For me, it was Amos Otis. When I was coming to full baseball consciousness in 1970, I was aware the Kansas City Royals had a promising young centerfielder named Amos Otis. He was an American League All-Star with speed, very highly regarded. That much I knew. What I didn't pick up on immediately was that he was once a New York Met.

Amos Otis was on the Mets? We had Amos Otis? What the hell? Why don't we have him anymore?

I was seven years old when Amos Otis became prominent. I was six years old when Amos Otis didn't captivate Gil Hodges in brief tryouts in center, left and at third. I wasn't yet tuned into the Hot Stove frequency in the winter of '69-'70, so though I remember learning we had traded for Joe Foy (an easy to recognize name from his baseball card), I didn't know we gave up somebody to get him.

We gave up somebody. We gave up Amos Otis (and Bob Johnson). We gave up a future five-time All-Star, a future three-time Gold Glove winner, a future stolen bases champ, a future stalwart for a team that blossomed into a divisional dynasty and pennant winner.

We gained Joe Foy, who spent one troubled season as a Met and was out of baseball by 1971. In the greater narrative of Metsdom, we gained Exhibit B for one of our longest running storylines. You know how it goes. You may have even helped spread its word yourself:

"The Mets suck at trades! They traded Nolan Ryan for Jim Fregosi! [Pause] They traded Amos Otis for Joe Foy!"

Ryan for Fregosi elbowed aside Otis for Foy, but it's always there, the second example of the Mets sucking at trades for all time, at least among those of us old enough to remember how good Otis turned out. In more recent years, other examples of the Mets being taken have developed Otis-for-Foy if not quite Ryan-for-Fregosi currency. Kazmir for Zambrano, for example, came up in this site's comments section only three days ago. That's probably pre-empted Otis for Foy, which is understandable since Amos Otis hasn't played since 1984 and Scott Kazmir helped pitch the Rays into the World Series last October.

The segment of Mets fans who came of age with Kazmir lurking in their subconscious may never drop that example as Exhibit B, just as my generation will always have Otis. (We'll all always have Ryan as Exhibit A; that trade transcends demographics in its Amazin' awfulness.) And, I suppose, some Mets fans will always point to the Jeff Kent trade in the same context.

Jeff Kent has retired. Jeff Kent used to be a Met. Did you need a reminder? I kind of do.

It's not that I don't remember Jeff Kent being a Met. He was here for parts of five seasons, arriving in controversy — with Ryan Thompson for David Cone — and leaving amid hosannas — with Jose Vizcaino for Carlos Baerga and Alvaro Espinoza. The hosannas were for ridding Shea Stadium of Jeff Kent.

There was a stretch there, roughly from the middle of the '93 season to the middle of the '94 season, when Jeff Kent was probably the hardest-hitting second baseman in the National League, Craig Biggio included. He won Player of the Week honors a couple of times. He drove in more runs in a season than any keystone sacker in Met history pre-Alfonzo. I remember a "KENT'S KIDS" banner appearing regularly in the bleachers, evidence that Jeff was buying seats for those who couldn't buy their own. Jeff Kent did some good stuff as a Met.

Yet he was not popular. Maybe it was giving up Cone, which was a surprise and an affront. Kent didn't roar from the gate, but he did roar at his teammates, particularly when they pulled the insipid rookie hazing bit on him late in 1992. There was nothing warm or fuzzy about him. As Marty Noble recalls in his singular Marty Noble institutional memory way...

Kent always stood out. Sometimes, he stood alone; he wasn't the most popular figure in the Mets' clubhouse. He always stood straight — as in rigid. Of all the adjectives that applied to him, then — and since — unyielding is the most apropos.

Noble compares Kent to John Stearns (who managed Kent in the Blue Jay system, which I never knew 'til Marty mentioned it), neither of them suffering losing gladly, both of them unfazed by confrontation. Yet Stearns was relatively beloved by Mets fans and Kent was regularly booed. Stearns was invited back on Closing Day. Kent was busy being a Dodger, but I feel fairly certain the Mets are never inviting Jeff Kent back for as much as a cocktail. It's as if Jeff Kent, as good a Met as the Mets had for a while, left no footprints as a Met.

That's why I bring up Amos Otis. As I said, I had no idea Amos Otis had been a Met when I first learned who he was, even if it had been less than a year since that's exactly what Otis was. Jeff Kent hasn't been a Met since 1996. Though the record and my memory know better, it almost seems like he never was.

Jeff Kent was on the Mets? We had Jeff Kent? What the hell? Why don't we have him anymore?

When Kent went to Cleveland and struggled while Baerga — then only recently and we hoped just temporarily fallen from All-Star grace — became a Met and struggled, the trade didn't seem so bad. Baerga became moderately useful in 1997 and 1998. Jeff Kent became a Giant, then a star. The trade got worse. Baerga left the Mets after '98. Kent kept getting better, producing a ton of runs in the company of his buddy Barry Bonds, peaking with the MVP in 2000 and garnering very real Cooperstown credentials. For a spell, Jeff Kent was the West Coast office of Chipper Jones whenever he showed up at Shea. Then the reaction grew fainter. Eventually there were others (usually in home togs) at whom to spew venom. By 2008, Jeff Kent wasn't noticed much more at Shea than any other Dodger and he wasn't vilified with any great fury.

Was Jeff Kent ever a Met? Sure, five seasons' worth. But he has otherwise dropped from the narrative. Kent played for the Mets when being one of the best Mets or, for that matter, being one of the least liked Mets didn't add up to much. When the Mets gathered their alumni on September 28, the early Mets were represented; the '69/'73 Mets were out in full force; the Stearnsish Mets took a bow; the '86 Mets were everywhere; the near-great Millennium Mets looked ready to go. The only period, besides the current one, that went almost completely unintroduced after the final game at Shea was that which followed the Davey Johnson era and preceded the Bobby Valentine era. Except for some who overlapped one era or the other, the only player on hand with deep roots in the dark days in between Johnson and Valentine was John Franco, and Franco was surely there for being a teammate of Piazza, Ventura and Leiter.

Jeff Kent was a teammate of Kelly Stinnett, Bobby Bonilla and Jason Jacome. Jeff Kent played for Jeff Torborg and Dallas Green. Jeff Kent made his Met bones during an era for which few pine. Well, nobody pines for the results of 1977-1983 or, I would guess, 1962-1968, but those are days that have acquired a hazy halo of nostalgia. I can't speak for younger fans who came of age with Jeff Kent's Mets, but his teams were probably the most unlikable of the Met epoch. They made too much money to be cute. They let down too many people to be forgiven. Too many of them were too hateful to be let off as lovable losers.

Maybe that's why Jeff Kent, despite parts of five seasons spent honing a Hall of Fame future, doesn't resonate as a Met. That, his itinerant post-Met wanderings (four clubs) and it's been a while.

Which leaves us with Jeff Kent's sole Met legacy, which has now expired.

***
Jeff Kent, as documented here, was the reigning LAMSA. Starting on July 1, 2005, once John Franco tossed his last bit of slop, Jeff Kent became the Longest Ago Met Still Active. For better than three seasons, Kent was the sole remaining 1992 Met and 1993 Met. Once Stinnett failed to suit up in the bigs in 2008, he became the only extant 1994 Met. Now, with Kent retired, who gets the honor?

Good question. It is not yet clear.

If you've become as addicted to the MLB Network as I have, you watch the Baseline, MLBN's constant crawl of baseball news, which includes a list of free agents who remain unsigned. The LAMSA answer may lie on the Baseline. One of those many veterans without a job thus far is Jason Isringhausen. Izzy — whose Generation K pedigree preserves his spot in club history, or at least trivia — came up to the big club on July 17, 1995. It was actually a huge deal when he did. Izzy, in conjunction with Pulse (surely you remember Pulse!), was going to lead the Jeff Kent Mets out of the desert. It looked good for a while, Izzy going 9-2 in '95. It never looked that good again. Isringhausen was injured, struggled quite a bit and was packed off to Oakland with Greg McMichael in the heat of the 1999 pennant race for Billy Taylor, a.k.a. the Joe Foy of relievers.

Anyway, Izzy (almost assuredly Last Met Standing from 1997, FYI) becomes the LAMSA once he's signed and takes the ball in a major league game in 2009...unless he doesn't sign and take a ball. And then?

Well, maybe there's Paul Byrd — he, Kent and Isringhausen were also the only '96 Mets in the majors in '08. He's a voluntary maybe, however. Byrd, acquired in the not altogether awful Jeromy Burnitz deal with Dave Mlicki and Jerry DiPoto, followed Isringhausen to the Mets by eleven days. He didn't stay a Met long, sent to Atlanta after 1996 for McMichael. Not a good deal, if not exactly the stuff of Amos Otis. Greg McMichael was an unremarkable Met and hasn't pitched since 2000. Byrd is semi-active. He hasn't retired, but he isn't planning to play until mid-season, announcing a desire to sit it out for a few months and then see if he can hook on with a contender. It's a little Clemensish (which these days may be a little too much for anybody), but good luck, Paul, if you can pull it off.

And if you can't? If Byrd sits for good and Izzy's still out? Our Japan-based friend Al from New Zealand recently brought to my attention that the Ninth-Greatest Met of the First Forty Years is trying out with the Yomuiri Giants. Edgardo Alfonzo is still, somehow, listed as 35 years old. Granted, players don't seem to come back from Japan to get another shot in America late in their careers — and being a Long Island Duck didn't seem to do much for his salability — but it's worth noting that Edgardo Alfonzo made his major league debut on April 26, 1995 and he'll be swinging a bat in somebody's camp somewhere in this world pretty soon. (No, I never do give up the dream.)

Let's say the 1995 Mets, who finished a respectable 69-75 after a miserable 35-57 start, are truly done. Then who gets the nod? Who's the LAMSA? According to my calculations, we'd be up to 1998, and the only 1998 Met still on the scene is Jay Payton. But Payton is in the same soft-market free agent boat as Isringhuasen, flitting across MLBN's Baseline without a reported nibble. If it ain't Payton, we move then to that most fabled of seasons, 1999.

The only two freshman '99 Mets who seem assured of roster spots in '09 are Melvin Mora of the Orioles and Octavio Dotel of the White Sox, though Vance Wilson signed a minor league contract with the Royals. Vance hasn't played in the bigs since 2006, but let's not forget that catchers are only as obsolete as they and their health choose to be. Stinnett kept extending his career. Alberto Castillo kept extending his career. Stearns could still be catching if he really wanted to. Keep an eye on Vance, injury-plagued as he's been; he became a Met for the first time on April 24, 1999, ahead of the sainted Mora (5/30/99) and Dotel (6/26/99).

Two others among destiny's almost darlings are also floating around out there. Kenny Rogers is one of the Baseline crowd, but at 44, it's probably over for him; Jim Leyland isn't expecting him back in Detroit, and if he's not a Tiger, Rogers probably won't be anything. Besides, with a July 28, 1999 start date, Wilson, Mora and Dotel would have Kenny beat.

The same, however, can't be said of an even more infamous '99 Met...if you take long-term reputation into account. Armando Benitez made his Metropolitan debut on April 7, 1999, seventeen days before Vance Wilson. His last pitch for anybody major, the Blue Jays, came on June 6, 2008. Though designated for assignment immediately thereafter, he may very well be out there somewhere, lurking in a bush, prepared to wreak havoc on any team that would have him. Never let your guard down where Armando Benitez is concerned.

That said, with Kent retired, Byrd sort of retired, Alfonzo half a world away and implausible to everybody but me, Wilson forever rehabbing in the minors, Benitez moved to an undisclosed location and Isringhausen and Payton doing free agent limbo, Melvin Mora looms as the surest thing to be Longest Ago Met Still Active once 2009 gets underway.

Which is insane since I'm pretty sure Melvin Mora just got here. Then again, it was only a few minutes ago that Jeff Kent did. And it was only an hour before that when I was watching Amos Otis in the 1970 All-Star Game, the winning run of which was driven home by the Cubs' Jim Hickman, who used to be a Met.

Which, as with Otis, I didn't know at the time.

If this wasn't enough backwards-glancing for you, be patient. Flashback Friday is likely to return to this space in one week.

This Saturday at noon, what is left of Shea Stadium will be celebrated by the denizens of Baseball-Fever and all who wish to join them. They're meeting at noon on the Northern Boulevard side of the street, at the plaza where the traffic circle sat, if you're interested. The occasion will be marked by walking around, taking pictures and remembering that there used to be a ballpark there. So bring your camera and a few Kleenex.

I've been morbidly attracted to the photos the Feverites, Stadium Page and others have been posting with diligence since the evening of September 28. Shea was the focal point of my life 'til now, so I suppose its demolition is a once-in-a-lifetime event. It's hard not to look, probably harder than it has been to look. The only time I really felt as if something inside me was being demolished was when I saw the Gate E entrance teetering on the brink of extinction. Let's meet at Gate E, I liked to say. Now Gate E was being permanently shuttered into oblivion.

The Gate E slice of Shea is gone now and I really don't want to gaze up close at what little remains, even if this weekend is probably just about it for Ol' Blue. I was out there in mid-October when the shell of Shea was still intact but many of its guts had already been pretty well hollowed. I don't need to see any more. I appreciate what the organizers are doing — it's very sweet — but, man, I don't want my last glimpse of Shea to be its stump. I wasn't that thrilled that I got a peek of it in post-September 28 form. That's not how I want to remember it.

That, of course, is not how I'll remember it.

"You guys gather food for the big feast tonight. And maybe a little wine for the older kids."
"Delicious wine?"
"Exactly."
—Bart, allaying Nelson's fears, "Das Bus"

While we await the official release announcing the signing of Oliver Perez or Manny Ramirez or Adam Dunn or anybody who isn't Freddy Garcia or Alex Cora or Cory Sullivan or Rob Mackowiak, there is this Met missive from Monday to mull:

The New York Mets and ARAMARK — a world-class leader in professional services and the Mets' food and beverage provider — today announced a partnership with Zachys Wine & Liquor Inc. to design a world-class wine program for Citi Field, the Mets' new home opening April 13.

A world-class wine program for our World-Class ballpark. Well then. Don't bogart that bottle. Pass it on over.

Listen, I don't want to be one of those rabid callers to talk radio who complains that Congress shouldn't be wasting its time declaring National Cotton Swab Week when the economy is in the crapper, for I'll bet even Congress can stimulate two things at once. Thus, there is little logic to complaining that the Mets, with their unfinished roster and their half-assed patch, shouldn't be worrying about "bringing Citi Field guests an extraordinary range of wines".

But I will complain anyway.

Stop putting out releases like this, Mets. Stop being so proud of stuff like this. There is no underestimating the interest any given Mets fan has in this news. There is none. Perhaps there could be less. There was a movie twenty or so years ago called Less Than Zero. It was about the amount of concern Mets fans would have two decades hence regarding the stadium wine list.

Five years ago, you hopefully recall, there was a much better movie called Sideways, about a troubled wine connoisseur. It could also describe the Mets of late. They make lateral moves in the standings. They make lateral moves on the roster. They make a lateral move across the parking lot if viewed from Roosevelt Avenue or Northern Boulevard. But they really enhanced the wine menu, so that's something over which we can all burst with oenophiliac pride.

Of course there is that downwardly mobile patch on the sleeve, belying the "world-class hospitality environment at Citi Field" and undermining, it seems, every step the Mets have taken for the last month. This thing has departed the realm of bemused bloggers and uni obsessives and entered the everyday sports realm. A friend from another time zone sent me an article to let me know the whole country is laughing at the Inaugural Season patch. I turned on WFAN one night for the first time in a while, and Steve Somers — who only knows what he reads in the paper — is laughing at the patch. Stephen Colbert (and not Jon Stewart, who actually cares about the Mets) laughed at the patch. Sports Illustrated laughed at the patch, quoting Colbert on its genericism: "Notice the way the patch mirrors its fans, by not wanting to actually say it's for the Mets." For that matter, the Sunday before last, I opened the Daily News, found Bill Gallo's regular laughable cartoon (of the unintentionally laughable variety) and, below it, his weekly column. Bill Gallo, whose cartoons are mostly clouds and comic balloons, actually got off a brilliant line at the Mets' expense:

For the rest of next season, Met players will sport the blandest, most unimaginative baseball logo of all time. Actually, in fairness to the people who put this simple patch of blue and orange together, it shouldn't even be considered a logo. Instead, it's more like a nametag one wears at a company meeting.

And they say, HI, MY NAME IS OH NEVER MIND.

Bill Gallo is laughing at you, Mets. Everybody is laughing at you. Not with you. At you.

The word the Mets have put out to explain why this awful patch is acceptable — that it is "compatible and consistent with Citigroup's overall branding and graphic design elements"; that given their deal with Citigroup, "we're going to give substantial deference to their design and graphic treatment"; and that the Mets are "flattered" that Citigroup bothered to sign off on blue and orange at all — is only more hilarious, unless you're a Mets fan. Then it resides somewhere between embarrassing and galling, especially the promise Tyler Kepner wrung from Dave Howard that "the team would not change the sleeve patch," despite having a sharper, Rotunda-driven iteration in its quiver.

Maybe Omar Minaya can't take his marching orders from a Peavy-starved supporter, but why not accede to popular demand on this one? I understand why the Mets are hanging in there with Citigroup. I understand there are contracts and long-term considerations and world-class payments (taxpayer-funded or otherwise) at work. But how flattered and deferential must the Mets be in all this? How much rolling over must the Mets do at the expense of their own brand? When Citigroup isn't at the center of bailout-related news, it's being reminded by the President of the United States that it wasn't given $45 billion so it could direct a cool 50-mil toward a sweet private jet...which is what Citigroup planned to buy before Barack Obama gave them an emphatic tap on the public relations shoulder and suggested they reconsider their priorities.

So every time, say, Cory Sullivan steps out of the box to let a plane pass overhead, it won't be because a Citigroup executive is winging his way in world-class style to a world-class meeting amid what the Post referred to, in its inimitable nonjudgmental prose, as a "plush interior with leather seats, sofas and a customizable entertainment center". Chalk one up for the middle-class baseball fan viewing his or her team's home games in the shadow of "Citi Field's premium dining areas, including suites, lounges, restaurants, and other locations in the more than 60,000 square feet of available event space" where all that world-class wine will be offered.

If Citigroup can be strongly invited to drop its plane purchase plans, why can't the Mets be, for once, deferential toward their fans who almost completely universally hate that dimwitted patch?

Premium dining area people, knock yourselves out via whatever Zachys is pouring. If I'm ever invited into the Caesars Club — bread and circuses and, if there's time, baseball for all! — I'm sure I'll be Harry Hypocrite and drink up (particularly if Freddy, Alex, Cory and Rob are our last, best acquisitions of this offseason). As a semi-regular patron of the old Daruma of Great Neck stand and intermittently successful pretzel shopper, I won't pretend I'm not a little enthused by the installation of El Verano Taquería and Box Frites, whatever those food "concepts" are exactly. They sound tasty, and I think any ol' schmo can queue up for 'em. Truly, I am an ol' schmo.

Y'know what, though? Surprise me with this stuff. I'll probably get a ticket eventually and I hope to have a few spare bucks on me and I'd love to try the food. I'm not shy about trying food, believe me. I'm not much on wine, but some people are. L'Chaim.

But if you can't acquire a top-flight starting pitcher and you won't sign a legitimate starting corner outfielder and you can't bring yourself to admit that your miserable patch will evoke, with every single glimpse, the cringeful reminder that we are in bed with the financial wizards who tried to buy a nifty private plane with beaucoup taxpayer bucks...then please, for the love of our collective self-esteem, keep the freaking world-class wine news bottled up.

On the car radio as I drove home I heard that Williams had decided not to accompany the team to New York. So he knew how to do even that, the hardest thing. Quit.

We should all be able to write endings like John Updike could. The part before that's pretty good, too. Avail yourself of "Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu" at Baseball Almanac.

As fans, we know very little about what's going on in the general manager's office. Beat reporters, pundits and rumormongers get what they can, but what they get isn't a tick-tock of phone records and meetings. It's a mix of honest-to-goodness facts, negotiating ploys, trial balloons, competing agendas, axes being ground, recycled tales, rumors and fantasies. Which isn't to disparage sportswriters -- that's what you get when you're talking to lots of people who shouldn't be talking to you about fluid situations in which different people want different things to happen. And even the stuff you can trust is just a small part of what's actually going on. We never even find out about the vast majority of the exploratory calls, semi-serious proposals that may become serious-serious, back-up plans, or anything else.

Which is a roundabout way of saying it's silly to assume that the Mets, having patched up their bullpen, are done and will try to get by with the likes of Alex Cora and Freddy Garcia while large holes still remain at second base, in the outfield corners and in the rotation. First of all, it's a long way to April -- remember at this time last year, Johan Santana was a Twin. (And the Mets were a bunch of September choke artists. Anyway.) Second of all, we have no idea what Omar Minaya and Co. are up to out at CitiField, besides making bag-on-head-quality sleeve patches. We don't know if the disconnect between Jeff Wilpon and Omar over Manny Ramirez (as reported by old Faith and Fear pal Danielle Sessa) is exactly what it seems to be, the stuff of misunderstanding, or part of a larger plan. We don't know how many teams Scott Boras really has calling about the services of Oliver Perez. We don't know how many years the Mets might give O.P. We don't know what's going on between the Mets and Ben Sheets. And there are other things going on about which we don't know enough to even lament not knowing more.

(By the way, though, I do know that giving Derek Lowe $15 million a year until he's 40 would have been nuts.)

Whatever's going on, I sure hope Omar is out there kicking tires.

The guy I can't get out of my head is Jake Peavy, the soon-to-be 28-year-old who's about the only thing the San Diego Padres have going for them. Sure, he plays in West Kamchatka, but even we've heard of him. Evil fastball and slider, pretty fair change-up and curve. Some injuries in his past, but nothing that's a Sheets-level flashing red light. Peavy's under contract through 2012 with a deal that escalates from $11 million this year to $17 million three years hence, with a $22 million option ($4 buyout) for 2013. By my thinking, he's worth that money.

The Padres need to cut payroll because of their owner's bitter, wallet-ravaging divorce. They need to rebuild, and Peavy's their best chance to do so in a hurry. They tried to trade their ace to the Braves, which didn't work. They may trade him to the Cubs, who have been stockpiling pieces but are in the midst of an ownership transition and don't have their house in order quite yet.

Before it imploded, the Braves' deal was going to send shortstop Yunel Escobar and outfielder Gorkys Hernandez west, along with either Charlie Morton or Jo-Jo Reyes (both pitchers) and either Blaine Boyer or one of two minor-league lefties. That's a pretty good prospect haul -- just as the Cubs' offer would supposedly include pitcher Garrett Olson, stud prospect third-baseman Josh Vitters, and various pitchers from a pool including Kevin Hart and Sean Marshall.

It seems to me that the Mets could provide something comparable. How about Wilmer Flores, Nick Evans, Bobby Parnell and Brad Holt? That would be a blue-chip shortstop/third baseman, a guy who could play first or left in the bigs now, and two young pitchers with upside. Or how about Fernando Martinez, Reese Havens, Parnell and Dillon Gee? Or how about some combination of the two -- pick F-Mart or Flores and we'll discuss the other pieces. You can argue whether or not those packages are comparable to what the Braves almost gave up and the Cubs might give up, but they're real value.

Why not try? Wouldn't Johan/Peavy/Maine/Pelfrey/Whoever make you feel pretty good about 2009?

I don't mean to disparage Oliver, or Randy Wolf, or Ben Sheets, or even Andy Pettitte -- who'd be fine with me on a short-term deal, pinstripes and all. Except to say that the problem with Oliver or any of those guys is you're looking at more sixth-inning appearances by the bullpen, which was a big factor in the last two Met teams bleeding out catastrophically in September. (Which I guess is disparaging them after all, so never mind.)

As for the excuses, I'm not buying them.

Peavy won't come to New York. Pshaw -- I get that he's a huntin'-and-fishin' guy, but for the money he'll make by the time he's done, Jake Peavy could bag deer from a low-flying Gulfstream. Besides, like it mattered that CC Sabathia was a big West Coast guy when Steinbrenner and Steinbrenner appeared in front of his house in the cab of a dumptruck full of money. (And didn't Mark Teixeira yearn to return to Maryland?) In New York Peavy would keep earning gobs of money with a change to earn googolglobs of money when he's still relatively young, and he'd have a shot at October. These two factors are the ones that motivate (in various proportions) most any athlete you've ever cheered or booed, and Greg's said everything else I needed to know on this score.

We'd be stripping the farm system bare. C'mon. I'm a sucker for prospects, but they're relentlessly overhyped here, and we're talking about Jake Peavy, a Cy Young winner in his prime -- not, say, a converted infielder with a bad elbow who doesn't know how to pitch. Peavy is great today, and young enough to be great for a fair number of tomorrows. That's worth a good chunk of Met maybes and hopefullys.

There's no payroll flexibility. You make exceptions for the right players. Jake Peavy seems like one of them to me. (So would Manny Ramirez, for the right number of years. But that's another post.) Peavy would need to be compensated for his 10-5 rights resetting, but another no-trade and making that option guaranteed would probably do it.

It's not a big enough package. The Mets got Santana (going into his walk year, granted) for a fleet outfielder with potential and a trio of arms that were at best promising. What I've proposed is a better deal than that in terms of promise and big-league-ready personnel.

And remember a year ago. Who among us thought Santana wasn't going to the Yankees or the Red Sox? Why not Jake Peavy? Why not at least try? Sometimes you kick the tires and the dealer decides to come down a bit and throw in whitewalls. Sometimes you keep calling folks and they call you back. Sometimes good things happen.

As FAFIF's 2009 Mets Fantasy Camp correspondent, he's hit, he's run, he's fielded, he's thrown and he's blogged with power, so in our book, that makes Jeff Hysen a five-tool blogger. We appreciate his taking time out from his week of a lifetime to share his experiences with all of us here and are honored to bring you his final St. Lucie report.

Anthony Young struck out 245 batters in his major league career, so that means that I am in good company. The final day of camp was wonderful in all respects. I couldn’t sleep, partially in anticipation of playing against the pros at Tradition Field, and partially because my hand hurt after getting jammed during Friday's championship game (lineout to first). It shouldn’t surprise you that I was one of the first campers to get to the field, but there were more pros there than campers. I noticed that the pros were throwing and taking BP as the week went on to prepare for the game. I think that once a game, any game, even one in a fantasy camp, is at hand, a competitive streak kicks in for them. It's what differentiates them as pros.

I didn’t have to tell Anthony Young to “bring the s**t” (not that I would have, I couldn’t hit the s**t of a 50-year-old CPA) but he brought it anyway. He was throwing at about 80 and he easily mowed us down en route to a 4-0 win (three-inning game, pros are home, pros have a two-run limit per inning). I played second base and it was great being on the same field that the Mets will play on in one month. Pete Schourek hit an inside-the-park homer to dead center. (This probably won’t surpass what he said was his biggest career thrill: hitting a home run off Curt Schilling.)

After one last trip to the clubhouse, it was back to the field for the farewell lunch. I was glad that my parents were able to meet some of the pros featured in these columns, including Joe Pignatano, Lenny Randle, John Stearns and Pat Zachry, who didn't mention to them anything about my always [friggin'] smiling.

I had three goals for the week (other than to have a good time):

1) To get two hits; one would have been a fluke. I hit .179, with 4 hits and 3 RBI. Laugh if you want, but that’s fine with me. Of course I wish I did better but, as my son Dylan told me, I’ve never faced a curveball before. Plus, all the BP in the world can’t match hitting in a game.

2) To make a great play in the field. Nope. I made some routine plays at second, caught a flyball in right and made a few errors at both positions.

3) Not to get hurt. It turns out that this is impossible, as every camper absorbed some sort of injury. My quads tightened, I got a blister, I have a big black and blue mark on my left bicep, and, as mentioned above, I hurt my hand. Yet I’m definitely not complaining.

The pros really believe that it’s a simple game. As Willie Montañez told me last night, “see the ball, hit the ball.” Yeah. Ballplayers don’t believe in “clutch” or “choke”. They believe that sometimes the other guy beats you.

It’s fun to go out for drinks with a plastic surgeon (cheers, Ira and Howie). If, however, Pete Schourek wants to make a bar bet with you, decline.

I talked with Randy Niemann Friday night and he is excited to be with the big club this year. Since he’s the bullpen coach, I’m not sure how that translates into winning more games but he’s somebody who has won multiple titles (seven, he told me, including the 1986 World Series).

At dinner last night, we sat together as a team and I said to “Sully,” one of my teammates, how special this felt. He said that guys like us haven’t been on too many teams (that’s not true for all campers but it is in my case) and this camp gave us the chance to see what it was like, albeit for five days.

Please indulge the following closing sentiments...

To Alan, Vinny, Allan, Ed, Victor, Fred, Rich, Dwight and John: thank you being my teammates.

To Buzz Capra, Willie Montañez and John Shoemaker: I wish I could have played as well as you coached.

To my parents: thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

To my colleagues: the Mets don’t want me — I’ll be in on Monday.

To my friends: my apologies in advance as I will undoubtedly be telling you stories about camp until you’re sick of them.

To Greg and Jason: thank you for allowing me to share my thoughts on this great blog. (I feel like Billy Preston.)

To the pros and staff at Mets Fantasy Camp: you put on a helluva show.

To my fellow campers: it’s been a blast.

To you, for reading: wow — thank you very much.

It was an honor wearing the uniform of the New York Mets. I hope that the real New York Mets feel the same way.

Finally: some things, probably most things in life don’t meet let alone exceed expectations.

This did.

The final day of Mets Fantasy Camp is at hand and FAFIF correspondent Jeff Hysen doesn't sound quite ready to leave the big league life behind for the drudgery of Lean Cuisines, but that, one supposes, is why they call the week he's been living in a fantasy. But there's still the little matter of the final game Saturday, and what it will be like to face big league pitching, so the fantasy ain't over yet. And what's this about an infiltrator in the midst of Met paradise? Jeff has the St. Lucie scoop from Friday.

When I talk about the “big league experience,” I mean everything here is big league. The grounds crew rakes and manicures the fields. The batting helmets are organized for us by size. The kitchen staff is feeding us like pros. Each meal has been excellent and I will miss it on Monday when I put a Lean Cuisine in the microwave for lunch.

After breakfast and a final lesson with Mickey Brantley (this guy knows so much about hitting — I can’t believe that he doesn’t have a major league job), we had our final morning meeting. We have apparently mastered the laundry loop, or it doesn’t matter anymore, because we didn’t receive any further instruction. John Stearns gave out the Brown Rope and Golden Rope awards for the day and I was nominated for both: brown for screwing up two fly balls in right and looking particularly bad in the process, and gold for my perfectly executed bunt that helped us win a game.

After stretching, it was onto the semis. I set a few modest goals for myself, and one was to get two hits. I had three going into the semifinal game but I wanted to know what it would be like to hit one hard and in my third AB, I did.

When you hit a ball on the screws, it makes a very loud sound...loud and glorious. It was an RBI double that helped us defeat Kevin Baez’s team and move onto the finals. I wish it happened more than once.

Stearns said that it was one of the best championship games in camp history. Sadly, the final was very Metlike for us as Millan’s Nine Lives scored four in the bottom of the seventh to win 7-6. The guys on our team were great and it has been a pleasure meeting them and playing ball with them. The coaches really got into it to; the game even featured a mild argument (in Spanish) between Felix Millan and Willie Montañez.

As I’ve mentioned, many of the guys came with friends. There are some fathers and sons, some brothers, some cousins and some guys whose wives and kids are hanging around, but most guys are on their own. Yet, it doesn’t matter because after a day, you become friends with your teammates and the guys around your locker. There is great camaraderie in camp. However, sadly, I must report, that there is one guy who has upset many of us. He’s not a bad guy, and he’s a good ballplayer, but he’s a fan of the MFYs (you know, the other team in New York). He’s part of a group of ten pals and the word has gone around camp about this guy. I would never-EVER wear an MFY uniform but this guy is wearing a Mets uniform…and to make it worse, he’s wearing 9, not in honor of J.C. Martin but for Graig Nettles.

To respond to two comments:

1) Sorry, but I can’t break the sanctity of Kangaroo Court. I will tell you that you shouldn’t be talking to your wife when it’s your turn at bat.

2) To the poster who asked where my “boo-boo” is from being hit by a pitch, it’s on my left bicep which is massive so it didn’t hurt. However, a black and blue mark has appeared which I am wearing as a badge of honor.

Friday night was the closing banquet. We mingled with the coaches and got autographs and pictures. They were friendly and accommodating and it was fun talking with them one last time. Even though we’re almost finished, they continue to be regular guys. Randy Niemann seemed very psyched to be with the Mets staff this season. Awards were given out to the championship team and individual awards were given out as well for various categories, including the Cleon Jones Award for highest average and the Gary Carter Award for best defensive catcher.

Tomorrow is the big day as the campers play the pros at Tradition Field. Pete Schourek and Anthony Young are two of the pitchers. I’m told that if you want one of the pro pitchers to show you what it’s like to face a major league fastball, you tell them to “bring the s**t.”

We’ll see.

FAFIF Fantasy Camp Correspondent Jeff Hysen is rounding third and sprinting toward his final full day in St. Lucie. Are his pockets lighter? Did he prepare his laundry correctly? Is it possible one former Met is a stickler for grammar? Here's the dope from Thursday.

One piece of advice that I would give someone going to a baseball fantasy camp is to do sprints. I took up jogging and that’s helped me lose weight and gain stamina but it doesn’t help you when you have to drop the bat and run or run around the bases or move to track a fly ball. As a result, my quads hurt. I’m not complaining, though. It’s part of the Fantasy Camp experience. The trainers are fantastic — they are from the Mets minor league system — and they treat us great. There are a lot of campers with injuries far worse than mine but nobody is going home or missing a game.

Having regular Mets staffers here is one of the ways that they treat each of us like a major leaguer. Our bus driver is used during Spring Training, and he drives the Port St. Lucie Mets during their season. The clubhouse guys are regular staffers. They’ve welcomed us like we're part of the team.

Thursday officially began with the daily meeting. First, we received our third talk about the laundry loop. Then, Commissioner John Stearns gave out the Golden Rope and Brown Rope. The Golden Rope is for play the previous day. They have multiple nominees (and were generous enough to make me one) and wound up giving the rope to a guy who pitched a complete game despite having a broken bone in his pitching hand. The Brown Rope goes to players and coaches for misdeeds like forgetting to wear your helmet; wearing your chest protector inside out; or for making a bad managerial move. Everybody applauds and it gets the day going on a fun note.

A lot of credit for that goes to Stearns who has nonstop enthusiasm. The four games are on adjacent fields and he goes from field to field cheering us on.

To amend the original coaches list — not here: Eric Hillman, Rodney McCray, Rafael Santana, Guy Conti; here: Ed Kranepool (for two days but two days of seeing Kranepool was special); Bernard Gilkey; and, as of Thursday, Tim Teufel.

The weather finally turned warm as the day went on. We won our final “regular season” game. Bunting is not encouraged because guys usually want to swing the bat, but with the game on the line, I bunted with the score tied in the bottom of the sixth (we play seven innings) and runners on first and second, nobody out. I managed to beat it out and we scored 4 runs. Later, we won our first playoff game in extra innings to advance to the semis.

Pat Zachry update: he said that I seemed sinister because I smile so much. Zachry is one of many good guys among the coaching staff. Wine, Brantley, Randle, Schourek, Gaspar, Millan, Capra, Montañez…I really could name them all.

Thursday night was the Kangaroo Court. As it was a “closed session,” I will not tell you exactly what transpired, but I can tell you that I managed largely to escape its wrath. I was told that I would be fined for wearing jeans in the batting cage — it was 7:30 in the morning, at least I was in the cage! — but there were other transgressions worse than mine.

From there, it was back to Duffy’s. I’ll just say that the coaches don’t mind hanging out with the players and the players are thrilled to hang out with the coaches. Turns out one of them claims to have been reading my reports here and believes I end too many sentences with prepositions.

Nevertheless, he's still a good guy to hang out with.

FAFIF Fantasy Camp correspondent Jeff Hysen is not letting the laundry loop hamper his [friggin'] good time in St. Lucie, but he may be a little lighter in the pockets once the kangaroo court gavels into session. What's said in the bull session mostly stays in the bull session, but Jeff has a few other things to tell us.

I knew that I would have to learn to hit and throw and run but I didn’t know that I would have to learn about the laundry loop. This is a big deal at camp. We’ve been lectured on it twice and the clubhouse guys come around to see if we’re doing it right. For a proper loop, you put a sock in the loop on the end, tighten the loop, do the same at the other end with your other sock, then put everything else (other than uniform and towels) in the middle, belt the two ends, and throw it in the bin. Apparently some aren’t doing it correctly, which prompted a repeat lecture.

It was really cold this morning. I don’t expect sympathy, given the weather “up north,” but when you come to Florida, you don’t expect to hear the phrases “dress in layers” and “wind chill advisory.” After another hitting session with Mickey Brantley, I went for a run on the campus. I passed Gil Hodges Way and Tom Seaver Curve en route to Tradition Field. I ran around the warning track until the automatic sprinklers went on. It made me think of Pedro.

It was picture day so after a group picture, a picture with the coaching staff, individual pictures and team pictures (all available for a price), it was onto our first game. One of our guys hit a shot that I thought was out but it struck the fence (on a fly!). I thought that the fence was very high and it was. The field was configured to the specifications of Citi Field. Once this season starts, we're going to be bemoaning the heights of the fences…well, at least in the bottom halves of innings.

Just so you know about these games, we play seven innings, a pitcher has to be pulled after giving up six runs, there is no stealing, no running on the pitch (unless it’s a 3-2 count with two outs), the leads are only to the edge of the grass, and there are no wild pitches or passed balls. The lineup begins where it ended at the previous game to help ensure equal playing time. When I saw that each team had between nine and eleven guys, I said that this meant a lot of action. I was told that we’d miss the extra players and this has already come true — guys get hurt and you need the extra players. The team we played in the afternoon needed coaches to play in center and right.

I was surprised at how annoyed/upset I was with myself for hitting poorly Tuesday. I haven’t faced a pitcher throwing a hardball in about 38 years so I shouldn’t have been surprised, yet I was. There are many guys here who are really into the games and, to an extent, that’s rubbed off on me. I thought that the games would be relaxed and fun, but they are serious (despite the modified rules). One repeat camper said that he was only here because he did so poorly last year. Another said he was here to “redeem himself” for last year. One guy said that he’s not even a Mets fan and is only here to play ball (making the fantasy part irrelevant for him).

I’m happy to report that things went better Wednesday. In the first game, I had the game winning RBI when I was hit by a pitch with the bases loaded. In the second game, I had two hits. More importantly, Capra’s Cyclones won twice. We have some excellent players on the team. Coach Capra — Buzz — was very happy.

From there, it was time for a Bull Session in which the coaches answered our questions. I will not relay most of what was said; not that it was controversial, but they weren’t speaking for attribution (only for us). We heard stories about 1969, Yogi and Gil. One thing that I think you will be interested in: when a question was asked about the last two Septembers, new bullpen coach Randy Niemann stood up and said, slowly, “That will not happen again.”

Pat Zachry update: he saw me at photos and yelled “stop [friggin’] smiling!” As I walked into the Bull Session, he simply scowled and made a motion across his lips.

Capra’s Cyclones had a team bonding dinner at Duffy’s. Buzz joined us and told some great stories. Two more games tomorrow and then the Kangaroo Court. I’ve already been told that I will be fined. More on that tomorrow.

FAFIF Fantasy Camp correspondent Jeff Hysen spent Inauguration Day not so solemnly swearing while, to the best of his ability, attempting to execute fundamentals and defend against fly balls. Now that he's iced his chest, Jeff files his dispatch from Tuesday.

The next time that I hear about a player being late for practice during spring training, I will think of this morning. Events didn’t start until 8:45 but at least half the camp was at the field by 7:00.

I saw Pat Zachry again and he again said to me “You’re [friggin’] smiling. People are gonna think you’re having a good time!” I said “I am having a good time." He said, “What?” and I answered, “I am having a [friggin’] good time!”

He laughed.

After a nice breakfast, which included grits, we went to the hitting cages. I had a lesson with Mickey Brantley, who is an excellent teacher. After stretching, we were divided into groups for evaluation. First was outfield play. Ron Swoboda told us that he learned a lot by watching Curt Flood. Lenny Randle stressed the importance of not colliding with anybody — he said that when a fly ball was hit his way, he would yell “get the [frig] out of the way!” It was very windy and tough to catch the flies. After I did, Randle chest bumped me.

At pitching and catching, Zachry saw me and yelled “you’re still smiling!” Anthony Young tried to teach me to pitch, without success. Then Zachry came over, said “you don’t suck as much as you think you do” and switched me to a stretch position — which sort of worked. From there, we had a hitting lesson with former Mets minor league coach Al LeBeouf (“the bat is not an automatic weapon…it is manually operated”). After that, it was infield, with Doug Flynn and Bobby Wine. Wine didn’t like me missing a grounder and got on my case. It is all in fun, I think. We then hit and broke for the morning.

Yes, we watched the inauguration. Lenny Randle was almost in tears.

The coaches picked their teams and I was put on Buzz Capra’s team, the Cyclones. Willie Montañez is one of our coaches. We lost our game 6-5 to a team coached by Pete Schourek and Felix Millan. Let’s just say that I didn’t contribute much to the effort (if you’re reading this and expecting me to tell you stories of my diamond exploits, I fear that you will be disappointed). The camp staff wisely includes trainers from the Mets minor league system and, after the game, the line was out the door. The Mets are big on icing our wounds — too bad that they can’t treat our wounds from the last two Septembers.

Note to my friend Bob: free beer in the locker room.

If you’re wondering about the makeup of the campers, there are about 80 guys (and it’s only guys, although there have been women in other years), mostly white and from New York, New Jersey or Connecticut. Almost everyone is friendly and enjoying the experience. About half are camp veterans, with one guy in his eighth year. Several received this as a birthday present (like me) and many are with their brothers, fathers, or other relatives (if so, they are placed on the same team).

A large group went to dinner at Duffy’s, the same Duffy’s that the sports writers tell us in Spring Training is the only good place in town and where John Maine always goes to bowl. It has about 50 flat screens and good food. We talked a lot about how sore we are. We’ll be in worse shape tomorrow after two games.

One sort of-news item to pass on: Duaner Sanchez is here. I watched him play catch with a clubhouse attendant. Afterwards, I asked the attendant how Duaner looked and he said “real good.”