I too had hoped for a return by John Olerud, to rid us of the bitter taste of his exile/departure for Seattle and his brief, appalling tenure in the raiment of the Beast. It's amazing how many big moments I remember being bound up with him. I was in L.A. during the Curt Schilling game, and kept watching the scoreboard, which is updated with reassuring regularity. (On the other hand, a fight between the Dodgers and Cardinals broke out, and they played "Bad Boys" -- a far cry from Shea's fusty prudery during such things.) I couldn't believe it when the score changed to our favor, then immediately switched to "F." Bonus points for the fact that the FAN made the finale of that one the climax of the pregame psyche-up for part of the year, and for the shot of a giddy Roger Cedeno drumming his heels on home plate.

Oh, that triple play. It used to be part of my capsule biography as a fan that I'd never seen one. No-hitter? Sure. (Nolan Ryan on the Game of the Week. Think it was '81. He was a tall drink of rainbow sherbet on the mound.) Cycles? Quite a few, including the one you mention, where Felipe Alou* left a young Vlad the Impaler in right despite the fact that his leg had fallen off a couple of innings earlier. But no triple play -- the closest was that crazy play with Deion Sanders in the Braves/Jays World Series, which should have been one but was such a You Kids Ain't Goin' to the Tastee Freez screw-up that it might not have felt like it counted anyway. Emily and I were at Shea with our friend Megan, and I was rattling on about the thousands and thousands of games I'd seen on TV and the hundred-odd I'd seen live and no triple play, whereupon Olerud and the Mets turned one. I stared at the field in disbelief. Megan gave a small "Oh!" of surprise and then started to laugh.

But my favorite Olerud moment is one you'll remember too: Sept. 29, 1999. (After all, you were there.) To revel in past horrors, we'd lost seven straight -- three to the Braves in Atlanta, three to the Phils, and now one more to the Braves at home. Maddux was on the mound, bidding for his 20th win, ready to rip our hearts out in his infuriatingly calm way. You and I and Emily (and 42,000 others) were too stunned and scared to even cheer acceptably -- we kept emitting spastic sounds of defiance, then looking down at our laps and muttering. Brian Jordan (of course) made it 2-1 Braves in the third. Then, the fourth: Hamilton single. Cedeno single. Ordonez single. Leiter single. Henderson single. Alfonzo single. 4-2 us, but nothing had been hit hard, and as Olerud came to the plate we were still tense and muttering and flailing hands generally together and begging. WHAM! Grand slam, one of those that's so obviously gone that you're up and looking for strangers to embrace before the ball even clears the fence. We were still in trouble, but we believed again. Thank you, Oly.

As previously mentioned, Rusty Staub was my favorite player as a little boy, which came from hearing my mother cheer for him and thinking it was hella cool that a grown-up could have a name like Rusty. The lone wrong note of 1986 is that Rusty had hung 'em up -- if only he'd had one more year and a place in the pile.

Eleven years before that, though, all I wanted from the world was a Rusty Staub glove. Unfortunately, nobody made a Rusty Staub glove, which may have been the usual conspiracy to ignore the Mets but was probably Rusty not being interested in an endorsement deal. (There were no Staub baseball cards in '72, '73 and '74.) I didn't find this out for years, but my parents bought some generic, signature-free glove, fished a Rusty Staub card out of one of my shoeboxes, and carefully burned a flawless likeness of the signature into the leather before presenting it to me the next day. I never noticed that my glove had a brown signature with a certain depth while other kids' gloves had a black, stamped signature -- as with a lot of similar stories, my mother later said she'd lived in fear of me figuring out the truth from the first minute.

Odd postscript: Last year I was standing in a crowd near the starting line of the Tunnel to Towers road race, enduring the usual chin-wagging by semi-dignitaries (Chuck Schumer, Curtis Sliwa, various clergy) and waiting to run when the MC announced "and one of the all-time most-beloved Mets, Rusty Staub!" Wow, I thought, peering around my fellow runners, that's pretty cool. After the race, on the other side of the Battery Tunnel, I saw a big, redheaded man walking up West Street by his lonesome. I hesitated for a moment, then clambered across a median and caught up with him, inanely sticking out my hand before saying anything.

Rusty shook my hand warily; I regained my faculties and said, "Hey, Rusty, I just wanted to say you were my favorite player when I was a kid."

"Thanks," said Rusty, quite pleasantly. "That's very nice." He also kept walking. On top of everything else, Rusty Staub is no fool.

My favorite Jerry Grote story (like so many others that made a deep impression, it's from Joy in Mudville): In July '69 Newsday writer Joe Gergen told some Chicago rag that the Mets had as much chance of winning the pennant as man had of landing on the moon. Grote didn't seem to get the joke: When Neil Armstrong stepped off the ladder he was still fuming about Gergen and his smart mouth.

As a kid I liked the story because it wasn't immediately obvious why it was funny and I was proud of myself for getting it. Later, it seemed like mildly amusing evidence that Jerry Grote might not be suiting up for the Mensa Nine. But Grote seemed pretty damn smart in other Mets books, so I chalked it up to the fact that he hated sportswriters. Now, as I grow older and more susceptible to elegy and myth and all that, I like to think it means he was so focused on beating the Cubs, the rest of the NL, the umpires and anyone else in the Mets' way that he wasn't going to be distracted by a bunch of guys in white suits. NASA? Who's he play for? We've got the Reds on Thursday. I'm gonna get out of this slump and beat Jim Merritt like a rented mule.

Several years ago I was in the middle of some big rewrite at work when I saw on the wire that Mookie Wilson was going to be signing autographs and greeting fans at the Winter Garden. When? Right now -- if I hurried, I could still catch him. So I did. Mookie was chatting with a couple of beaming business-looking guys; I waited my turn, shook his hand (he has enormous hands) and thanked him for getting me into college. He looked a bit taken aback, so I explained that in '86 I was a senior in high school, going through a rough time, drinking and doing other things way too much and generally walking the edge of getting caught and/or kicked out. The Mets were the only thing that made me happy; when they won the World Series I got my act together for a while, sent my college applications off in good order and made it through, when it could easily have gone the other way. (OK, I did get caught drinking. Let's move on.) So, I said, thanks for that.

Mookie kind of looked at me, and if memory serves he said that was a lot to put on a person, which may or may not be a gentle way of saying, "Christ, are you ever a disgusting preppie brat." I went back to my office (I didn't get an autograph -- I never saw the point of those) and my editor fixed his eye on me and asked where the hell I'd been.

"Mookie Wilson was in the Winter Garden," I said.

"Really?" he said. He didn't blame me one bit. He'd been a Met fan too.

* Not Frank Robinson, as originally writ. I'm an idiot.

On Wright batting eighth: Yeah, it's insidious and insulting and makes one suspicious that Randolph and Down were sent here as spies from the north -- and don't they know that David Wright, after 69 big-league games, established himself as The Future/The Blossoming Present? For Cameron? That's a Howe motive if it's true (still think Cammy's not gonna last the year). Down's quote about how Wright's lucky he's not on the bench should get him transferred back to Columbus or whatever rock he crawled out from under. Randolph (he's been downgraded from first-name status for the duration of this crisis) said something somewhere to the effect that he's not a lineup-juggler. Gosh, Skip, on what do you base that? I mean, where among your many stops as a manager have you established this iron grip on 1-through-8, day-in, day out? Listen, if it works, then hallelujah, we're packing thunder every place ya look. When it doesn't, watch how quickly Mr. Non-Juggler "tweaks" the order. To be fair to Randolph, he's new at this and this group of eight players as a starting eight is an unknown quantity. (Bobby V, you'll recall, was crazy enough to lead off with the likes of Brian Downing and Benny Agbayani.) I'm willing to cut Randolph just a bit of slack on this one because, quite frankly, the first batting order of the year is one of the most overrated things in the sport. The dynamic of these things changes faster than the price of parking at Shea. Finally, who knows? Why, the SPSP -- Statistic Proving Somebody's Point -- is the last word on the subject! Fine, we're screwed before even one guy has batted. My apologies to the figure filberts, if I may use a crochety pejorative. (This does not change my general support for getting worked up over every little thing that hasn't gone wrong yet but might; what else is Spring Training for?)

On Galarraga retiring: After battering us as an Expo, a Cardinal, a Rockie, a Brave (if not a Pirate, a poet, a pawn and a king), I was looking forward to Andres blasting at least one into the visitors' bullpen, preferably on Home Opening Day. He'd tip his cap, take a bow and skedaddle. The man is 87. He's also hellishly hard not to root for when he's not wearing a tomahawk across his chest. May a fine man find great health and a long life. Too bad about not getting to 400, but Al Kaline, forever "stuck" on 399, isn't bad company. Neither is Ted Lepcio. I'll always think of Andres Galarraga the way Murph described him: The Big and Gracious Cat.

At least somebody somewhere gave him a long look this spring. I can think of first basemen of more recent accomplishment who have gone wanting for as much as an invite. I can think of one anyway...

20. John Olerud: Catch the breeze and the winter chills in colors on the snowy linen land. On December 20, 1996, the Mets traded Robert Person to the Toronto Blue Jays for John Olerud, allegedly on the downside of his career, supposedly too fragile of psyche for New York. Look out on a summer's day with eyes that know the darkness in my soul. In three seasons that didn't last nearly long enough, Oly batted .315, including the eternally untoppable .354 of 1998. While almost every other Met froze down that pitiful stretch, John sizzled. Fourteen plate appearances, fourteen straight trips to first or beyond. Spent virtually all of the late '90s on base. Caught everything everybody threw him or hit toward him. Started a triple play against the Giants in '98 -- got two assists and a putout. Entered the final week of 1997 with 88 RBIs and finished with 102. Hit for the cycle against Montreal earlier that September, a cycle that, like every other cycle, required a triple. It was the only triple he hit that entire season because John Olerud ran with two packs of freshly chewed Bazooka stuck to the bottom of each spike. Weathered faces lined in pain are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand. His one Mets post-season went like this: .349; first homer by a lefty off of Randy Johnson in two years; deep fly that Tony Womack couldn't catch; homer off Smoltz, then, when no hope was left in sight on that starry, starry night, the perfectly placed bouncer between Ozzie Guillen and Bret Boone to win Game Four; homer off Greg Maddux to start Game Five, providing the entirety of the Mets' offense for fourteen innings. Colors changing hue, morning fields of amber grain. In a game that is all but forgotten because both the protagonists and the antagonist went on to do so many more interesting things, John Olerud lifted the 1999 Mets to perhaps the most thrilling May victory in franchise history, driving home the tying and winning runs off a stubborn, faltering, previously infallible Curt Schilling in the ninth at Shea. It was a sign of good things to come. Swirling clouds in violet haze reflect in Vincent's eyes of China blue. Unlike, say, Kevin McReynolds, Olerud's quietude actually enhanced his personality. His muteness along with his omnipresent hard hat were shown off as signatures in those hilarious Nike Subway Series stickball commercials. The other players swore by him. Flaming fl'ors that brightly blaze. Cataloguing all the good baseball John Olerud committed in three short seasons should have been enough to earn him at least five more as a Met. They would not listen, they're not  list'ning still, perhaps they never will. Instead, Steve Phillips turned his back on him. John didn't go on the open market, though. He and his wife headed home for Seattle, where his parents and in-laws could regularly babysit the Oleruds' infant son. I could've told you, Oly. This team was never meant for one as beautiful as you.

19. Rusty Staub: While M. Donald Grant is rightly pilloried for a trade he made in June 1977, he should've gotten the effigy treatment in December 1975 when he sent Rusty Staub and Bill Laxton to Detroit for Mickey Lolich and Billy Baldwin. Rusty had just gotten done being the Mets' best player for four years, not nearly inoculation enough against his tendency to speak his mind and his impending status as a 10-and-5 man. Before Rusty could veto a trade, Grant vetoed Rusty. Never mind effigy -- where was the rope it was needed? Rusty was a New York Met waiting to happen all those years in Houston and Montreal. Rusty was a sophisticate. He could barbecue the classiest ribs. He was opening a restaurant. He was a bon vivant. How many of those have we had? And how many guys were worth Ken Singleton, Tim Foli and Mike Jorgensen all at once, all while they were young? Who led the Mets into first in '72 where they stayed until he took one off the hand from George Stone? Who was determined to outhit the Reds all by his redheaded self (three homers in the first four games) until he literally hit a wall saving Game Four in the eleventh inning? Who suffered a bum shoulder but batted .423 in the World Series anyway? Who was the first 100-RBI man the Mets ever had? It was Rusty's second Met tour of duty, when he refined the pinch-hitting role as few others had (eight straight at one point to tie a Major League record) and became an icon for what would have to be termed his Rustyness: homering to join Cobb in the 40/19 club; switching back and forth between right and left in the eighteen-inning marathon against the Pirates to avoid having him try to make any catch; catching Rick Rhoden's looper down the RF line despite Davey's best-laid plans; driving Keith and other Manhattan Mets to the park in the Rusty's van; finishing up in a Mets uniform, too rare a phenomenon among the Greatest Mets. It was being Rusty circa 1981-85 that won him his own Day (remember the orange fright wigs?) and the sinecure behind the mike, but it was the Rusty of 1972 through 1975 who really earned it.

18. Jesse Orosco: In 1983, Jesse Orosco was probably the most awesome relief pitcher the Mets ever had. In eleven consecutive appearances between July 31 and August 21, he won six games and saved five. The first two wins came in both ends of a doubleheader. The first one was earned with four shutout innings of relief. In fact, this stretch encompassed 21-1/3 innings and Orosco didn't give up a single earned run. Those wins weren't vultured, those saves weren't Eckersleyed -- as an All-Star in his first year as closer, the lefty pitched more than one inning in seven of the eleven aforementioned appearances. Jesse Orosco could throw fastballs and sliders then. By the end of 1983, Orosco was 13-7 with 17 saves and an ERA of 1.47 over 87 innings, finishing third in the Cy Young balloting. If George Bamberger and Frank Howard deserve credit for anything as managers, it was the establishment of Jesse as a top-notch late-inning man. Jesse Orosco's Mets legacy would be pretty strong based solely on 1983 and 1984. when he saved 31. It's important to know that Jesse Orosco did something besides throw his glove in the air twice. Not that those weren't extremely wonderful deals unto themselves.

17. Howard Johnson: As his best seasons came amid major disappointments for the team as a whole, one can debate whether Howard Johnson was a true impact player. The power-speed combo that made him a 30-30 man in '87, '89 and '91 was all the more stunning because he preceded each of those years (which were all better for the Mets than the seasons that followed them) with relatively wan performances. Taken another way, Howard Johnson carried the Mets on his back in three years when nobody else was playing up to their full potential. HoJo exceeded everything that was expected of him on three separate occasions. For shock value, his 1987 was the most spectacularly surprising single season by any Met: 36 HRs, 32 SBs as an infielder and switch-hitter, both firsts, one RBI shy of a hundred. He could already turn on a fastball (especially Todd Worrell's) like nobody's business but now he was catching up to the slower stuff. Bettered his numbers two years later when he led the league in runs scored (104) and stole 41. And two years after that, he wore the NL homer and RBI crowns, with 38 and 117, respectively. He never completely nailed down the third base job -- Davey's mouth watered at the vision of all that offense at short and Buddy shoved him into the outfield toward the end -- but he wound up playing more games than any Met at that mythical minefield and burial ground. His name figures prominently among all-time Met leaders: third in homers and ribbies, second in steals and total bases, all the more noteworthy considering he was never the marquee player around here. More than a decade removed from his last Met at-bat, Howard Johnson's success remains at least a little bit of surprise.

16. Tommie Agee: Who needed Bobby Bonds? Heck, who needed Wilie Mays in 1969 and 1970 when Tommie Agee was setting the world on fire from center field at Shea Stadium? Though his numbers for the two seasons (50 homers combined, 31 steals in '70) were good the way Mets' numbers were good, his real-time performance was world-class. Shaking off his miserable, headachy 1968, Tommie Agee became, in 1969, the leadoff guy and centerfielder the Mets had always craved. In August, he hit a homer off Juan Marichal in the fourteenth (yes, the fourteenth) to beat the Giants, 1-0. In September, he avenged Bill Hands' first-inning headhunting with a two-run dinger in the third and a beautiful slide home under Randy Hundley's tag in the sixth to accelerate the Cubs' decline, 3-2. In October...well, after batting .357 in the NLCS, Tommie Agee owned an entire World Series game, the third one: Two deservedly legendary catches (the snow-cone and the dive) warded off five Orioles runs, and a leadoff Agee shot gave the Mets the immediate upper hand. Without Agee, it's Orioles 5 Mets 4. A horrifying thought. With Agee, it was Mets 5 Orioles 0. Much better. Tommie rode '69 into a Gold Glove season (only Met OF to win one) in '70, by which time he was probably the most popular baseball player among elementary-school children in the Metropolitan Area. Sometimes, kids know best.

15: Cleon Jones: Between October 17, 1960 (National League awards expansion franchise to New York) and June 3, 1980 (Darryl Strawberry selected as first pick in amateur draft), the best all-around, everyday player signed and developed by the Mets was Cleon Jones. It is not clear anybody was ever second. Cleon was the Mets' offense or certainly a significant chunk of it for a decade or so. He was huge (six HRs in the final ten games) in September '73 and placed in the Top Ten in the league in '68 and '71. Cleon Jones' entire Mets career wasn't 1969. But if it were, nobody would've complained. His .340 was the team standard for nearly thirty years, placing him third in the National League. Nobody'd ever heard of it, but his OPS was a staggering (for then) .904. And despite the image of Gil escorting him to the dugout for not hustling, he led NL left fielders with a .991 fielding percentage. Of course as it is with all Great Mets, it was symbolism as much as accomplishment that defined Jones. Cleon's shoes were polished generously before Game Five, which let the manager prove beyond the shadow of a smudge that he had been hit by a Dave McNally pitch, sending him to first base and positioning him to score the first Met run. Plus he caught Dave Johnson's fly ball for the final out in the ninth, the lovely last image of that most Amazin' season. What is generally overlooked is Cleon Jones started the rally that won the damn thing in the eighth, doubling to lead it off and scoring the winning run. See, there was a lot of pixie dust sprinkled over Shea in 1969, but Cleon Jones could actually play ball anytime.

14: Jerry Grote: Crank. Sourpuss. Ornery cuss. Beyond his station as the best defensive catcher of his time, beyond his nurturing of a fistful of some of the era's greatest pitchers, beyond a bat that showed steady, solid improvement between the mid-'60s (when he was stolen for Tom Parsons) and the mid-'70s, there was what Jerry Grote was said to be like: not pleasant. Maybe the beat guys minded, but for the fans, he remained, in his way, endearing. He caught, he threw, he prevailed. We knew less about our heroes then and maybe that wasn't so bad. Of course his longstanding bristle would explain why it was Sharon and not Jerry Grote who fronted those commercials for Gulden's Spicy Brown Mustard. It must've been all he could do to look happy biting into a bologna sandwich after 22 takes.

13: Jerry Koosman: Nineteen wins as a rookie, seventeen as a sophomore and -- after arm problems interrupted what could have been a borderline Hall of Fame career -- 21 wins in 1976 underscored the likable Jerry Koosman's undisputed place as the best lefthanded starter in team history. No responsible Mets fan would argue the designation. But his regular-season numbers, even his most impressive (his total of 140 wins is third among all Mets pitchers), weren't what made him great. It was the post-season. Push came to shove? Kooz came to pitch. Jerry Koosman started six games in the 1969 and 1973 tournaments. The Mets won all six. He was 4-0, which was swell for him, but the 6-0 was awesome for everybody. Kooz is recalled accurately as the quintessential good guy, but he was bad news for the other team when it really, really counted.

12: John Franco: For the entire decade of the 1990s, John Franco registered 268 saves. All but perhaps five felt worthless. He'd pass milestone after milestone and the Mets would hold ceremonies in his honor, but it all came off as very hollow given the state of the team most of the time. By the end of 1999, once he was no longer closer, the main goal of the Mets' playoff push seemed to be Get Johnny In. He'd been pitching since 1984 and missed the post-season every one of his first fifteen years. He was killer effective for the Reds in the '80s, but they didn't win anything until he left...for the Mets. That was when the Mets crumbled, despite all those Franco saves. On October 3, 1999, when Melvin Mora duckwalked across home plate with the run that guaranteed no worse than a one-game playoff for the National League Wild Card, just about every set of eyes turned toward John Franco as he led the charge from the dugout. For maybe a half-minute, the collective consciousness of Shea Stadium thought, "John Franco is finally going to get his chance." DiamondVision found him and the crowd erupted for someone who had been, at best, a Rorschach Test for most Mets fans. Joe Torre, I felt I had to explain to the man that this had nothing to do with his current job or exalted status. Of course the dealer couldn't have cared less, but I couldn't bring myself to contribute to Torre's beatification, so I passed.)

4) Susan had a few Mets cards to which I gravitated more than I did any of her others, including Bob Clemente and Carl Yastrzemski. I demonstrated my fealty to Ed Kranepool by drawing a mustache and beard on him while he knelt in the on-deck circle. This was New York and what little I did know about sports included that you root for the team from where you're from. (There were a couple of '67 Yankees in there -- Ruben Amaro, Tom Tresh -- but they could've been from Pittsburgh for all I cared.)

5) My first memories of the Mets as a baseball team and not just a word comes from somewhere in the summer of '69 when the talk of the Sands Beach Club and Day Camp in Lido centered on the moon landing and the Mets. My father would bring home the Post, then a responsible afternoon paper. The back page featured a running cartoon depicting the adventures of a mean ol' bear and a lovable duckling duking it out for something called First Place. Every night I would check to see if the duckling was giving it to the bear. As summer progressed, it would be the Cubs' bear ducking the Mets.

6) In September, I started following the standings in Newsday very closely. As a six-year-old, I was considered the family math prodigy, so the W, L, Pct. and GB columns mesmerized me. New York's Pct. and Chicago's GB both grew bigger at the same time. Having just begun first grade with a pencil box that featured a map of the United States, however, I was confused on the matter of Washington being in the American League East since Seattle was in Washington and Washington was way out west, which is where Seattle was in the American League. By 1972, the respective placements of the Senators and the Pilots would be moot.

7) The first specific game I can recall was September 24, 1969, the Mets playing the Cardinals with a chance to win the Eastern Division. It was Susan's friend Iris who relayed word over the phone that Donn Clendenon had just hit his second homer of the night to put us up 6-0. Neither television was available to me; Susan watched Chad Everett and Medical Center Wednesday nights on the portable Sony while my parents just had to see Kraft Music Hall in their bedroom. It was Iris and the radio for me. While I grasped the significance of this victory for the Miracle Mets as the papers insisted on calling them for some reason, I was mystified as to why, after a summer of chasing and passing the Cubs, we had to beat the Cardinals to win the division. Later, after learning that St. Louis had won the pennant in 1968, I puzzled it out: First you had to outlast the team in front of you, then you had to defeat the team that had won the year before. In 1970, I made up a song about it, which even if you buy me more beers than I've drunk in the eleven years we've known each other, there's no chance in hell you'll ever hear.

8) Watching Game One of the playoffs against the Braves on the first Saturday in October, I had a revelation that I breathlessly reported to my parents. I can tell the game is in Atlanta, see, because when the Braves do something good, the people there cheer. They don't do that for the Mets. I was told I had nailed it.

9) A week later, my sister and I were in the car with my father, heading to the recently opened Times Square Stores (TSS) in Oceanside. My dad put the first game of the World Series on the radio, and the first Baltimore batter, Don Buford, hit a home run off of Tom Seaver. I was instantly distressed but he told me don't worry, the Mets can still come back. They didn't that day but it was nice to know they could.

10) The following Thursday, my father took off from work to bring me to an eye doctor in Brooklyn. My family hadn't lived in Brooklyn since before I was born but all our doctors were still there. I fidgeted and fussed over having eye drops poured into me. I clenched my eyes tight until I was told that if I didn't cooperate, I wouldn't be allowed to watch the World Series that afternoon. I opened wide and took my drops like a Met (after all, somebody did me the favor of making this appointment on this particular school day, so this was no time to pull a tantrum). I was indeed dropped off at home in time for the game. My main impression of the action was Ron Swoboda hit a home run. He didn't. He doubled to drive in a run and later scored himself. I hadn't yet delineated between home runs and runs -- they were all home runs to me. Regardless, the Mets went on to win and become world champions. Dad, who had emerged from Penn Station just as the final out was made and reported there were celebrations everywhere, brought home the Post that night to confirm it. They ran one final duckling cartoon, except now the duckling was a glorious swan. The next morning, Scott Gerber's mother gave us and another kid from down the block, Jeffrey Kohn, a ride to school. I asked them if they knew that the Mets had won the World Series. Yes, they did. The Mets had won the World Series. I knew it was special. I knew it wouldn't happen every year. I knew I'd be back for more. And I never, ever left.

A week to go, good lord. At least there's some bits of news: Scott Strickland, Scott Stewart, Orber Moreno, Jae Seo and Jeff Keppinger took that long walk. Supposedly that has us down to 37 guys.

David Wright hit eighth. That seems insane to me: Beyond the fact that Wright can flat-out rake, to use the currently fashionable cliche, his minor-league numbers show he knows how to take a walk. I know he's a rookie, which would argue against putting him in the 3, 4 or 5 hole for now for fear of putting too much on him too early and bruising some veteran egos, but can we really give up that many David Wright at-bats? In my batting order he'd be hitting sixth. Of course, I have a mental block about who's a lefty and who's a righty, so my batting order is worth a bucket of warm spit.

There's a great new blog called Metsgeek.com which kicked off with, among other things, an interview with Bob Klapisch that supplies plenty of dirt without being irresponsible about it. As might be expected, it's hard on the Wilpons, the medical staff, Aaron Heilman and Jae Seo, among others. Actually he was easier on Seo than I figured he'd be: Vern Ruhle couldn't reach him either. If you refuse to listen to two pitching coaches in a row and keep carping to the papers, the problem probably isn't the pitching coaches. Here's betting a trade this week gives Mr. Seo a new address.

Sticking with the news front, Jeremy Heit, one of the Metsgeek guys, did our boys' Five Questions over at Hardball Times. Good stuff -- lots of the newfangled stats I love and imperfectly understand, but not so many that old dinosaurs like me can't follow along.

Some good quotes today, too. Both, oddly, are concerned with speed:

"Velocity can win stuffed animals at the circus."

So saith Dr. Peterson about the fact that Ishii didn't hit 90 in his first pitching session.

"I think adrenalin-wise it would have created a little more velocity rather than being on Field 14 with two crows in the stands and one umpire."

That's from the departed Mr. Strickland, whose velocity wasn't where it should be but who also didn't get much work in spring-training games.

Of course Todd Zeile was a great quote too.

Re the boys in the 20s, your request for snarky Wayne Garrett quotes brought me back to my first year of being a fan, which was 1976. I had said the Mets were my favorite team for a couple of years before that, and Rusty Staub was my favorite player, but in truth that mostly had to do with one of my earliest memories, which was my mom jumping up and down cheering, "Yay, Rusty!" To employ a little pop psych, I think my four- or five-year-old self was so taken aback by this display that I had to know why she was doing this and who this Rusty was, and reflexively took team and Rusty to heart so my mother jumping up and down yelling would be a good thing and not a scary thing. Fandom wells from strange springs.

Anyway, in '76 I turned seven and became a real fan. My entry into Metdom was twofold: baseball cards and the tale of '69, probably absorbed through George Vecsey's Joy in Mudville. This made the baseball cards odd, though: I treasured all the remaining '69 Mets, regardless of team (what was Tug doing wearing maroon?) and adored the players left on the actual Mets, but I couldn't help noticing that nothing particularly miraculous happened on the field. Koosman and Seaver would pitch, Garrett would play third, Buddy was at short and Kranepool was on the bench, but they'd win and lose in various combinations and finish third. Hey, I was seven: Show me a miracle, and I'd think it was great -- and then want to know where the next one was. 

So all those players were icons to me -- I'd watch them play baseball, but mostly I treated them like guys who'd walked on the moon: They'd done something marvelous and it meant a lot to me, but watching them doing workaday things was disorienting and a bit disappointing. The first player I ever rooted for the way I root for players now was Lee Mazzilli. After all, he came up after I did.

Given my weakness for brawling, of course I loved Ray Knight. That game against the Reds should be replayed weekly on the new Mets channel: The moment where Ray's eyes go square right before he slugs Eric Davis is priceless. And his putting both hands on his head right before he vanishes into the crowd of Mets around home plate to end Game Six always makes me cry. (In a quiet manly way, of course.)

Putting aside the recent unpleasantness, the thing that always struck me about Al Leiter was how friggin' smart he was. There was some locker-room interview in which Piazza had said "centrifugal" (or maybe it was "centripetal") and Leiter laughed and said Piazza was always using fancy words but had used this one wrong, and launched into an explanation of how centrifugal or centripetal was what he'd meant, and how it related to pitching. It was the kind of thing geeky writers like us wish jocks would say, but he really said it. (Ken Burns got Bill Lee to do this too.)

Given my weakness for boozing, of course I loved Lenny Dykstra. Crashing cars, spitting chaw, high-stakes gambling, doing 'roids when it was flaky instead of criminal, boozing it up in Paris, you name it. A couple of years ago Emily and I watched a Behind the Music about Iggy Pop. At the end, she was horrified by what a wreck Iggy Pop had made of his life. I was horrified by the realization that it was too late for me to be Iggy Pop. Lenny was my baseball Iggy.

David Cone was another player I loved for being all too human. One of the best pitchers in baseball, and still capable of letting runners wheel around the bases because he'd blown a fuse and was giving both barrels to the ump. It's the kind of thing I'd have screwed up too.

Ah, Robin Ventura. It ended poorly, what with the Yankee uniform and all, but I'll always have the memory of sitting in the top of the upper deck for the Grand Slam Single game. We were behind the DiamondVision, which blocked out most of the announcements, so there'd just be various booms, and up there it was Bob and Gary (transmitted via dozens of nearby pocket radios) providing the narration. Which was nice. Afterwards I walked down the steps and every couple of feet had to stop and just scream into the rain and the darkness.

Wally Backman stepped on my foot as we were both leaving Al Lang Field when I was 16 or 17. I was amazed that he was my size. He was in full uniform, so he spiked me, and it hurt. He didn't say sorry or anything -- just hopped on the bus. That was OK, though. He was Wally Backman. He could step on my foot anytime he liked.

By the way, Mientkiewicz has cats. But not cats like you have cats. This is a strange story.