Mets in the Rear View Mirror

This shot from the Dallas Green era shows how close the fans get at Vero Beach.

Just because Robin effortlessly jumps into the Batmobile at the start of every episode doesn’t mean you can do it, too.

This is a lesson I once learned the hard way trying to leap into my sister’s brand new Mazda Miata convertible. It was an expensive mistake that is now family lore.

So it was a supreme act of sisterly love when Jennifer trusted me to drive her new car up to Vero Beach to see the Mets and the Dodgers in a spring training game in 1997.

Before the kids were in school, I would visit my folks in Florida each March, where they would spoil me wildly by sending me to spring training games for a week straight.


The Mets are about 40 minutes north of their home, and the Dodgers are not far from the Mets.

And Dodgertown should be a national shrine to all that is good in the game. Spring training, while still pretty laid back, is nevertheless becoming big business, with stadiums getting larger and tickets harder to come by.

But the Dodgers’ complex in Vero Beach is like the yard that time forgot. It’s almost like going to see major leaguers in a municipal park.

There are no dugouts to speak of, just a couple of benches. And a short chain-link fence is all that separates players from the fans.

I’ve attended several games at Dodgertown, but the 1997 visit stands out.

Getting there was a challenge. Jen’s new Civic had a standard transmission, and I had not used a stick shift in years. I knew driving on I-95 wouldn’t be a problem, but I think I stalled it at several traffic lights before I got there.

Buying just one ticket just before game time, I was able to get a seat right behind the Mets dugout. Sitting across the aisle was then team co-owner Fred Wilpon, He noticed that I was wearing the new white cap the team was unveiling that year – and quickly discarded – and was happy to autograph my Mets book.

The game was a glorious rout, with the Mets scoring 5 runs in the first inning on their way to a 20-7 victory.

The Mets that year were in transition. John Olerud and Edgardo Alfonzo were in place, but so were Carlos Baerga and Alex Ochoa.


It was also the spring of Howard Johnson’s comeback attempt. It soon became apparent that Hojo was done, so spring became sort of an extended curtain call for him.

Johnson had not done well after leaving the Mets 1993, playing for the Rockies and the Cubs before catching on as a minor league coach for the Devil Rays in 1996.

He hit just .129 with a homer that spring, but got warm ovations from Mets fans whenever he batted. It was a proper send-off, and he deserved one.

As the Mets continued to add runs, the stands thinned out a little and I crept all the way down to the row behind the Mets bench.

Howard Johnson got a lot of love, but few hits in his comeback attempt.

It’s always fun to hear what actually happens in the dugout, though I suspect the players on their best behavior at Vero because the fans are literally right behind them.

It was interesting that Rey Ordonez was paying practically no attention to the game, but was instead focused on a young Latina sitting in the first row. Rey was very interested in her, and she was definitely NOT interested in him. Rey-Rey actually had a decent game, hitting two doubles and stealing a base, proving that he could be good when he wanted to be. Maybe the Mets should have stationed hard-to-impress girls behind the dugout for all their games.

The excitement came after the game. Parking at Dodgertown is spread out on sandy and grassy fields around the complex, and it takes a little time to get out and back to the main roads.

The stop and go driving was testing my ability with the stick shift, especially after the stalling issues on the way there. I was waiting in line at a four-way stop sign when I noticed a mini-van had pulled up behind me – a mini-van full of Mets!

Apparently Vero is so close that players had the option of driving their own cars, and changing back into street clothes back at St. Lucie.

Edgardo Alfonzo celebrates after a home run.

I could see HoJo in the passenger seat, but couldn’t make out who was driving.

Talk about pressure! Stalling in front of Mets players would not be impressive, and I could feel my pulse racing as I gently eased up on the clutch and the gas, inching up to the stop sign.

I managed to pull it off without stalling, and even mustered a cool wave as the mini-van passed me on the main road that takes you back to I-95.

Every Signature Tells a Story: Buck O'Neil, Hall of Famer?

I usually try to sneak a baseball adventure into work-related road trips, and this week I was visiting Kansas City. I might have bumped into the next addition to the Baseball Hall of Fame.

Since the Royals are in Florida and I’ve already toured Kauffman Stadium when it was empty, we checked out the Negro League Baseball Museum, which is part of a rejuvenated historic district and shares space with a jazz museum.

The museum is pretty neat — long on information but short in artifacts. The marketing director said it’s still growing, having once been relegated to a small office.

The best part is a field with 12 life-sized, bronze statues of legendary players. Dave, the photographer accompanying me, noticed a television crew was setting up on the field, and it’s a reflex for print people to find out what such people are doing.

The marketing director said that Buck O’Neil would be down during the day for an interview, tied to the Monday vote on adding Negro League players to Cooperstown.

O’Neil, of course, is the guy who practically stole Ken Burn’s epic Baseball documentary in 1994 with his charm and wonderful stories.

Buck O'Neil didn't mind posing for photos.

I was standing in the lobby chatting on my cell with a school board member when an older gentleman wearing a Kansas City Monarchs jacket came into view. That call ended abruptly, and I walked into the gift shop and got the attention of the clerk.

"The gentleman walking this way, that’s Buck O’Neil, right?"

"Sure is!" the clerk said. "He loves signing autographs. Grab a ball off the shelf and get ready. You can pay for it later."

A very cool clerk.

O’Neil waked in with a great smile and started chatting with man and some fans from New York. He’s 94, but doesn’t look it. And the guy has the biggest hands I’ve ever seen.

He happily signed my ball and posed for a photo, and talked a little about the Hall of Fame. People in Kansas City are convinced he’ll be selected.

The former Negro League All-Star first-baseman and manager — and the first black coach in the majors — is among the 39 candidates being considered.

There are 18 Negro League players and executives in Cooperstown already, not counting legends like Hank Aaron and Jackie Robinson who spent most of their careers in the majors.

But none have been selected since 2000, when the Hall decided it needed more research on the leagues and sent 50 historians digging for information.

I think O’Neil has a shot. Of the 39 people on the ballot, only he and Minnie Minoso are alive. And it’s more fun to have a party if the guest of honor is still alive and can make a speech on induction day. I think Minoso has been long over looked, but he belongs based on his career with the White Sox instead of anything done previously.

He’s certainly been a great ambassador for baseball. Everybody seemed to have a Buck O’Neil story.

The staff at the Kansas City visitors information office told he of how one day on O’Neil came out of the museum to find his car blocked by a tour bus. Rather than get angry, he boarded the bus and walked up and down the aisle shaking hands, signing autographs and telling stories.

I met him once before. Burns was hosting a press conference at the 1994 All-Star Game FanFest to talk about the documentary, which was coming out later that summer.

There were players assigned to sit with reporters at each table. I sat with former Dodgers pitcher Joe Black, who was impressed that I knew the proper way to pronounce the name of his Negro League team, the Elite Giants. You’re supposed to say e-LIGHT instead of e-LETE, should you ever be in such a situation.

"You’re the first white guy ever to say that right!" Black said. I took it as a compliment.

As we were sitting there, Burns walked in with O’Neil, who no one had heard of at the time. O’Neil went from table to table, shaking hands and introducing himself to every single person there.

Watching the documentary later, I said "Hey, that’s the guy!"

The Tigers Even Let Me on the Field

The Detroit Tigers get a lot of grief, but sometimes they do things that are pretty cool – like giving the fans a chance to get out on the field.

And I’m happy to report that I’ve taken advantage of these opportunities for advantages ranging from improving my softball game to tripping Yankees fans.

I was reminded of these activities after seeing ads this month for season tickets.

The team is promising anyone who buys full season tickets the chance to get on the field and take batting practice. I thought that sounded too good to be true, so I chatted with team’s media rep.

Surely, this can’t mean bringing fans right on the field into the cage. They must be parading people to some drop-the-token-in-the-slot batting cage set up in the parking lot or something.

But no, the rep insisted that anybody who plunks down the cash for a full season ticket – admittedly a large expense – gets to step up to home plate and take five minutes worth of swings off live pitching, just like the pros.

That’s pretty cool. Granted, not as cool at Comerica Park as it would have been at Tiger Stadium, where you’d be standing in the same spot as Hank Greenberg, Al Kaline and Ty Cobb. It’s just not as intimidating saying “I stood where Brandon Inge grounded weakly to second many, many times.” But it’s still pretty cool.

I’ve been able to stand on the field, but in foul territory, in a number of ballparks. But to actually step between the lines is pretty sweet. And I’ve only done that twice at a major league park.

You won’t be shocked to know that I’m not above exploiting the kids for advancing such activities.

Then-Tigers coach Perry Hill demonstrates how to throw.

And when Andrew was 6, I saw that the Tigers were hosting a youth clinic day. If you had a kid with you, you could go out in the field where players and coaches were set up at several stations around the outfield bestowing tips to wide-eyed youngsters.

We spent most of the time wandering around the famed stadium’s centerfield talking photos.

But we wondered over to some of the stations and got some good tips. I’m not saying Tram and Lou were out there discussing how to turn two. The stars were definitely not a part of the clinic. But picking the brains of a real major-leaguer is always a good thing.

One of the guys out there was Andy Tomerlin, who played for the Mets in 1996 and 1997. A big debate around our softball team was how tight you should squeeze the bat. I decided to ask Tomerlin. Hey, if the Little Leaguers are too slow to get their questions in there, that’s not my fault.

Ex-Met Andy Tomerlin helps with my softball game.

The answer, by the way, is not tight at all. “Someone should be able to reach over your shoulder and pull it out of your hands,” he said. “You’ll tighten up as you get into the swing.” Good to know.

Justin Thompson later rolled a ball to Andrew, so it was a good day all around.

I was able to get back on the field again in 2003. It was our annual BaseballTruth.com Executive Game, and it just happened to be photo day, where the Tigers rope off the infield, and allow the fans to gather on the field as the players – this time including the stars – would walk along and pose for photos.

And that’s all good – if you like the Tigers. We were more interested in taking in the view from center and posing for shots of us making great catches.

As things turned out, this was also the day – one of them – that Roger Clemens was going for win No. 300. The placed was packed with Yankee fans.

So I was stretched out re-creating Ron Swoboda’s masterpiece from the 1969 World Series and a guy wearing a Yankees cap fell right over me. He was taking a photo, and started walking backward, not watching where he was going.

You can see his feet in the photo. The guy was making a path for my noggin.

He was sprawled on the grass, and I'm thinking he's going to apologize, saying "Hey, nice Swoboda. Sorry I ruined your shot. Hope you're OK."

But nooooo. Yankee fan sat there, giving me looks of death like I'm in the wrong and as if there was no good reason for me to be stretched out in the Comerica Park centerfield.

Hey, it’s not my fault that the Yankees have no famous catches they can re-create. Unless, that is, they send some kid into the stands to pretend they are Jeffrey Maier.

So if you get the chance to get on to field -- lawfully -- jump at it, because it doesn't happen too often. And look out for humorless Yankee fans.

My New Favorite Minor League Team

I have 25 minor league baseball caps.

If you read this post in December, you know what that really means. But I'm sad to report that nowhere in that, ahem, 25-cap collection, is one worn by new favorite minor league team, the Lowell Spinners.

The Spinners, a Class A affiliate of the Red Sox, have taken up a cause that is near and dear to my heart. And that crusade is ridding the world of Yankee taint.

Oh, the weasels can stay in the Bronx. It’s better to keep Jeter, Giambi and their ilk in one place so we can keep an eye on them.

But I’m talking about the assault on innocent children. And while I’m just sitting around venting, the Spinners are stepping up and actually doing something about it.


The team is searching for youth baseball leagues for teams named after the vile pinstripes, and helping them change their name to Spinners. In exchange, the Spinners will pay for new uniforms and allow the kids to play on the LeLacheur Park field before a game this summer. The Spinners also pledge to work with each youth team to assist with fund-raising.

"Red Sox fans understand how devastating it can be for any child to be on a Yankees youth baseball team in New England," the team said in a release. "The Spinners have heard stories first-hand of children actually crying and refusing to play if they have to play for the Yankees."

I get it. I can’t imagine being forced to wear a uniform with that hurtful logo, representing that shameful history as well as all that is wrong in baseball today. Talk about trauma. You might as well pin a red pointed tail to the backs of the uniform pants.

Just because Johnny Damon has no shame and embraces the pinstripes doesn’t mean the youth of New England needs to follow his destructive path.

Spinners general manager Tim Bawmann said it becomes an issue where kids are devastated when they find out they are on the Yankees.

"Many kids actually pray they will not be on the Yankees when the rosters and teams are announced."

The team estimates about half of the youth baseball leagues in New England have Yankee teams and the other half had already eliminated them because of this issue.

Gabe Kapler is a famous ex-Spinner.

The Spinners — the name comes from the textile industry — have been around 10 years and have sold out every game since 2000.

I salute the Spinners. And it wouldn’t shock me if Carl Pavano, Kyle Farnsworth and other recent arrivals to the Bronx who might not have been to the Kool-Aid dispenser approached the Spinnners as well!

I'm grateful to blogger Deezofeezo, who is always a funny read, for bringing this crusade to our attention!

In other words...

Sometime on Friday I recorded hit no. 10,000 since I added the counter in mid-June. This is both amazing and humbling. I realize that some blogs get that many hits before lunch each and every day. But I’m honored that anyone at all takes the time to invite me into their lives for a few moments.

It’s a nice round number, and a good place to pause and reflect. There are a couple people I need to thank. You see and hear about Will Christensen in many of my posts. He’s been my best friend and baseball adventure buddy since 1990. Will is an amazing baseball researcher and analyst, and you can check him out at Baseballtruth.com.

You also see and hear about Tony Hartsfield, who has been like a brother since I subjected him to all sorts of things when we were roommates at University of Missouri. Tony has been a role model in many, many ways. His great writing inspired me to try blogging.

And my cousin, Michael McMillin, is a constant source of encouragement and friendship. His new blog is here.

A totally unexpected benefit of being a part of the blogging community has been meeting some wonderful people. Greg Prince of Faith and Fear in Flushing, when not heroically satisfying my cravings for the culinary treats of the homeland, demonstrates his, well, "Amazin’" knowledge of Mets history and shows how it intertwines with our own personal stories.

Metstradamus, Deezo and Joe are just flat-out funny, Mark of Mets Walkoffs is a fantastic historian and Miracle Mets shows that there are a lot of new quality bloggers joining our ranks every day. If I list more it will seem like an Oscars speech, and the band has started to play.

I realize that a big chunk of those hits are from my Mom and Dad, sister Jen, brother John and mother-in-law -- loyal readers and people I love.

And, of course, my wife, Julie. She is not a loyal reader, but endures me talking about the blog all the time. That must be as boring as listening to a rotisserie team ower brag about his team, making her a saint.

Thank you!

M&Ms, Ozzy and a Revelation

You know you’re getting old when you break out with the dreaded “Kids today. What are they listening to? That stuff is crap!”

I had one of those moments this week, as well as a shocking revelation.

I’ve been filling my iPod with classic songs from my youth, making liberal use of my library card to borrow CDs with songs from the LP and 45 collection from my teens.

And my wife will point out that outside of discovering awesome contemporary Christian rock; my music tastes have not changed that much from those formative years. I was a bit of a metal head, but embraced a lot of the synth new wave stuff. Hey, 20 gigs of space means Rush and UFO and Human League and A Flock of Seagulls can happily co-exist.

So I was excited to find that the Grand Rapids Public Library had a copy of Black Box, the collection of every Ozzy-era Black Sabbath album. I haven’t heard most of those since high school.

Giants Eminems

While I was searching for that, I came across a copy of Eminem’s new Curtain Call greatest hits disc. I confess I’ve always been curious. The Detroit Free Press seems to have a reporter covering the guy full-time, so we can’t help put be exposed to his assorted legal and marital woes and the outcry from whatever oversensitive group his lyrics were offending that week.

But I’ve never heard his stuff, other than that overblown duet with Elton John on the Grammy Awards a few years back and the small part of “Lose Yourself” in the iPod commercial that ran virtually between every single inning during the postseason.

It only costs 50 cents to borrow a disc, so I thought I’d give Em a whirl and see what the fuss was all about. I plunked down my buck and walked out of the library with both collections, and popped Curtain Call in the car CD player.

Yikes. There are 16 tracks on the disc. I think 15 are a continuous loop of F-bombs, and about 14 are about how miserable his life is. There was no joy, no optimism. Some of the tunes were OK, but I couldn’t get past the steady stream of profanity. It was distracting me from hearing what he was actually trying to say.

Nasty Yankee Eminems

I’m not some language prude. Dee Snider lets an F-bomb fly once in a while, but not every other word. And Tony will remind me of a certain W.A.S.P. song I subjected him to in college. Well, him and the rest of the dorm. I was always a little heavy on the volume.

Considering how many millions of discs Eminem's sold, he’s probably in Carlos Beltran’s tax bracket. Can things be all that bad?

Then it happened. I broke out with the phrase: “Kids today. What are they listening to? This stuff is crap!”

I felt a shudder. Am I an official fossil?

Then I popped in some of the Sabbath discs when I picked Andrew up from swimming practice.

I threw Vol. 4 in first. “Supernaut” and “Wheels of Confusion” still seemed cool, but I finally realized that not only is “Snowblind” a drug song – it’s a pro-drug song! Who knew? OK, I was a naive kid.

The riff in “Sabbath Bloody Sabbath” still growled with menace. “Paranoid” still rocked, and “War Pigs” was kind of a retro chuckle. Stuff from “Never Say Die,” the least popular of the Ozzy era, held up better than I thought.

Andrew groaned and showed displeasure as each memory blast out of the speakers. He turned up the volume on his GameBoy, as if Ozzy’s wail wouldn’t pierce through those computerized blips and bleeps.

But I realized that much of the rest just didn’t age well. I started skipping through the tracks, faster and faster, cringing along the way at each shrill scream, drug praise and devil devotion.

The first Sabbath CD was … unlistenable.

Ozzy used to seem kind of cool, but now I heard the foghorn vocals and all I could think of was the living cartoon mumbling and stumbling through his MTV reality show.

Then the revelation: When I was a kid, what was I listening to? This stuff was crap!

I used to love this music. I always found it easier to do those outside chores if I could bring my music outside. I’d either take my little red plastic Panasonic tape player or put my stereo speakers in the window and crank it up. I don’t know why the neighbors didn’t complain.

It was confirmation once again that my parents knew what they were talking about. If I’m even half as accurate when I’m bestowing advice upon my kids, they’ll be doing OK.

I ended up downloading a three songs from Curtain Call – more than I expected – and a total of 11 songs from the eight Sabbath albums, a lot fewer than I expected. And I won’t be as quick to criticize Andrew’s musical selections next time he wants me to import some songs to his iPod.

In other music news:

Another 45 I used to play over and over was Terry Cashman's "Talking Baseball -- Mets Version." Cashman rewrote his version of "Willie, Mickey and the Duke" for most of the major league teams. I recently discovered that these are available from his label's Web site, and puchased the National League versions plus a special disc he made for the Subway Series.

The original Mets version was from 1982 before the rebirth, hence the "We long to see them rushing, to the stadium in Flushing line." But the CD has a mroe recent version through the 1986 series and then the Subway Series. Good stuff, and no F-bombs!

Every Signature Tells a Story: Mickey Lolich, the Reluctant Met

I used to get way too attached to players when I was a kid.

And I had trouble grasping the whole concept of trading players. It seemed like the ultimate act of disloyalty. How could a guy be a Met — a hero — once day, and the enemy the next?

Naturally I got a little older and wiser as to how the game works. But I must say there was one Mets trade that horrified and befuddled me at the time. And 30 years and one month later, I can’t say I understand it much better.

That would be the Dec. 12, 1975 deal that sent hero Rusty Staub and minor leaguer Bill Laxton to the Detroit Tigers for Mickey Lolich and outfielder Billy Baldwin.

Staub was 31 and a star of the 1973 near-miracle. He was a fan favorite and seemed a perfect fit for the Big Apple.

Lolich, meanwhile, was 35 and coming off a year where he lost 18 games. The Mets still had Seaver, Koosman and Matlack — plus a young Craig Swan — in the rotation, so pitching wasn’t an issue.

It’s not that Lolich was a bum. The MVP of the 1968 World Series, Lolich was the all-time leader in strikeouts by a left-hander when he came over, though soon surpassed by Steve Carlton.

He got stiffed on two Cy Young Awards. He had 25 wins and 308 strikeouts in 1971, but lost to Vida Blue. And the next year he had 22 wins and a 2.50 ERA but lost to Gaylord Perry.

It probably didn’t help his career that Billy Martin decided a bullpen was unnecessary and dragged 376 innings out of his arm in 1971.

Lolich didn’t fare that well, posting a decent 3.22 ERA but a nasty 8-13 record. He retired after the season, sitting out all of 1977 before playing two years for the Padres.

Staub, meanwhile, went nuts in the bandbox in Detroit. He was the starting right-fielder in the 1976 All- Star Game and in 1978 drove in 121 runs and hit 24 bombs. For a guy who was supposedly injury prone, Staub seemed durable in Detroit, playing in 161, 158 and 162 games in his three full years there.

I was always curious about the trade, both why the Mets would make it in the first place and why Lolich hung ‘em up after that one season.

He’s still very popular here in Michigan and for years ran a doughnut shop in Lake Orion on the fringes of the Flint Journal’s circulation area. He used to be a regular signer on the card show circuit. I saw he was signing at a show at Madonna College near Detroit in the early 1990s and wanted to get him to sign my Mets book.

I placed it in front of him, and he smiled. He isn’t asked to sign too many Mets items.

I asked if he liked pitching in New York.

"Absolutely hated it," he said. "I’m just a big ole country boy. I never felt comfortable there.

Apparently there were some other issues, too. He’s interviewed on the Baseball Hall of Fame’s Website and spoke of disagreements with the Mets coaches.


"But I did have some troubles with the way the Mets wanted me to pitch. A good pitcher controls or calls his own game, and I didn't know the N.L. hitters. It didn't bother me too much because I figured they'd have to hit my fastball or curveball, and they were both pretty good. But the Mets wanted to sort of control the way I pitched, and I was used to calling my own game. It was difficult for me to adjust. Also, my wife and family were back in Detroit, and I didn't know anybody in New York, so it was a tough season. So after the season, I decided it was time to get out, and I retired."

Lolich’s struggles didn’t hurt the team too much. The 1976 Mets finished third with 86 wins. Of course, it was the year before all the wheels came off, the midnight massacre occurred and the team went into its second period of despair.

In Other Words...

My cousin Mike is one of New York's Finest and just started a cool blog, "Large Coffee, Cream, Four Equals." Check it out here

What I Want to See in the New Mets' New Ballpark

I’m a stadium junkie.

It’s true. I love everything about them. One of my best days ever was when we had total access, roof to clubhouse, of Tiger Stadium while crews were getting it ready for opening day one year.

I try to visit a new park every year, and I have to get there as soon as the gates open to explore every view and concession stand.

So naturally I’m already obsessing over the new Mets ballpark. This is the important time, when the powers at be are busy plotting.

Now’s the time to play stadium designer. The friends at Faith and Fear in Flushing and The Eddie Kranepool Society took a shot at this and had some great ideas.

I’m going to look at things a little differently. I’ve been fortunate enough check out games at a number of stadiums — old and new — around baseball, and here are some of the features I’ve seen elsewhere and would like see considered for the Mets’ new playground.

Details are coming out slowly. We know about red brick and an entrance that will recall Ebbets Field. I’m OK with that as long as its a starting point. While it is important to pay homage to history, we have to continue creating history on our own.

Views: What you see beyond the field is important, which is one of the reasons the donut stadiums were so reviled. Instead of a great city view, they give fans a panorama of usually empty seats.

Shea, had it faced in any other direction, would have had a much better view than what we have now, which is a not especially nice section of Queens.

Realize, of course, that tradition called for most stadiums to face the same way to deal with the sun and shadows when such things were issues for most of the games. And we know that change comes at a glacial pace in the Grand Old Game. But now stadiums face in all directions, so we are free to wonder.

If the New Shea — I know it will have a different name — faces north, we have a view of the water, which is a little further than McCovey Cove but still a short walk. Another direction and the Manhattan skyline rises in the distance. Other options are listed in other sections.

The Liberty Bell bongs every time a Phillie hits a bomb.

A Local Icon: The Phillies did an OK job of highlighting the Liberty Bell, which is done up in massive neon and "rings" when a Phillies player hits a homer.

New Yorkers, of course, have many icons to celebrate. No other city can compete. Yet we downplay this natural advantage. I offer: The Statue of Liberty.

Lady Liberty roots for the Mets.

C’mon! You know Lady Liberty’s a Mets fan. You think the Yankees want any part of your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free in their snooty ballpark? Heck no.

We need to claim Miss Liberty as a Met the way the Rangers have with their alternative sweaters. We need some kind of presence. Perhaps something like Kiss did here on its revenge tour, having her peering over the right field wall, torch glowing brightly and serving as a warning beacon for the planes heading into LaGuardia.

If Kiss can pull it off, so can the Mets!

And while we’re at it, let’s make the food court look like Times Square, at least the mall-like version in recent years. And make sure they serve bagels. Lots of poppy seed bagels.

Pittsburgh has a nice little bridge beyond the fence. We have the mighty Whitestone.

Bridges: Pittsburgh did a fine job of facing their stadium to include the view of bridges. It looks cool -- if you like little bridges. We, on the other hand, have big-ass world-class bridges. And some are not too far from the stadium, like the Whitestone, easily viewed in the distance if the yard is facing the right way.

Landmark in view: The Cardinals have the Arch looming overhead. We have the Unisphere. If we’re not going to set our view on Manhattan or the bridges, I suggest facing south. Heck, build the stadium in Flushing Meadows Park so the symbol of the 1964 fair is a Carlos Delgado blast away. It’s not like there’s a lot of stuff in that park anyway. The Mets are forever linked with the fair, so go all the way. And I have to say that incorporating the Parachute Jump at Keyspan Park was brilliant.

A sign: Every time I’ve been to Wrigley Field, I’ve seen people posing with that red sign, even where there’s no game going on. It’s a perfect snapshot that tells where you are and what you’re doing, and is at a nice, posable height. We have the signs, but they’re spread out over a long space or way up high. Put a nice, colorful sign somewhere low and have an employee standing there offering to take photos for people.

Statues: Speaking of photos, we need some statues. Teams are all over the place on this. The Cards do a lot of things well, but they dropped the ball in this area, with one large statue of Stan Musial and a whole series of small sculptures of Bob Gibson and the gang. The Tigers have lots of statues, but they’re placed in a spot that makes them hard to pose with unless you want to be photographed with Willie Horton’s butt, which you do not.

We can get this right. Tom Seaver is an obvious choice, as is Mike Piazza once he’s got his plaque in Cooperstown with a Mets cap. Honoring Gil Hodges would be great. I wouldn’t object to Willie Mays, and you can check out the Brewers’ Hank Aaron statue for precedence.

Now for the bold pick: Jackie Robinson. The Mets have become the defacto preservers of the Robinson story even though he’s a Dodger. Where was the national celebration of the 50th anniversary? At Shea.

Greg Luzinski is on display at Cit Bank

Old Guys: One of the best features of Citizens Bank Park was Greg Luzinski. It’s true! He runs "Bull's Barbecue" and hangs out posing for photos, telling stories about playing with Tom Seaver and just being a nice guy. Think of the possibilities for us! Rusty used to run a restaurant. How about "Mexican Food with Mex?" "Kranepool’s Kitchen?" "Grote’s Grill?" "Bagels with Benny Agbayani"

The Pirates salute both recent and ancient history at PNC Park.

History: The Mets have a colorful history. And while I hear they’ve become better at celebrating it, they can still do a lot more. A museum and Hall of Fame that the average fan can actually see are a must. The Pirates have some great touches at PNC Park, such as banners decorated with baseball cards from all eras. Very cool.

Mourning My Morning Routine

You all know Bart Giamatti’s quote about baseball being designed to break your heart. I’m beginning to think the same is true about bagel stores.

New Yorkers will back me on this. The bagel is the perfect breakfast food, if not perfect food altogether.

And I’ve learned that once you get outside the New York area, bagel quality drops sharply. That is unless you’re in some parts of Florida, which might as well be the sixth borough.

Out here in the Midwest it’s especially rough. There aren't that many bagel places to begin with, and the ones that are here just don't make the grade. They bestow the bagel title upon any round breaded thing that’s not a donut.

My first four years in Grand Rapids I suffered through a place that dared to call itself "Big Apple Bagels." They were too hard and too thin — but it was all I had.

Then one glorious day about two years ago a place called "Brooklyn Bagels" opened right near my house and on the way to work.

It was darn near perfect. Framed prints of the homeland — including a sweet photo of Jackie Robinson stealing home — hung on the walls, the sandwiches were named after New York landmarks and the bagels were as close to Long Island as I have encountered since crossing the bridge.

Reflecting on Jackie Robinson's greatness is a good way to start the day.

So it didn’t take long before I got to know the entire staff on a first-name basis. They were my morning family. They'd talk about my stories in the papers, I'd ask about the son serving in Iraq or the daughter in school. My wife, on the few times she accompanied me to the store, was amazed that I’d know all about everyone’s kids and they knew mine.

And they’d have my order ready when they saw the silver Saturn pull up. A poppy seed bagel, toasted with butter, and an extra-large cup that I’d fill with Diet Pepsi. I strongly prefer Diet Coke, but everything else was so good I could overlook this flaw.

On days when I was feeling really wild I’d get a sesame seed bagel. This boldness would be a topic of conversation for the rest of the week.

I'm a creature of routine. I have a short, 12-mile commute and traffic here is nothing like it is back home. It's actually a peaceful time. I eat my bagel in the car, and it lasts most of the trip.

Work can be a bear, especially lately. There's something nice about starting the day with the same friendly people and the same wonderful snack. When everything else was in chaos, the morning routine was blissfully constant.

Then last April the unthinkable happened. The morning family had to break it to me gently that the owner had over-extended himself and was going to be closing the store.

There was much weeping and gnashing of teeth. On the last day they sent me off with two-dozen poppy seed bagels I could freeze for a transitional period.

It was a very difficult time. I don’t want to dwell on it. Let’s just say many new places were tried, all failed. Mornings were started unsatisfied and grumpy.

Occasionally I’d drive by the bagel store and put my nose up against the window to see if there were any developments. I held out hope because even though the store was closed, nothing inside had changed.

Then one day in the summer, signs appeared in the window saying a new cafe-deli was to open. The name was different, but there was reason for optimism, if nothing else.

And on a beautiful afternoon I saw that the open sign was lit. I pulled right over, went in and was thrilled to see all the old friends were there. The new owner had hired nearly all the previous employees.

It was a happy reunion, and my morning routine was saved. Me, the friends, the poppy seed bagels and extra-large Diet Pepsis -- it was all good. I could start the day with that extra little bounce that only comes with a happy routine.

Now, when you are in a place every morning, you notice little things. The new store was never as crowded as it was in the previous incarnation. Some of the friends would leave and not be replaced. There were fewer donuts, cookies and other menu offerings available. Some days there weren’t even poppy seed bagels. I started to get worried.

One day last week I bounced into the store and my friend Becky softly told me the news. The latest version of the store was closing. They lasted just seven months.

On Friday they gave me two-dozen poppy seed bagels to put in the freezer and start the transitional period, again.

In Other Words:

Speaking of beverages and morning routines, one daily ritual is not going away, and that's reading Faith and Fear in Flushing. Greg is resurrecting his awesome Friday Flashback series to tell us about the glorious 1986 season. You can read it here.

700 Middle-schoolers and a Tired Chaperone

Me and my kids at the end of the long weekend.

I spent the weekend with 700 middle school students.

But don’t send condolence cards. I actually like working with the kids that many fear.

I’m not saying they can’t be rascals if left off the leash for too long, especially at an event like "YouthQuake," where we spent the weekend.

But I think the middle-schoolers get a bad rap. I’ve worked my church’s junior high youth group for the past four years, and guided the high school kids for a couple years before that.

I think the middle school kids are more fun. They’re old enough that you can have a good serious discussion, yet young enough that they’ll enjoy a silly game, especially if includes running around and bouncing off walls. They watch the opposite gender intently — but from a safe distance.

And the kids seem to relate well to me. I suspect that I’m not as cool as I think I am, but not as out of touch as they assume I must be. I’m enough of a stickler to make sure they follow my rules, but lax enough to bend some of the event’s rules, like blowing off some of the most boring sessions and instead conducting our small group study in the hotel hot tub.

"You’re strict, but you’re not a butthead about it," one of the kids told me. I think that was a compliment.

The annual "YouthQuake" in Lansing attracts Lutheran middle school groups from all over the state, and includes Christian bands, a speaker and breakout activity sessions.

My job is to keep the 15 kids in my group safe, semi-focused and participating. And, if all breaks right, see if they can learn something and grow spiritually.

This year’s theme verses were the parable about the foolish man who built his house on the sand and the wise man built it on a rock, allowing it to survive when the storms came. The idea is to show the kids that using their religion as the foundation will serve them better than chasing money, popularity and the other worldly things that teens crave.

It’s a good topic because they can relate to it. Building on the rock means knowing to say "No" when someone at a party offers them beer, and I was surprised that this was already happening to them.

At the end of the night I buy a stack of pizzas, and we sit around and talk. I’m always amazed at how much they open up in the discussions. I try to pepper it with example from my own life, which they seem to like, especially when I tell them about ways I’ve screwed up.

Given all that, I do realize that they are indeed middle-schoolers and fully capable of mischief. "Trust but verify" is a good policy, and it helps that I’ve done this before. This year I knew enough to confiscate all the little packets of coffee from the in-room coffee machines. They were brewing the stuff last year to help stay up all night.

And while I often fear the worst — as a protective chaperone should — they happily prove me wrong time and again. There are couple surprises from this trip.

Movie time: I try to give them some time by themselves. I’m very close by — reading a newspaper in the hall -- but that gives both of us a little break. The kids — all 14 of them — were quietly spending some free time in one of the rooms, the wastepaper basket in the door to keep it open enough so I can hear if something was going on.

One of the boys walked out to get some more snacks from his own room, and I asked what they were doing. "We’re watching a movie." I immediately feared that they had ordered some of the hotel pay-per-view movies, and you know what kinds of movies are usually offered. I jumped in, and sure enough, they were all sitting around watching something intently. I though it was a good sign that no one dove for the remote to change the channel.

"What are you guys watching?"

"‘Annie.’" someone responded.

"‘Annie’ as in the red-haired kid with the dog and the bald guy?"

"Yeah."

Phew! I have no idea why that would interest them, but sometimes it is best to just be grateful and not to question such things.

Dirty feet: Later in the night, they were gathered in the same room and one of the girls walked by with a towel. The hotel pool was closed for repairs so I couldn’t figure out what she was up to.

"We’re having a foot-soaking party."

Say what?

Sure enough, an inspection revealed about five if them standing, fully dressed except for shoes and socks, in the small bath tub, which was filled with water and bubbles.

I considered this to be an opening to tell them the story about Christ washing the feet of the disciples, but I didn’t want to cram anyone else in the tub.

I figure if that’s their idea of being wild and crazy, I’m going to be OK.

As Christians we are called on to spread the good news. I confess that I have trouble talking to adults about faith issues, especially trying to reach out to an adult non-believer. But it's different with kids. My hope is that I can do something that will take them a little bit further in their faith walk.

At the very worst I hope they see an adult who cares about them and is very happy with his life. And maybe if this Christ stuff is working for me they'll think it might work for them, too.

Redeemed! Ex-Yankees Can be Saved

David Cone sought, and received, redemption in 2003 after straying to the Evil Empire.

Last time we documented the assorted demises of players who appeared in a Mets uniform, then at some point in their career were sucked into the vortex of the Evil Empire. Perhaps coincidentally -- and perhaps not -- their careers or lives went down the drain.

But enough gloom and doom! Today I celebrate those who were saved! Yes, there are players who spent time as Yankees only to be redeemed at Shea.

It’s not all pretty. Sometimes, there is just too much Yankee in their veins to turn them around. Bad things happen. Like not throwing a stinking strike to Andruw Jones. See the curious case of Kenny "Bleeping" Rogers.

Sometimes we were able to salvage careers. Other times we had folks like Gene Woodling, allowing them to leave the game with a proper uniform on their backs.

And sometimes we were able to give players a proper homecoming before they departed the game, like David Cone.

Here’s the list:

Jack Aker: Knew he was in trouble for several years with the Yanks, closed the book on his career in 1974 with the Mets, going 2-1 with 2 saves, a 3.59 ERA and a clean conscious.

Tucker Ashford: Got into three games as a Yankee in 1981 and never even batted. But apparently he realized he was flirting with the devil, came to the Mets in 1983. He hit a weak .179, but at least knew he could live peacefully.

Yogi Berra: If anyone had a reason to be bitter about the Yanks, it was Yogi. Fired after a year as manager when all he did was take them to the World Series. He was warmly embraced by the Amazin’s....even though we eventually fired him after some time as manager when all he did was take us to Game Seven of the World Series.

Ray Burris: We rescued Burris by claiming him off waivers from the Yanks in 1979. Alas, he never recovered from his Yankee taint, though he did have a decent season for the Expos.

Rick Cerone: Cerone actually had three separate tours with the Yankees before he had a late-in-life conversion and spent 1991 with the Mets, hitting a tidy .273 in 90 games.

David Cone: Cone must have been visited by three ghosts one Opening Day Eve. We know of his success as a Met and defection to the dark side. Coney must have known it was important to retire as a Met in 2003 with his aborted comeback.

Dock Ellis: Pitching a no-no on acid is bad. But what kind of drugs were the Pirates on when they traded Ellis, along with Willie Randolph and Ken Brett to the Yanks for Doc Medich. Amazingly, Ellis, Medich and, of course, Randolph, were all redeemed by the Mets. Ellis’ farewell was ugly, the Mets were one of three teams he pitched for in 1979. But at least his soul was cleansed.

Alvaro Espinosa: Spent four years in the Bronx before contributing nicely with a .306 BA as a Met for part of 1996.

Bob Friend: A three time All-Star, Friend spent 15 years with the Pirates, who traded him to the Yanks in 1966. After 12 games with the Yanks, the Mets came to the rescue and purchased his contract so he could finish the year and his career on a high note.

Karim Garcia: Some players don’t appreciate when they are saved. Fighting with St. Lucie pizza store people is not the way to give thanks to your new employers. We sent him packing in a deadline deal for, gulp, Mike DeJean. Garcia lasted six weeks with the Orioles before the gave him the boot, too.

Lee Mazzilli: The sad case of the Italian Stallion. We know that Maz was our homegrown All-Star before sent to Texas for Ron Darling and Walt Terrell, a good deal for us. Texas then shipped Maz to the Yanks for Bucky Bleeping Dent. We rescued Maz again in time for the 1986 World Series romp, paying him back for those gloomy years in he late 1970s. But sometimes the dark side doesn’t really let go, and sadly Maz was again drawn to the Yankees as a coach. We know that things don’t end well for him when he got to be the skipper in Baltimore.

Doc Medich: Sometimes it takes years to beat the Yankee out of someone. Sometimes all it takes is a game. That was the case for Medich, who pitched in one game, giving up three runs in a 1977 start. He got the loss, but a new start in life!

Willie Randolph is a work in progress.

Willie Randolph: Tortured soul, but we knew there was good in him. Willie of course spent 13 years in the Bronx, bounced three times then closed out his career with the Mets in 1992. Lured back to the dark side again as a coach, we came to the rescue last year to put him at the helm. Sometimes the inner-Yankee comes out -- sticking with Miguel Cairo, for example -- so he’s a work in progress.

Hal Reniff: With six-plus years in the Yankee pen, we did Reniff a favor by purchasing his contract midway through 1967, where he closed out a career with a 3-3 record and 3.35 ERA.

Throw...a...bleeping....strike!

Kenny Rogers: Don’t get me started. We tried. We failed.

Bill Short: Short only spent a year, his first, with the Yanks. He came to us in 1968, was claimed by the Reds in the Rule V draft after the season and was distraught at leaving Shea, lasting only four games in Cincy before hanging them up.

Shane Spencer: Another guy we reached out to save, only to have his inner-Yankee do him in. He was released shortly after Karim Garcia.

Mike Stanton: Remember when the Yankees mistreated him at contract time and he signed in a huff with the Mets? Art Howe worked him until his arm fell off. We sent him back to the Yankees for Felix Heredia, so I guess the Yanks got their revenge.

Tom Sturdivant: He started with the Yanks, pitched all over the place then saved the best for last. Redemption only last six weeks, though, leaving Mets early in 1964.

Tony Tarasco: Spent some of 1999 with the Yanks then held down the outfield in Norfolk before getting a long cup of coffee in 2001, going out with head held high. Well, actually he went out high... there were some marijuana busts in there.

Ralph Terry: Terry was an All-Star but forced to ride the shuttle between the Yanks and their virtual farm team, the Kansas City A’s. He joined us at the end of the 1966 season, and left with the knowledge that he had been redeemed, pitching 2 games in 1967 but not giving up a run.

More marvelous in spirit than performance, M.E.T. nevertheless was glad to be a Met.

Marv Throneberry: He spent three years with the Yanks, but we just had to reach out to a guy with the initials MET. Throneberry was short of skills, but we made him a hero!

Dick Tidrow: With parts of six season in the Bronx, the dark side was strong in the man called "Dirt." We offered redemption in 1984. He last 15 innings. Good enough.

Mike Torrez: Torrez only spent part of one season with the Yanks, who then sent Bucky Dent to drive a stake in his heart the next year. We did what we could, taking him on board in 1983 before sending him off the next year.

David Weathers: He spent parts of two years with the Yanks before being traded to the Indians for infamous non-talker Chad Curtis. We signed him for the 2002 season and despite efforts to use him in virtually every game, he posted a nice 6-3 record and 2.91 ERA.

Gene Woodling: Spent six years with the Yanks, but I’m sure he’s prouder of joining the Mets midway through their first year -- which was his last in baseball. At least he could retire with head held high.

Todd Zeile: Zeile, of course, was converted to be a first-baseman for our 2000 National League champs and stuck around another season after which he was part of a massive 10-layer, three team deal with the Rockies and Brewers. Drawn to the dark side for 2003, Zeile must have realized that he didn’t want the last of his many stops to be with the Yanks, and jumped back over to the Mets, where he even got to strap on the shin guards on last time.

In Other Words:

Baseballtruth.com knows that you can do a better job at picking players for the Hall of Fame than the sportswriters. Drop by, read Will's detailed analysis and cast your ballot.