

got released, ensuring he'll beat us at least once whereever he lands.

I assume his being a redass, if I may go Harazin on you for a moment,

finally became a liability in Met eyes.

With the present suddenly murky, off to the past for solace in the form of Players 81-90. I always loved Jay Payton

even when he did little to earn that — I itched to put his baseball

card in the Holy Books for years (and many surgeries), celebrated his

every success when he finally did arrive, and managed to remain blind

to his faults after he stayed a while. (See also: Pulsipher, Bill.) To

me, the oddest thing about Payton is how he played his best

under huge pressure in the 2000 postseason — he rarely looked as good

on a lazy June night against, say, Cincy. Oh, and that catch in San

Francisco. He was as surprised and delighted as any Met fan watching on

TV, and he should've been.

I have trouble believing Timo Perez and Melvin Mora

weren't actually the same person — scrappy fill-in arrives late in

season, does next to nothing in regular season, then comes alive in

postseason. Sure, Timo was crowned King of Merengue, while Melvin

battled Taiwanese gamblers, became the father of quintuplets and

actually became a good baseball player, but … well, never mind, that

is quite a difference. In retrospect Mora was there for the first real,

undeniable hint that Roger Cedeno couldn't actually play baseball:

Remember how he basically had to threaten Cedeno into that key

double-steal against John Rocker and the Braves? As for Timo, well, run

dummy. Since the cameras are off, you know Derek Jeter is snickering

like Muttley about that one even now.

(Excuse me while I destroy something. I mean, goddamnit.)

Shawon Dunston forever earned a

place on any list of Mets not just for that wonderful weeklong at-bat,

but for his farewell address in the Mets clubhouse after our death

rattle against Atlanta. (Winning run: Gerald Williams, which is reason

enough to get rid of him.)

I can't find Lisa Olson's account of Dunston's speech from the Daily

News, which is a lovely piece of writing, but I remember for weeks

afterward I would read it and quietly weep to myself. (Bonilla and

Rickey won't remember that speech because they were playing cards.)

As for Matt Franco, I remember

not only his marvelous, life-affirming hit (and so what if it was

Strike Four), which came on the same day as Brandi Chastain and the

sports bra of triumph, but also his dinger to beat Pedro when his

nombre was Expo. Remember how Pedro sat in the dugout in disbelief

until they literally turned off the lights on him? Now that he's a Met

that's a beautiful example of his passion for the game, but at the time

it was just grounds for a good haw-haw. As for Matty's Atlanta tenure, let us never discuss it.

Kevin Elster was cool, but he

should have a pretty massive asterisk on that now-gone fielding record.

The man had the range of a stone pillar, albeit a pheromone-sodden

stone pillar women would rub themselves against while growling in their

throats. I'm probably just jealous. He also has one of the odder careers ever, leaping out of the baseball grave in '96 with the Rangers and then again in '00 with the Dodgers. Hey, can he pitch?

The short burst of excitement seems to hold the edge on long-term commitment today as we slide headfirst into the next ten of our Met immortals (or imMetrals). But before we do, there is the matter of Tom Seaver, who may or may not show up somewhere along the way here, coming out against the New Mets hype in Newsday Wednesday, warning one and all that:

“They’re definitely improved. Let’s see. I think they shot themselves in the foot doing that once already.”

He was referring to getting everybody’s hopes up in 2002, a most un-Terrific season. I appreciate Tom’s perspective and honesty. It gives lie to the idea unfairly espoused six years ago when he replaced Tim McCarver that he was being brought in to be a Wilpon shill, or a Shillpon. Then again, I wonder how much of his unimpressedness stems from his wondering why they didn’t turn to The Franchise to turn the franchise around.

There was a time Tom Seaver would stand on the mound, turn around and find the man who starts today’s segment of The One Hundred Greatest Mets of the First Forty Years.

90. Ken Boswell: On a team that didn’t score many runs, the early ’70s Mets were famously about pitching and defense. Their second baseman, Ken Boswell, set a record for going 85 straight games without an error in 1970. One would think his glove was his stock-in-trade, though contemporary accounts indicate defense was not his strong suit. In Joy in Mudville, George Vecsey characterized him as “heavy-handed,” at least in 1969. Ken did hit two homers in the inaugural National League Championship Series, so he could have been termed heavy-hitting at times.

89. Jay Payton: His prospects were once sky-high. Then like all Mets prospects of his generation, he got hurt. And Jay Payton wasn’t even a pitcher. But for the one year that he got it together, 2000, he was an integral part of a pennant-winning club. Gave the club its best center field defense since Pat Howell (speaking of short-timers). Got the key hit in Game 2 of the NLDS to rescue Benitez  and the whole team, post-J.T. Snow, singling in the unlikely Darryl Hamilton in the top of 10th. As Mets centerfielders who were going to be the real deal, Jay Payton was no Don Bosch.

88. Timo Perez: Imagine Mike Vail. Now imagine Mike Vail coming on like gangbusters the way he did in 1975 except now imagine that happening when it really, really counted. The reality would be Timo Perez and his immense role in securing two playoff series for the 2000 Mets. For two weeks, the former Timoniel was staggering. The Mets might not have beaten the Giants without him (or with Derek Bell keeping his balance on the Pac Bell sod). The Mets would not have beaten the Cardinals without him. Less than two months into his big-league career, Timo set a record for most runs scored in an NLCS (in just five games) and should have been awarded its MVP. Timo put us in the 2000 World Series. It’s a shame he took us out of it so quickly.

87. Shawon Dunston: Do you think anything of the Butterfly Effect? If you do, think about Shawon Dunston’s third at-bat in the fifth game of the 1999 National League Championship Series versus the Braves. It’s the bottom of the fifteenth inning. Atlanta has just taken a 4-3 lead and needs three outs to secure the pennant. Shawon Dunston stands at the plate representing the first out. On any one of twelve pitches, he could have registered that out. Instead, Shawon Dunston takes or fouls off everything Kevin McGlinchy dishes out. He won’t walk — he literally never walks in 51 games in a Mets uniform — but he won’t cooperate with McGlinchy. On the twelfth pitch, he singles to center. Shawon Dunston keeps hope alive. If Shawon Dunston never becomes a Met, he’s not up in that situation, he’s not on first, he doesn’t steal second, he doesn’t get sacrificed to third by Alfonzo, he doesn’t score on a bases-loaded walk to Pratt, he doesn’t watch in stunned disbelief as Ventura singles over the fence for the winning run. Neither do we. We have no Grand Slam Single. We lose in five. We have no Game Six. We have nothing to hold against Al Leiter because he never pitches that awful no thirds of a first inning in which he gives up five runs. We have no stirring comeback from 0-5 to 8-7. We have no recollection of Mike Piazza’s Cobra shot (“you’re the disease, and I’m the cure”) off cocky John Smoltz. We have no heartbreaking cough-up of an 8-7 lead. We have no life-affirming ninth run with Benny Agbayani rumbling across the plate to beat a throw from the supposedly flawless Andruw Jones. We have no second heartbreaking cough-up of a lead, this one 9-8. We may very well have Kenny Rogers as a lefty starter on the 2000 Mets because we have no wild streak in the bottom of eleventh of Game Six haunting him, in which case we have no Mike Hampton, but maybe we do have Ken Griffey because we redouble our efforts to get him after he turns us down since we still have Cedeño and Dotel as chits along with Benitez, who, it’s possible, never sticks around to face Paul O’Neill in the 2000 World Series, which we might not make if we still have Kenny Rogers but not Mike Hampton. If you don’t think anything of the Butterfly Effect, then never mind.

86. Dave Mlicki: That Dave Mlicki could go out on any given night and throw a complete game, 9-hit, 8-K shutout shouldn’t have been news. He had the talent if not the ability to harness it more often than he did. That he did align all his stars in one place on the evening of June 16, 1997 when the opponent was the New York Yankees and the venue was Yankee Stadium and the occasion was the first-ever regular season encounter between the New York Mets and the New York Yankees is to his everlasting credit.

85. Matt Franco: “He’ll never have to pay for a drink in this town ever again” is one of those sayings that I wouldn’t think has much modern-day resonance. It’s hard to imagine ballplayers really frequent bars with the common folk who adore them. On the afternoon of July 10, 1999, Matt Franco pinch-hit a 3-2 pitch off the impenetrable Mariano Rivera. With that single, Rickey Henderson and Edgardo Alfonzo crossed home plate, turning an 8-7 loss to the Yankees into a 9-8 win over the Yankees. From an eternally grateful witness whose total being turned to jelly in Section 46, Row T of the Shea upper deck, comes this hoarse-throated promise: Every vodka gimlet Matt Franco ever craves, his money’s no good here, pal.

84. Melvin Mora: Melvin Mora rode the Norfolk shuttle for the better part of 1999. There was virtually nothing he did in the 64 games he appeared in prior to October 3 to indicate what he was about to produce. Then, at the best possible time, leading off the bottom of the ninth in a must-have tie game against the Pirates, he singled. Moments later he scored the winning run on Brad Clontz’s wild pitch to extend the Mets’ season to a 163rd game. In the playoffs against Arizona and Atlanta, he did everything. He played each outfield position and threw a runner out from left, center and right. He was in the middle of rallies. He hit his first Major League home run in a championship series. Melvin Mora proved himself under the stormiest of circumstances and earned a place on the Opening Day roster for 2000 after which he continued to produce. The only thing he couldn’t do was play shortstop every day, which was too bad, since it was this one drawback that got him traded for someone who allegedly could.

83. Eddie Murray: As unhappy as he appeared and as bad as the team was, future Hall of Famer Eddie Murray drove in 193 runs in 1992 and 1993. The players swore by him as their sage and counsel. Did he lead by example? If his advice to them was “act like a sullen jerk if you like, but be sure to pick up the man from third with less than two out,” it’s apparent that his voice trailed off in dispensing the second half of his cherished wisdom.

82. J.C. Martin: If a Brave or a Yankee or, back then, an Oriole bunted and ran inside the baseline, leaving his wrist free to obstruct the pitcher’s throw to first and that throw glanced off that wrist and away from the first baseman allowing a runner to score from second and win a World Series game, we’d scream bloody murder. But since the wrist belonged to J.C. Martin and the errant toss was made by Pete Richert and the Mets won Game Four and it was 1969, we’re cool with that.

81. Kevin Elster: No shortstop in the history of Major League Baseball had played more games in a row, 88, without committing an error than Kevin Elster did in 1988-89. His record would later be broken and even while it stood, Elster’s achievement would be viewed by some with an asterisk since a number of those games were late-inning appearances for defense. But they were appearances and there were no errors. Elster also hit nine homers as a rookie shortstop on the last division champion in Mets history. By comparison, Bud Harrelson hit none in ’69 or ’73 and Rafael Santana hit one in ’86.

To avoid competing lists, I'll yield the field to you, keeping my 100

greatest Mets in my back pocket for a rainy day, which is all our team

seems to get these days. Funny how I never thought much of Steve

Trachsel (beyond “Why isn't that man throwing the baseball yet?”) until

back troubles turned him into Matt Ginter. Ulp!

Anyway, while the Greatest 100 unfold, I'm going to play the easy role

of G(r)eek Chorus, making appreciative comments about (and taking occasional pot

shots at) the players on your list.

My pot shots will not begin with Marvelous Marv,

however: Parking him at #100 is genius. In our old Bethesda, Md., group

house, the line “We was gonna give you a piece of cake, but we wuz

afraid you would drop it” got adopted as an all-purpose putdown, with

various nouns subbed for “piece of cake.” That's fame of a sort, ain't

it? Among the innumerable legends you didn't mention, my favorite is

how Marv had to pay taxes on his cabin cruiser because he won it for

hitting a sign, which was considered a test of skill, while Richie

Ashburn's cabin cruiser was tax-free because he got it for being named

the team MVP, which wasn't a test of skill because it was voted on by

others. Or something. Ashburn tied his boat up in a river and it sank.

Marv gets extra points because he'd been a Yankee. It was nice of the

Fates to provide us with an almost-mystically clear example of the

difference between the two teams so early: Marv's ineptitude was a

source of embarrassment and disgust for Yankee fans but made him

beloved by Met fans. Baseball is an imperfect affair; if you can't

laugh at it, well…you're a Yankee fan.

I can't abide the idea that Lenny Harris

is on any list of ours.  Nothing against Lenny, who by all

accounts is a prince among men, but he embodies the Neanderthal

conservatism of baseball front offices: In any sane world, such a

profoundly limited player would have lost his job to rookies seasons

ago. But Lenny keeps rolling on and on — he must be in camp somewhere

— adding to his pointless pinch-hitting record. And considering he's a

stone-handed, slow singles hitter, he's not even one-dimensional —

he's half-dimensional. Lest we think Steve Phillips never did anything

for us, the sturm und drang over his secretarial sojourns did keep Lenny from cluttering up a roster spot. Until we reacquired him. Grrr.

Similarly, I must withhold my endorsement of Duke Snider.

While I understand and appreciate the nod to our blue and orange

history, Joan Payson's insistence on stockpiling decrepit Giants and

Dodgers hamstrung this franchise into the 1970s, with Willie Mays the

ultimate vanity pick. But at least Willie played in a World Series and

had some memorable plays. Duke did nothing but be old and sulky, and he

gets docked additional points for going out as a Giant — Jackie

Robinson opted to put his feet up on a desk at Chock Full o' Nuts

rather than do that. Gil Hodges would fall into this category too, were

it not for leading us to The Promised Land as a skipper.

I'll always associate Carl Everett's

Met career with my beloved Motorola SportsTrax, a lovely gift from my

in-laws that kept me connected during innumerable unavoidable weekend

and night events during which a radio would have been frowned upon. I

was still breaking in the SportsTrax when I was forced to spend the

bulk of a nice spring Saturday at a management retreat at a downtown

hotel. During a break I was showing off the device and turned the sound

on in hopes of getting a beep or two that I might be able to translate.

The second I did this the thing went apeshit, whistling and beeping so

euphorically that we all backed away from it as if it were a hand grenade.

“I think that's the grand-slam noise!” I said happily after looking at the score. It was. And it was Carl Everett.

The other SportsTrax Everett Event was the game against the Expos

you've mentioned. I was attending a ludicrously swanky wedding in

Newport, R.I., that I knew would turn into a grisly boozefest, so I

left the SportsTrax in the motel room along with everything else I

didn't want to lose. (What the hell, it was 6-0.) When I returned at 5

a.m., half-blind with drink, covered with grass stains and missing

significant tux components (it was a good wedding), I looked at the

final score in disbelief and concluded the SportsTrax was

malfunctioning. Nope. Carl Everett had malfunctioned the Expos.

I'd type more about Clobberin' Carl, but an Allosaurus

just wandered into the apartment looking for carrion, so I think I

better hide in a closet or something. Carl may not believe in them, but

I'm taking no chances.