What if the Mets survive, but none of us do?

This is heart-attack stuff, brutal baseball in brutal weather, a Nor'Easter of cruelty and joy and panic and hope buffeting you and threatening to blow you down altogether. How many moments did that game offer to pierce the heart, whether with ecstacy or misery? It started with the look in Pedro Martinez's eyes as the first inning once again frayed and unraveled, a look I hadn't seen before -- a grim awareness that the end of the road is in sight. There was Pedro gamely hanging in there despite all that against Micah Hoffpauir and the Iowa Cubs, then acknowledging the fans who were acknowledging him, who were remembering all he once was, all he would be still if only the fragile body could obey the steely mind, and all he did to bring this franchise back to respectability. And then there was Ricardo Rincon restoring the fans' usual state of mind by instantly and irrevocably giving up a monster shot to Hoffpauir. Nice moment? Not for your September 2008 Mets.

By the way -- Micah Hoffpauir? Between the name and the chin beard, it's like an extra from Witness walked away from the barn-raising to try his hand at this English sport Harrison Ford kept rattling on about. Oh, and with Hoffpauir and Pie and Fontenot and Fukudome and McGehee and Theriot, these Cubs must give copy editors and public-address announcers alike night sweats.

(The Pirates just gave up a walk-off grand slam. Fuck.)

If our Mets live hard, though, they also die hard. You'd think the combination of a no-outs, man on third in the ninth debacle and instant arson a night later might have killed them -- for a while there tonight, I certainly feared it had killed me. (And try not to remember that if Wright had hit a sac fly, we'd be tied for first right now.) But they fought back yet again, and man, that bottom of the eighth was one of those frames that keeps you watching game after hopeless game on summer afternoons when you've got things to do and when they're in extra innings on the West Coast and it's 2:30 a.m. and when you're in the park and it's 48 degrees and they're out of cocoa.

Because you never know.

Because sometimes, as the rain comes down remorselessly and the wind bends and bows everything in sight, Beltran gets a two-out hit and Church gets another two-out hit and Ramon Martinez, who a few weeks ago occupied the Mariana Trench on the second-base depth chart, gets a two-out hit and then Robinson Cancel, who's pretty much the Ramon Martinez of backup catchers, gets a two-out hit only Ryan Church is clearly going to be out at home by a country mile but he takes a desperate detour around Koyie Hill (there's another name to reduce the sports desk to tears) and misses the plate and there's a terrifying, apparently endless moment during which Church is neither safe nor out and then he stretches his hand out onto the plate just before Hill gets there and THE SCORE IS TIED!

Yes, sometimes that happens.

And then sometimes the bullpen doesn't blow it, even though Pedro Feliciano tries and Joe Smith has to face lefty after lefty. And sometimes Jose Reyes harnesses his wild energy for a marvelously determined, disciplined at-bat, and even though Daniel Murphy botches a bunting assignment or a hit-and-run or whatever that was (because something sure got botched) and David Wright is squeezing his bat to splinters again when he needs to let the game come to him, Carlos Beltran will be there. And Carlos Beltran will wait for his pitch and hit a ball on the screws and we'll see that Micah Hoffpauir's seemingly bottomless bag of tricks does not presently include stupendous defense.

Let us pause for a moment, by the way, and bottle this game to break out when people next speak ill of Beltran. He's playing with a bad left knee and aching ribs from that battering against the outfield wall Monday night. He's missed exactly one game all year. He's over 100 RBI for the third-straight year. (Tip of the cap to Jack Curry for a nice profile in the Times the other day.) Beltran's amazing physical gifts, superb instincts and placid demeanor can trick you into thinking he's not going all out, particularly when you compare him with heart-on-the-sleeve grinders like Wright or Murphy. But that's an illusion, one we should be wise enough to see through. Beltran is our Roberto Clemente -- a player who was criticized for his temperament and incessant aches and pains and never truly appreciated the way he should have been. We know we're lucky to have him after a game like tonight's; we should remember it when he glides over to make a catch in left-center that we think is easy only because he made it look that way.

And so. We have survived. Survived to confront, yet again, who we are. It's daunting, no question. We've got no bullpen, we don't know who the hell will start Saturday, we don't know if we'll even get to play Friday. Or Saturday. Or even Sunday. Our enemies include Marlins, Phillies, Brewers, wind, rain, 2007 and ourselves. But what the hell. We've come this far, haven't we?

Sometimes in the winter I'll be doing some household chore and I'll realize that for the last five or 10 minutes I've been brooding about a moment from the Mets' past, turning it over and over in my mind and wondering how everything could have gone so wrong. Sometimes I even catch myself muttering imprecations, with whatever I've been doing sidetracked by sour anger and regret.

It's a list that won't surprise you.

Rogers throwing ball four. Pendleton hitting it over the fence. Carter giving Hershiser a despairing glance as he packs his catching gear. Armando walking Paul O'Neill. Payton trying to take third. Luis Sojo's ball trickling up the middle. Glavine hitting Dontrelle Willis. Piazza's drive dying in the air. Brian Jordan taking Benitez deep. Brian Jordan taking Franco deep. Timo celebrating when he should be running. Beltran looking at strike three.

Should the Mets not survive to see October baseball, as looks increasingly likely, I'll have one more for the roster.

Murphy at third. None out. The Phillies have lost.

I was out for a farewell get-together with friends and former colleagues from the Online Journal. But, to the surprise of absolutely no one, I had my radio. For most of the night I'd just check in now and again: 1-0 Cubs on a DeRosa home run. 5-1 Mets, even though they only have two hits! Uh-oh, it's 5-3. Oh no, it's 5-5.

I didn't hear Murphy's triple, but my old Daily Fix partner Carl told me what had happened as I put a headphone in one ear. He stared at pitch locations on his Blackberry while I stood at the head of our table, listening to the game and acting out what I heard. It was a rather grim pantomime: Strike three on Wright. Four wide on purpose to each of the Carloses. Little bouncer by Church, Murphy out at home. Strike three on Castro. A sequence that may wind up seared into my brain for a long, long time.

"I can't believe we lost that game," was the last thing I said to Emily before falling asleep.

"I can't believe we lost that game," was the first thing I said to Emily when I woke up.

She noticed. But she hadn't heard all the times I muttered it to myself in the middle of the night, waking up to realize it was still true. And should the Mets fail, she won't hear many of the times I'll mutter it to myself in winters to come.

Murphy at third. None out. The Phillies have lost. I can't believe we lost that game.

Another summer at Perry's. I can't. I swear.
—Stacy Hamilton, Ridgemont High School, 1982

I will not tell you how dreadful Wednesday night's loss to the Cubs was. You can infer that for yourself; you probably already have. I will not dwell on the eerie fact that at the exact same juncture in 2007 — the 158th game, a Wednesday — the Mets also scored five early runs and also lost 9-6. I won't even try to sell you on the notion that you can have a spectacularly great time in Shea Stadium's Picnic Area with some incredibly wonderful people up to if not including the moment Daniel Murphy is stranded on third base in a tie game in the ninth inning after having arrived there with nobody out. I did have a great time until I had a horrible time Wednesday. Since you presumably only had a horrible time watching the Mets disintegrate, I won't bother you with what I managed to enjoy before all manner of my anatomy was tasered by failure.

Instead, I have something more cheerful for everybody.

***
Forget everything you know about the 45 years that followed April 17, 1964.

Forget how the bright and broad hopes of a toddler franchise and its newborn ballpark fell away into something dreary and dismal as the ballpark was condemned and the franchise operated in farce.

Forget that Shea Stadium was home to the worst collapse in baseball history one year and a paler yet somehow sharper sequel the next (Janeane Garafolo once recommended never going to see a movie whose trailer features the line "how the could the same thing happen to the same guy TWICE?").

Forget that 1986 was 22 years ago.

Forget that the same people who have been begging you to indulge in a Final Season celebration will effortlessly shift gears any moment now to emphasize there's nothing like Inaugural Season merchandise to make your life complete.

Forget how mad you are at the Mets this morning, or how sullen they've made you or how upset you were when Wright lunged to swing at ball four and Church tapped out and Castro waved at a pitch in his eyes and Ayala couldn't hold off the Cubs forever and Oliver Perez couldn't have come up smaller and there's still no bullpen and now there's no righthanded bench and the Phillies lost and we couldn't take advantage and the Brewers won and they've probably bottomed out and the Mets and only the Mets would find a way to ruin the last day ever in their ballpark by getting themselves knocked out of playoff contention in incredibly embarrassing fashion for a second consecutive year, two epic episodes of exacerbation which occurred/are occurring on the heels of a heartbreaking National League Championship Series defeat that — by comparison to what's happened since — can be referred to with a straight face as the good old days.

Forget that.

Remember what Shea was like when it opened and how happy we were to see it. I mean we as a people since not so many of us were around and watching on April 17, 1964. If you want to feel the love, go not to Bermuda, but to Bob Murphy. Our Murph called the first half-inning in Shea Stadium history 44 years, five months and a week or so ago. My friend Joe Dubin gave me a copy of the broadcast a while back and I've listened to it several times. It's a marvel. As a Shea farewell gift to all of us, I have transcribed that first half-inning.

Thus, you can do what was impossible to do when Wednesday night ended...

Enjoy.

***
From beautiful Shea Stadium in Flushing, New York, the New York Mets are on the air.

Well, hi everybody, this is Bob Murphy with Lindsey Nelson and Ralph Kiner, all set to detail every exciting moment of the historic opening of Shea Stadium as the New York Mets meet the Pittsburgh Pirates. Today's game is brought to you by Rheingold Extra Dry and Viceroy Cigarettes.

Well, we hope you have plenty of Rheingold Extra Dry on hand. You'll enjoy today's game even more wherever you're listening along the Rheingold beat. Rheingold is as good to your taste as it is to your thirst, Rheingold after Rheingold. Smoother, crisper, livelier.

Bob kicks it to Lindsey who, as on-field emcee, promises "the proper traditional sendoff" to the home season: the singing of the national anthem by "that star-spangled baritone of the Metropolitan Opera," Robert Merrill, backed by the City of New York Department of Sanitation band. It's the "one song dear to the hearts of all of us." After a break, Bob is back.

Casey, near home plate, his ball club on the first base line; Danny Murtaugh and the Pittsburgh Pirates on the third base line.

This game might very well be a complete sellout. Right now, there appears to be still some seats available in the Upper Deck, but on this beautiful, almost unbelievably good day, it is going to be very close to a capacity crowd of fifty-five thousand three-hundred.

Ninety-six percent of the seats are within the foul lines, you've gotta see this stadium. Every seat is a beautifully painted individual seat, the stadium, which is five-tiered in a horseshoe form, is open on the centerfield end. The giant Rheingold scoreboard is over in right-centerfield. The green batter's eye, straight away, out behind the low fence, four hundred and ten feet away. The only thing to be seen in left-centerfield, other than the cars across the way in the parking lot, are giant light standards.

There are only two light standards, they are both in the outfield, one in left center and the other in right center. The rest of the lighting, and it is almost unbelievable, it is almost as bright as day if not brighter, comes from the cantilevered lighting under the very top of Shea Stadium.

We then hear the anthem. Then Murph.

Well, just about everything has been taken care of, Bill Mazeroski, Pirate captain, with the lineup slip, Casey Stengel there along with Mazeroski. The umpires today, Tom Gorman behind the plate, he's the crew chief of this fine umpiring team, Billy Williams will be at first base, Vinnie Smith umpiring at second and Chris Pelekoudas will be the umpire at third.

Jack Fisher throwing in his final warmup tosses on the mound. Setting up the Mets defensively, the first baseman is Tim Harkness, Larry Burright at second, Sammy Samuel at short and Ron Hunt will be at third.

In the outfield, Frank Thomas in left, Jim Hickman in center, around in right field George Altman. Jack Fisher on the mound and behind the plate, Jesse Gonder.

On the coaching lines, Mickey Vernon, former Washington manager, coaching at first base for Danny Murtaugh, and Frank Oceak will be on the coaching lines at third.

And the leadoff batter in the ballgame is Dick Schofield, switch-hitting shortstop of the Pirates, and ladies and gentlemen, we're ready to go.

You can imagine there must be a lump in the throat of twenty-five year-old Jack Fisher, the Frostburg, Maryland native as he looks in the for the first sign ever taken in the twenty-five million dollar ballpark named Shea Stadium.

This is it.

Jack Fisher is into his windup and here's the first pitch ever...a strike on the outside corner.

The roar comes up as the first pitch ever thrown in this beautiful baseball palace is over. Perhaps the tension now is broken, and the game is underway.

Jesse Gonder walking slowly, back toward the mound. Out in the outfield, the outfielders are checking their sunglasses; the breeze not really too much of a factor in the game, kind of blowing diagonally from right across toward left.

Three hundred and forty one feet down the foul lines to the wall. The ballpark is symmetrical. Three fifty-eight in left center and right center.

Here's the pitch on the way, a curve inside and low, one ball and one strike.

The dimensions of the ballpark as the fence swings out, three fifty-eight in straight left, three seventy-one in left center, out near center three ninety-six and four hundred and ten feet in straightaway centerfield.

Next pitch thrown, and he pops the ball up to short center field, running back is Larry Burright, Burright getting to it, makes the catch.

One away and nobody on, we're in the top half of inning number one, just underway on a historic day. Now the hitter is Bill Virdon, the centerfielder.

Bill, veteran outfielder, one of the outstanding ballhawks in the major leagues, has two hits in eleven times at bat in the first two Pirate games.

Now Ron Hunt shortens up at third against Virdon, a lefthand hitter, to guard against the possibility of the bunt. Here's the pitch on the way, strike called, a fastball on the inside corner.

Sammy Samuel, the shortstop, shaded toward second against Bill Virdon, the right side of the infield back deep.

Now the windup, pitch by Jack, a curve, foul, back into the crowd and there's the first souvenir. Kind of a soft foul ball, wafted back into the field boxes, and the gentleman who gets the coveted souvenir is also given a hand.

He can say "I caught the first foul ball ever caught by a fan in Shea Stadium."

Now a two-strike count on Bill Virdon. Now the windup, and the pitch by Fisher...slow ground ball to third, charging in is Ron Hunt, barehanded pickup, the peg...he got him!

Good fielding by Ron Hunt, that was one of those topped slow rollers. Hunt had to come in at full-speed, pick the ball up with his bare hand, fire all in that same motion and he got him.

Now two outs and nobody on, one of the top hitters in the National League, Roberto Clemente. And Roberto off to a fast start with four-for-eleven in two games, hitting at three sixty-four.

Clemente a righthand hitter, real good bad-ball hitter and he has a lot of power to the opposite field.

Curve is over at the knees, strike one.

Last year, Roberto hit three-twenty. Had seventy-six runs batted in. Without a doubt, one of the best ballplayers ever acquired in the baseball draft.

A little under the knees, one ball and one strike.

Well, this is certainly some kind of a day. We're sorry you couldn't be with us, the excitement almost unbelievable. Tremendous crowd, I think by the time everybody settles down, it'll be very close to a capacity.

Now Fisher out of his windup, the pitch to Clemente, lined hard, but it will be foul deep down the leftfield line.

In Shea Stadium, not too much room in foul territory. The distance from home plate to the backstop not nearly as large as in some major league ballparks, a fact that will not please the pitchers, but will please the catcher.

One ball and two strikes to Roberto Clemente, two outs and nobody on. In comes the pitch.

Reached for and fouled toward the Upper Deck and it'll be out of play. And that one goes all the way to the Upper Deck!

You gotta hit a ball pretty high to spin it all the way to that upper tier.

And ringing around beautiful Shea Stadium, the five-tiered, twenty-five million dollar ballpark, we see many of the familiar "Let's Go Mets" banners.

I have a feeling that a lot of the airplanes in the area are taking a purposeful trip over the stadium today to give the people a chance to see it. And you can't blame 'em.

Now one and two the count on Roberto Clemente. Now Jack Fisher over the head, down comes the pitch, in the dirt, scooped out by Jesse Gonder, and the count even, two balls and two strikes.

Gonder did an outstanding defensive job behind the plate catching Tracy Stallard in the Wednesday night game in Philadelphia. Stallard pitched out of one tremendous jam when he had a runner on third and only one man out. He was trying...going for the strikeout and Gonder, not once but upon three occasions, came up with that curveball down in the dirt.

Now Fisher winds for the two-two delivery...a swing and a miss, he struck him out!

No runs, no hits, no errors, none left on. And the score in the middle of the first inning, the Pittsburgh Pirates nothing and the New York Mets coming to bat.

Well, this is the big one, no doubt about it. This is the one we've been talking about, dreaming about, waiting for. Opening Day at Shea Stadium!

For the third consecutive year, the brewers of Rheingold Extra Dry are delighted to bring the Mets games to all of you, wherever you are along the Rheingold beat.

And there's no better way to follow the Mets than with a refreshing Rheingold Extra Dry right close by. Rheingold is as good to your taste as it is to your thirst because it's brewed extra dry: smoother, crisper, livelier. Completely thirst-quenching.

You know, it's no wonder all along the Rheingold beat people who like beer best like Rheingold best of all.

So when you're out here at Shea Stadium, at Rheingold's Little Old New York at the World's Fair, or anywhere along the Rheingold beat, enjoy the beer that's as good to your taste as it is to your thirst, Rheingold after Rheingold.

***
So it went on that Opening Day of Opening Days (and can't you just feel April when you read that and put it to Murph's voice?). We'd learn in the bottom of the first that official scorer Dick Young is one of the most talented sportswriters in the country; that the 9,000 field boxes sit on tracks so they can be rolled around for Jets games and become 50-yard-line seats; that there are some problems with the big message board in right-center and it will no doubt take two or three games to work out the kinks. The only thing missing from Bob's, Lindsey's and Ralph's broadcast of the Pirates' 4-3 win that day was a two-word phrase: Polo Grounds. Not once did they mention where the Mets had played in 1962 and 1963. They were not selling the past. They were selling the future, a time when 96% of seats were between the foul lines...a share that must have dipped a tad with the eventual erection and subsequent expansion of the Picnic Area, which is where I saw the hope seep out of the 2008 season Wednesday night. I suppose it's understandable that all the emphasis on April 17, 1964 would be not on what was lost, but what was found, namely an unbelievable ballpark.

And in four days, this place that made its debut 473 days after I did is scheduled to be no more. That stark reality, above and beyond the breathtaking futility of these past two Septembers even, is as unbelievable as anything I know about Shea Stadium.