In hell there's a big hotel
Where the bar just closed and the windows never opened
No phone so you can't call home
And the TV works, but the clicker is broken
—Billy Joel

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

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

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

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

DOWN.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Red Sox team jacket.

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

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

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

"Who are you?" I asked.
"Oh, I'm just a kid ballplayer. I play for the Mets. Well I did." With that he pushed a button.
"Gee, I don't mean to insult you, but I don't quite recognize you. Who are you?"
"I'm just Amos Otis. Feel free to use my elevator though. I'm getting off here."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The bell didn't work.

"HELLO? IS THERE ANYBODY BACK THERE?"

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

"Hello, welcome to the Windsor Hotel, official hotel of the Sixth Circle of Met Hell. My name is Joe. How can I help you?"
"Joe?"
"Yes, Joe."
"May I ask you something, Joe?"
"Sure."
"Where am I?"
"Why, I just told you. The Windsor."
"Yeah, but, uh, this will sound like a strange question but when am I?" I began to explain my elevator adventure, how I seemed to bounce from floor to floor, shooting up and down from one disturbing stop to the next until I got out here and there was no digital readout.
"I have to apologize about that. The owners of the Windsor have been a little reticent to fix things up. There's talk about them selling. That's why they've been slow to hire a full staff. In fact, I'm not really a bellman. We don't even have bellmen. We don't even have a working bell."
"Yeah, I noticed. But if you're not the bellman, what do you do here?"
"I'm the manager."
"You're Joe the manager?"
"Yes. And I'm all alone here. No Rube, no Piggy, no nothin'."
"All right. But my other question, you know...when? Or what floor am I on?"

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

"Ever see a sign like that?" he asked.
I shook my head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

With that Joe had himself a chaw and spit.

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

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

"No offense, buddy. But this is kinda high-concept and we're at a low point around here. If ya don't mind, I gotta go make some lemonade."
"Lemonade?"
"Well, I'm not a soda jerk if that's what you're getting at, but like I said, I have to do everything around here, and those crazy ladies who own the joint gave me 25 lemons. So what else am I supposed to make?"

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

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

"Hi," said the seemingly older one.
"Hi," said the seemingly younger one.
"Hi," I said.
"What are you doing here?" the older one asked.
"Yeah, nobody comes here," the younger one said.
"Nobody comes here because it's too crowded?" I chuckled.

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

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

"Met Hell?" the older one asked. "I don't get it. This is my eighteenth season here. Actually it's all I've ever known and I've been pretty comfortable."
"Eighteenth season?" I asked.
"Yup."
"Uh, is your name Ed?"
"Yeah, how'dya know?"

Then the younger guy interrupted. "Eddie's always going on about how old he is or how long he's been here and what it used to be like. I think he thinks he'll be here forever."
"Shut up ya whippersnapper," Ed demanded. "You just got here. You'll be lucky if you stick around at all."
I looked over the younger guy a little more.
"Say, are you really that new?"
"Sure am. Barely made it to the hotel staff this spring."
"Um, is your name Jesse?"
"Sure is. They even gave me a number."

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

"61?" I asked. "That's kinda high."
"Oh, it's just temporary," he assured me. "They're gonna get me 47 pretty soon. They promised."
"They'll promise you lots, kid. They promised me I'd grow up to be better than Hank Greenberg."
"Are you?"
"Do I look better than Hank Greenberg?"

I hated to interrupt their repartee, but for the first time on this journey, I was getting excited. "Hey," I asked the older guy, No. 7, "Did you know you used to be 17?"
"My number?"
"Your age."
"Uh, I think so."
"And you," I told the younger one. "You're gonna be 46!"
"Uh, I hope so. They told me I'd be 47. I feel a little silly in 61."

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

"It's an honor to meet both of you."
"If you say so," they said in unison. The older guy, No. 7, whipped out a can of Gillette Foamy and started shaving -- right there in the lobby. He was getting hair all over the carpet, but quite frankly, given what that mule was doing over in the corner, it wasn't that bad.

"Fellas, you know your way around here, around the Windsor, around this floor."
"Ya mean 1979?" the older guy who was shaving asked (the younger guy was too young to shave).
"Yeah, 1979. That's where I am, right? Or when I am?"
"Boy," the younger guy said. "You're kind of stupid."
"Regardless, I need your help." I asked if they could introduce me to some of the people who were staying on and/or in 1979. Both laughed. They said nobody was interested in any of them. Not even 800 were coming to see them.

"Tell ya the truth," the older one whispered, "none of us much care for any of the rest of us."
"I understand, but I need to seek one of you out. I can't say just who just yet, but I need to confirm something. A hunch."
"Hey," the youngster asked. "You're not the repo guy, are you?"
"No."
"'Cause the repo man came last week and took the bullpen car with the cap on it. That thing was cool."

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

"You do?"
"Yeah. I always have."

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

"Help yourself," the older one said. "Knock on any door you like."
With that, the older one and the younger one disappeared. I was on my own one and/or in 1979. Time was running short and the high concept was threatening to run out of steam, so I knew I had to act quickly.

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

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

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

"Whaddaya want?"
"Maybe I don't have the right room."
"And maybe I don't have the right team. Things haven't been going all that well for me these last couple of years."
"Uh, what happened to your foot?"
"Oh, the foot." He shook his head. "The foot. Why don't you ask me what happened to my SOUL?"
"Uh, OK...what happened to your soul?"
"Why don't you ask me what happened to all our souls?"

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

"Gosh," I said. "What an eerie yet somehow pleasant shade of red."
"Hey," twanged the guy with the guitar. "Maybe I'll write a song about that." He let out a squeal of delight and started fooling around with what sounded like Procol Harum's Whiter Shade of Pale.
"Yeah, it's damn pleasant," said one of the guys swinging. "It's pleasant thinking you're gonna be Big Red someday, part of a Machine, and then you wake up one Thursday morning and you're here."
The other guy swinging didn't say anything. He just kept switching from right to left, from left to right. To be honest, it didn't seem to be helping.

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

"National TV! And I'm giving up a record-tying hit. Of all the Jack Billingham, Fred Norman..."
"Did you want me?" asked the guy switching from right to left, left to right without any success.
"No. Sorry man. Rose!"

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

"Huntin' season start yet?" he asked as he stroked his beard. "Or do I gotta learn to play another infield position?"
"Yee-haw!" shouted the fella with the guitar. "Blood's always ready to go huntin'! Huntin' season don't start 'til our season's over, Blood."
"Dang." The camouflage guy stroked a three-day beard. "Hey, blood red! Nice touch. You guys still aren't over it either, are ya?"
"I can still make it, you know," said the fella swinging -- not the one who was switching right to left, left to right sans results; the other one. "You watch me. I'll hit a big home run one night. They'll remember me for something else besides not being Red."
"Yeah," said the suddenly melancholy guitar picker as he put down his instrument and picked up his glove. "I'm gonna be golden."
"You dopes are dreaming," said the gaunt, bearded figure with the bandaged left foot who opened the door marked 40 for me. "I was young once. I had it made. I shared something very important. Shared it with a guy named Butch. Now I'm stuck here. ROSE!"

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

The next door I knocked on was marked 33. I didn't knock all that loudly but I guess I startled the occupant. When he answered, he seemed all jumpy.
"Whadjadothatfor?" was his greeting.
"I was just looking for somebody."
"Well, ya broke my concentration."
"Oh, I'm sorry. What were you doing?"
"I don't remember anymore. I was trying to concentrate and you broke my concentration and now my concentration is shot. My confidence ain't doin' too good neither."

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

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

The defeated Brooklyn guy had a roommate, I guess. He was in full catcher's gear and barking. I got the feeling he barked at everybody. "YOU: PITCH BETTER! DON'T GIMME ANY OF THAT 'CONCENTRATION' BULL! I WANNA WIN! DON'T MAKE ME TACKLE YOU AGAIN!"
"Sorry, Dude."
"AND YOU" the barking guy barked at me. "WHAT DO YOU WANT?"

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

"Um, I was looking for somebody and I probably have the wrong room."
"THEN FIND THE RIGHT ROOM! DON'T BE A LOSER ALL YOUR LIFE!" He choked up and started to sob. "I'M NOT A LOSER! I'M GOING TO MAKE EVERYBODY AROUND ME BETTER. JUST YOU WAIT!"

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

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

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

"Yo."
"Hi, I'm looking for somebody..."
"Must be me." The Bee Gees were blasting in the background. "C'mon in. I'll sign a poster for ya."

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

"Ya got here just in time," he told me while he fixed his hair.
"I did?"
"Yeah. I'm goin' to 2001 in a little while."
It took me a moment to realize he was talking about a night club, not the floor.
"They love me there. All the broads wanna be with me. All the fellas wanna be me."
"Guys from here you mean?"
He laughed. "You kiddin'? They're barely stayin' alive with or without me. How deep is our batting order?"
I thought it was a rhetorical question. It wasn't.
"I'll tell you how deep is our batting order...it's me."

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

I told him I'd take a raincheck.

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

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

"Hey," one of them shouted, "come on in! They call you up, too?"
They had mistaken me for one of them. I didn't see how since I was old, out of shape and by no means athletic. But I thought if I could blend in maybe I could find my way to who I was looking for.
"Uh, yeah. Just called up. On the phone. Next thing I knew..."
"Hey," one of them asked. "Did they call you collect, too? Cheap bastards."

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

"Yeah," one of them said. "This is no life for a ballplayer, staying here with this team at this hotel. You know we're not even gonna draw 800 this year?"
"I hadn't heard."
"But what do you expect? C'mon fellas, let's tell the new guy...on the count of three..."

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

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

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

That's what it actually said, I swear.

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

"They're not happy, you know."

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

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

"Who are you?" I asked.
"Think of me as your guide."
"My guide?"
"Yes, you need a guide. I know of your quest and I am here to lead you down the hall, as it were, to where you need to be."
"Gee, thanks." Like a lot of the faces I'd encountered here on 1979, he looked familiar but didn't seem disconcerting or upsetting. I almost wanted to smile at the sight of him.

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

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

"Say, you wouldn't happen to be..."
"That is right. I am Sergio Ferrer."

It was! It was Sergio Ferrer!

"Hey, I remember you!"
"Yes, I know you do."
"You're the guy who me and my friend Joel..." Here I tailed off because I was about to tell him that in high school Joel Lugo and I had adopted Sergio Ferrer as the mascot, the symbol of the Mets as they stood as we ended tenth grade and began eleventh. It wasn't complimentary.

"It's all right. I know what you thought of me."
"Well, I'm sorry, Mr. Ferrer..."
"Call me Sergio."
"I'm sorry, Sergio. We were kids and the whole team seemed so absurd and futile and..."
"And I was most absurd and futile of all, no?"
"Well your batting average in 1979 was .000."
"I walked twice. On Base Percentage wasn't yet in vogue, but I walked twice."
"Sergio, you batted .000 for the entire year."
"I had some hard-hit balls. Remember the ten-run inning against the Reds?"

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

"Ray Knight robbed me. That thing was going down the line."
"Sergio, you batted .000 for the entire year."
"I scored a run in that inning."
"You were pinch-running for Ron Hodges."
"How many runs you score for the Mets that year?"
"I'll never forget Steve Albert's call. 'Even Sergio Ferrer is going to get a hit!' But you didn't."
"What's your point?"
"You were practically an object of derision to your own team's announcer and he was a really bad announcer."
"So?"
"Sergio, you batted .000 for the entire year."
"It was only seven at-bats."
"And on a team that lost 99 games you only rated seven at-bats."
"So?"
"So what does that tell you?"

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

"You know, Sergio, you're right. You were one of the good ones."
"That's what I tried to tell them, but I wound up here with the rest of them. At least I tried, y'know? Elliott Maddox couldn't wait to get out. He was all, 'I'm really a Yankee, I made a big mistake.'"
"I know. I hated reading that after the fact!"
"And didja see how bored Willie Montañez looked that second year?"
"I did!"
"And Frank Taveras? Sure, he could run, but did he ever run after ground balls?"
"I was at a game where he struck out five times!"
"What about Mike Scott?"
I bristled at the thought. "That cheating bastard."
"Sure, later. But do ya think he ever thought to try sandpaper when he was a rookie? He never wanted to be in New York. Even though they kept reasonably quiet about it while it was happening, almost none of them did. I don't know why not. It's not like there was any pressure. Did you know that we didn't even draw 800 that entire year?"

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

"I was four of those 788,905," I told him as if to regain his trust.
"I know you were."
"And if I had been older, I probably would've been more."
"I know you would've been. You and I may have our differences on what I did then..."
"Sergio, you batted .000 for the entire year."
"…but I know your heart is true. Not that will do you much good here, eh?"

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

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

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

"Yeah?"
"Hi."
"Hi."

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

"Uh, mind if I come in?"
"Suit yourself. I've got nothing but time."

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

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

"Lucky bastards," my host grumbled.
"How's that?"
"Pittsburgh. Philadelphia. Look at 'em. They're contenders."
"What do you care about them?" I was irritated by the tone in his voice and my irritation gave way to emboldenment. "You're a Met."
"Don't remind me."

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

"I wish you wouldn't talk that way."
"What's it to ya?"
"I'm a Mets fan."
"So?"
"That doesn't mean anything to you?"
"Should it?"

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

"Listen, no offense..."
"No offense. Coming from you, what else is new?"
"Hey, that's a low blow. I led the team in RBIs."
"You were tied."
"Nobody had more."
"You had a lousy 79."
"Who was I supposed to drive in? Ferrer?"
"Flynn had 61 and he was batting eighth."
"Whaddaya want from me?"

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

"I want you to apologize."
"To who?"
"To us. To me."
"To you? For what? Look, you may not like that there weren't many men on base for me or that I tailed off dramatically in the second half or that I practically invented The Wave by the way I merely motioned toward hard grounders to either side of me as they traveled to the outfield or that I lost my temper one day when you were there and gave the crowd my special salute..."
"You know, you're not making a case for yourself here."
"What I'm getting at is it wasn't my fault."

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

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

"How can you say that?"
"Well, it wasn't."
"You say you have lots of time on your hands here. Explain."
"First off, we sucked."
"We've established that."
"Everybody and everything sucked. That fucking mule. The time our game was called for fog. The time somebody called time to go to the bathroom and the game had to be picked up the next day. The way nobody came. The way they couldn't even have Orosco's uniform ready for Opening Day. Those crazy ladies. Did you know they wanted to reuse the balls from BP in the games?"
"Do you really think I'd come all the way here if I hadn't read Jack Lang's book?"
"It was so goddamn depressing. There was no talent. Haven't you looked around here?"

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

"Yeah, I've looked around."
"So why you picking on me?"
"Because..."
"What? Say it. SAY IT!"
"BECAUSE YOU, RICHIE FUCKING HEBNER, SAID YOU DIDN'T WANT TO BE A MET, NEVER EVEN PRETENDED YOU WERE HAPPY TO BE A MET AND COULDN'T WAIT TO STOP BEING A MET!"

I felt better.

"That's it? That's what you're so pissed off about for more than 25 years? That's the rock you've been carrying on your shoulder since 1979?"
"Yes."
"You think I was the only one?"
"No."
"Fuckin' A right 'No.' You found out that Elliott Maddox regretted being a Met, that Mike Scott was never comfortable in New York that Frank Taveras was marking time."
"Yes, I found that out."
"So I ask you again, why do you have in for me, Richie Hebner?"
"Because you were the only one who was so fucking obvious about it back when it was going on."
"Don't I get credit for honesty? I said I didn't want to be traded here."
"You're not supposed to say stuff like that! Not when I'm 16 years old and still believe the Mets are full of Mets who like being Mets."
"Look kid..." -- suddenly I was 'kid' to him -- "...sorry to bust your bubble, but that's life. I grew up in the family funeral business, so I know something about how there are no happy endings. Why waste a lot of breath on happy talk when we're all gonna die?"

OK, this was getting morbid.

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

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

"I always looked at you as a good player when you were with the Pirates and the Phillies. I was excited when we got you for Nino Espiñosa. I was overjoyed to watch you on Opening Day 1979 when you got four hits and four RBIs and the Mets won for what seemed like the last time all year. I'm telling you this."
"So you see what I'm saying."
"I absolutely do not."
"What part?"
"All of it. It's bullshit!"
"What do you mean?"
"If you were a good player, you'd go to the team you were traded to and say, 'all right, how can I make my new team better?' Instead, you were like every dick in every gym class who looked pained that the gym teacher assigned him to a team with the likes of me. You don't whine and sulk and pout and let every fan know right away that you hate being where you are."
"Well I did hate being where I was."
"Do you hate being where you are, too? At the Windsor? In the Sixth Circle of Met Hell? Forever trapped on 1979 and in 1979? Do you hate knowing that as far as Faith and Fear in Flushing is concerned, you were never traded for Phil Mankowski and Jerry Morales, two non-prizes to put it mildly but at least they weren't you? Do you hate knowing that even though I have a baseball card saying you became hitting coach of the Durham Bulls that in fact you will forever be the crappy third baseman on the crappy 1979 Mets and that you can sit in this crappy hotel room with your Pirate and Phillie highlights watching those teams go on and win without you while you finger your gravedigging shovel and stew in your own resentment? Do you hate all that?"
"Yes. Yes, I do."
"Well too fucking bad!"

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

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

"So," I asked, "you fellas looking forward to getting to New York?"
"Oh no, this flight isn't going to New York," said the window passenger. I gulped.
"He's right," the aisle passenger said to me. I breathed hard.
"Uh, where are we headed?"
They both laughed Devilishly and answered in unison.
"This," they informed me, "is the flight to the Seventh Circle of Met Hell."

Oh no.