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.

Cursed! When Mets Become Yankees, Bad Things Happen

Doc Gooden starred for the Mets, then joined the Yankees and went into a tailspin.

Robin Ventura, be careful. John Olerud, watch your back.

Because if the sad tale of Jeff Reardon reminds us of anything, it’s that bad things happen to people who proudly wear the blue and orange of the Mets then descend to the depths of the Evil Empire. His demise was as predictable as a Benitez big-game meltdown

It’s a curse, if you will. The pattern is too great to be ignored.

Reardon, you’ll remember, was arrested after robbing a Palm Beach Gardens, Fla. jewelry store. His attorney blamed the action on a reaction to antidepression drugs and the tragic death of Reardon’s son in 2004.

Reardon, you’ll also remember, started his career with the Mets in 1979 and was traded for Ellis Valentine two years later. Sadly, he closed out his career in 1994 by pitching nine innings for the Yankees, posting an nasty 8.38 ERA.

The sad part is that he's only the latest example. Oh sure, you know about Doc and Darryl trading their pinstripes for orange jumpsuits, and Bubba Trammell stricken by depression.

But research shows us that 85 people have played for both the Mets and Yankees.

There are 25 who sought to redeem their Yankee-tainted careers by switching their allegiance, even if it was a last-ditch attempt. A good example is Yogi Berra. He spent his career in pinstripes, retired, managed the Yanks for a year then sought redemption by coming out of retirement to play a handful of games for the Mets. The result? Yogi went on to become a quote-making folk hero and everyone's favorite sports gnome.

But what about the rest, who go from Met to Yank? Friends, it's not pretty. Here are their stories and all are true.

Juan Acevedo: Played with the Mets in 1997, drawn to the dark side in 2003 where he went 0-3 with a 7.71 ERA in 25 innings before being unloaded on the Blue Jays and ending his career.

Neil Allen: A true Mets martyr. Allen left the Mets so Keith Hernandez could come rescue the franchise. We knew that Allen had his personal demons, evidenced by his two subsequent tours with the Yankees. He was even their bullpen coach before getting demoted to Triple-A Columbus.


Sandy Alomar: Had a cup of coffee with the Mets in 1967 then spent four seasons with the Yankees. Spawned Roberto, who came to torture Mets fans by suddenly losing all of his skills after donning the Mets jersey.

Jason Anderson: Here is a sad case. Came up with the Yankees and was traded to the Mets for Armando Benitez. Sadly, he was released and signed again with the Yankees, sealing his fate.

Armando Benitez: Speaking of Armando. Even the Yankees knew he was trouble and quickly dumped him on the Mariners.

Daryl Boston: Had parts of three nice seasons with Mets, went to Yankees after a year in Coors and promptly forgot how to hit, showing a career-killing .182 average.

Tim Burke: We actually cursed him ourselves, trading him for Lee Guetterman in June 1992. Burke finished the season with the Yanks and hung ‘em up.

John Candelaria: Spent about two weeks with the Mets at the end of the 1987 season, then signed with the Yankees as a free agent for the next season and a half, starting a tailspin that sent him to five teams and retirement.

Duke Carmel. You have to feel for this guy. He was a happy little member of the 1963 Mets when the Yankees came and swiped him in the Rule V draft. Traumatized, he got 8 at-bats in 6 games without getting a single hit for the Yanks.

Alberto Castillo: He spent four years backing up assorted Mets catchers, got regular playing time with the Cards and Blue Jays before crashing with the Yankees in 2002, the first year they weren’t in the World Series since the mid-1990s.

Tony Clark: Look over your shoulder, Tony! Clark had a nice year as a Mets sub in 2003, flirted with the dark side in 2005, escaped to the D-Backs last year and remembered he is a power hitter with 30 bombs. But we all know the curse catches up with you at some point.

Billy Cowan: Cowan hit a horrible .179 as part of the revolving door that was the 1965 Mets. Amazingly, he hit even worse -- .167 -- as a member of the Yanks in 1969.

Kevin Elster. Elster fell out of favor after appearing in Sports Illustrated talking about how athletes face the danger of AIDS for their activity on the road. Appeared with the Yanks, then somehow in 1996 became a power hitter, belting 24 bombs in 1996 with the Rangers. Wonder how that happened?

Tony Fernandez: Ruined a nice career by spending a year with the Yanks in 1995 after a short, crappy stint as a Met in 1993.

Tim Foli: Foli was a Met twice before he ended up in Yankee pinstripes, where was traded to Pittsburgh with Dale Berra, who promptly got himself involved in the drug scandal.

Rob Gardner: Talk about cursed. Gardner played two years for the Mets, they got stuck in a revolving door with the Yankees, A’s and assorted Alou brothers. Check this out. On April 9, 1971, the Yanks traded him to the A’s for Felipe Alou. Six weeks later he was traded back to the Yanks for Curt Blefary. Then the following November he was headed back to the A’s for Matty Alou.

Paul Gibson. Talk about a glutton for punishment. Gibson signed with the Yankees as a free agent three times after the Mets sent him packing.

Doc Gooden: Perhaps the most tragic case of them all. Gooden hooked up with the Yanks for two tours. And we all know what happened. Booze, drugs, police chases, jail.

Greg Harris: Started with the Mets in 1981, and for reasons unknown appeared in three games for the Yanks in 1994 before getting dumped mid-season.

Stan Jefferson: Had a cup of coffee with the 1986 World Champs, was a part of the Kevin McReynolds deal and ended up with the Yanks in 1989, where he hit a horrid .083 BA.

Lance Johnson: Was an All-Star with the Mets in 1996, but the Yanks released him midway through 2000 despite hitting .300!

Tim Leary: The Mets made him the second pick in the nation, then blew out his arm on a miserable day in Chicago. He had some success with the Dodgers before heading to the Yankees and nearly losing 20 games in 1990.

Al Leiter in happier times.

Al Leiter: Why, Al, why? We redeemed him once, casting aside his Yankeeness and making him a star in the Apple. But his defection last season can only mean bad things for our hero.

Dale Murray: Spent some time as a serviceable reliever with the Mets. Went across town, had a couple OK years then bammo! He posted a 13.50 ERA in three games and they cut him loose.

Bob Ojeda: Why did he do it? Ojeda tarnished a nice career by appearing in two games with the 1994 Yankees, posting an obscene 24.00 ERA and driving him into retirement.

John Olerud: The distinguished ex-Met joined the Yankees just in time to catch their historic choke job against the Red Sox.

Jesse Orosco: In his apparent bid to play with every team in baseball, our favorite glove-tosser spent part of his final year with the Yankees, giving up 6 runs in just 4.3 innings.

John Pacella: Remember the guy who lost his cap every time he threw a pitch. The Mets traded him to the Padres, who spun him to the Yanks before he could play in a game. Of course it ended badly, with the Yanks shipping him off to Minnesota after just three games.

Len Randle: At least he never punched anybody. Dumped by the Mets, Randle went to the Yanks had hit a robust .179 before they cut him loose.

Jeff Reardon: We know all too well the events of the past few weeks.

Rey Sanchez: The 2003 Met is another guy so traumatized by his time with the Yanks that he played part of a season, then quit.

Rafael Santana: One of the few trades between the Mets and the Yanks. The starting shortstop for the 1986 champs was jettisoned to the Yanks after the next season for bums Darren Reed and Phil Lombardi. Naturally the Yanks ruined him. After a year he went to Cleveland and lasted seven games.

Don Schulze: After a brief stint with the Mets, Don was drawn to the dark side. He appeared in just two games, even winning one of them. Of course, they soon traded him to the Padres with Mike Pagliarulo for ex-Met Walt Terrell, ruining his life.

Charley Smith: This infielder played for the Mets in 1964 and 1965. He went to the Yanks then the Cubs in 1969. The Cubs, sensing the Yankee stench, eliminated him after two at-bats.

Roy Staiger: This one is our fault. Staiger spent parts of three seasons with the Mets before we traded him to the Yanks for Sergio Ferrer. He appeared in only four games for the Yanks, ending his career.

Darryl Strawberry: This hurts. Straw is among the Mets' all-time studs. Went to the Yankees, got cancer, went to jail.

Darryl as a Met.

Darryl as an ex-Yankee.

Bill Sudakis: Spent part of 1972 with the Mets, headed to the Yanks in 1974. How badly did they screw him up? The next year he was released by the Angels in June, then released AGAIN by the Indians two weeks later.

Ron Swoboda: Rocky, no! The Met hero was traded from the Expos to the Yanks in 1971 where they sucked the talent out of him and he hit .116 in 1973, driving him to a career in television sportscasting. Ouch!

Frank Tanana: We traded Frank to the Yanks at the end of the 1993 season. He appeared in three games, losing two of them, and was out of baseball.

Walt Terrell: Traded to the Yanks in 1989, Walt managed to escape at the end of the season. Sadly, he was forced to spend the remainder of his career with the Pirates and Tigers.

Ryan Thompson: Traded with Jeff Kent for David Cone, Ryan stunk it up with the Mets. Appeared with the Yanks in 2000 then bounced through the hell that was the 2001 Marlins and 2002 Brewers before being done.

Bubba Trammell: The 2000 Met joined the Yankees in 2003 and left the team after 22 games saying he was suffering from depression. Heck, can you blame him? I’d be depressed, too.

Robin Ventura: The saddest thing ever is that we traded him to the Yankees for David Justice, who never appeared in a game for the Mets.

Jose Vizcaino: Played for the Mets, then later appeared for the Yanks at the end of the 2000 season and drove one of the stakes through our hearts in the Subway Series.

Claudell Washington: Spent just a part of 1980 with the Mets. Later bounced between the Yankees and Angels, hitting well below the Mendoza line and getting run out of the game.

Allen Watson: We traded him to the Mariners in 1999, who promptly released him, allowing the Yanks to sink their claws into poor Allen. The next year? A 10.23 ERA and a ticket home.

Wally Whitehurst: Pitched four seasons with the Mets. Hooked up with the Yanks, who sent him packing after two games and a 6.75 ERA.

In Other Words

Happy New Year! This is as close as I could come to finding a Mets new year's baby. May this year bring you happiness and health.

Mickey & Me, Part 1: Two Hall-of-Famers and an Original Met

Jim Palmer humoring me by allowing himself to be subjected to an interview at Tiger Stadium.


I haven't booed a baseball player since 1990. Well, that's not entirely true. I reserve the right to boo Chipper Jones and each and every member of the New York Yankees. It's just the right thing to do.

But everyone else has gone un-booed ever since I spent a weekend in Rochester, N.Y. with ex-Met Mickey Weston and got a glimpse into what life is like for the guys working to make the roster year after year.

I actually started this story in the middle in October. Hey, it worked for George Lucas, and unlike George, I won't subject you to Jar Jar Binks and pod races. You can find it here.

I convinced my editors at the Flint Journal to allow me to tell the story of Weston, a pitcher from Fenton, Mich. Mickey toiled in the minors for years -– mostly in the Mets system -- before getting a shot with the Baltimore Orioles in 1989. He earned a save in his first game and a win in his second, and then hurt his arm.


I caught up with him again toward the end of the 1990 season in Triple-A Rochester. My assignment was to tell readers what it was to be tantalizingly close to a dream only to have it taken away.

From that point on, I kind of became Weston’s personal biographer, following his career through stops in Toronto, Philadelphia and back to the Mets. He became the a kind of poster boy for replacement players in 1995, getting his photo on the cover of USA Today after being named the Tigers’ Opening Day starter. He returned to the Mets system as a minor-league coach before taking a full-time job in a Christian organization that works with missionaries.

A devout Christian, Weston spent every off-season giving baseball clinics and spreading the Gospel, intent on being a role model on and off the field.

He's also about as friendly a person you'll ever meet, and was very patient with a star-struck young reporter.

Before heading to Rochester, I tried to be as prepared as possible, interviewing people in and around the Lake Fenton High, where Weston holds the school record with a 0.034 ERA.

Then I saw that the Orioles were going to be in town playing the Tigers for a series. Score! Naturally I was obligated to head to Tiger Stadium and talk to the manager and coaches about Weston. Background for the story, you understand.

The manager that year was Hall-of-Famer Frank Robinson and the pitching coach was Al Jackson, an original Met and one of the better young players of that statistically sorry bunch.

The visitor’s clubhouse in Tiger Stadium is just off the main concourse. I picked up my credentials and walked in, heart racing. This was my first time in a clubhouse to interview anybody. Someone pointed out that Jackson was in little locker area inside the visiting manager’s office. I walked in and was immediately embarrassed – he was changing into his uniform.

“No, come in, come in,” he said, greeting me with a big smile and a warm handshake.

Sportswriters get used to interviewing people in various states of undress. But I normally covered schools and this was just awkward. But Jackson was very gracious, answering all my questions about Weston, his injury and what he needed to work on to do better when he got another shot at the majors.

I told Jackson that I also wanted to throw a couple questions at Frank Robinson, if that would be OK. He said the skipper was already on the field, and I could probably find him near the batting cage.

I remember stepping out onto the field, stopping on the gravel and taking in the scene. Sure enough, there was Robinson leaning on the batting cage as Sam Horn was knocking the crap out of the ball.

Robinson is universally respected as a player and legendary for being on the grumpy side. I was completely intimidated. I got his attention, and he slowly looked over at me, clearly not one of the Orioles beat writers or anyone else he knew.

I told him that I was working on a story about Weston, and that he was a local guy.

“You’re in the wrong place,” he grumbled. I was panicking now, not understanding what he meant. My mind was racing with images of security goons hauling me off the field.

“Talk to the people in Rochester.”

I explained that I realized Weston was pitching in Rochester, but that he had been up with the Orioles for a spell and wanted to know what Robinson thought about him.

“Go talk to the people in Rochester,” he said, turning his head back toward the activity in the cage.

That would be it for Frank. I was walking back toward the stands when I saw Jim Palmer, the former Orioles pitcher who was working as an announcer. I thought, “What the heck, it can’t go worse than it did with Robinson.”

I waited for Palmer to finish his conversation, introduced myself and told him what I was doing. He seemed happy to talk about Weston, telling me about his strengths as a pitcher and how because he’s a soft-tosser teams don’t have a lot of patience.


As this was happening, my brother – visiting for a couple days – was snapping photos. One proudly hung above my desk for years.

Later, about halfway through my weekend in Rochester, I mentioned to Weston that Palmer had nice things to say about him.

“You guys talked to Jim Palmer – about me?” He asked.

“Heck, yeah. Frank Robinson, too!”

Weston winced.

There will much more to come.

In Other Words...

We know that Gary Sheffield, Derek Jeter and their cronies woke up to find coal under their Christmas trees this year. But what did members of our beloved Mets find? A great new Mets blog, Miracle Mets, has all the answers!

Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah!

I hope everyone has a very happy and healthy holiday!

Take a moment today to look around the room at the people you are sharing this special day with. Tell them you love them and that you're glad they are there. We know that life can be like a Tug McGraw screwball, twisting in all different ways.

And I am honored and flattered that people stop by this site and invite me into their lives, even if just for a few minutes. Thank you!

Go Mets!

It's a Wonderful Life -- And the People Who Made it That Way

It’s a December ritual to watch Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed in "It’s a Wonderful Life."

My pastor this week told us how he can’t keep from being emotional when the angel saves George Bailey from jumping in the river and shows him what Bedford Falls would be like had he never been born.

I get emotional because I think there are indeed angels.

Maybe not like Clarence in the movie, looking to earn his wings. But I think there are people who come into your life for a short time and change it forever.

And looking back, you can’t imagine what your life would have been like had that person not been there at that time.

Let me tell you about one person in my life, Robert Block, a history professor at Nassau Community College.

In 1983, I was the editor of the college paper. I practically lived at the college, which was strange considering it doesn’t have dorms.

Nearly all college newspaper editors are rebels. I was different because instead of rebelling against the administration, I rebelled against our faculty adviser (who was incredulous that I wouldn’t attack the college president).

So when it came time to pick a school to transfer to for my junior year, the adviser was not going to be any help. And, in fairness to him, I would have rejected anything he suggested.

So I was tentatively planning to transfer to a university on Long Island. It’s an excellent school, but it doesn’t have a national reputation for journalism.

Block’s European History class was one that I really enjoyed, and one day he asked me to follow him back to his office a couple doors down the hall.

"What are your plans for next year?" he asked. I told him the university I was thinking about.

"No," he firmly said. "If you’re serious about journalism, there is only one place you want to be looking at. University of Missouri."

I thought he might be kidding, but he wasn’t a joking around kind of guy.

New Yorkers will back me up on this. We have kind of a Big Apple-centric look at the world. There are many states — probably about 47 of them — that are just not on our radar. Heck, we don’t always acknowledge that New Jersey exists, even though we can actually see it sitting there across the Hudson River. In my world, other states were there so the Mets had places to play road games.

New York, and some of the states we kind of acknowledge existing.

I told him that I didn’t think my parents would go for the idea. Heck, I thought it was crazy. New York is full of excellent colleges. I’m not sure anyone in the extended family had left the state for college, much less gone a half-continent away.

But he told me to research the school, and offered — all but insisted — to talk to my parents.

Flash forward 20 years, and I can see Professor Block knew what he was talking about.

I attended the University of Missouri School of Journalism, got my bachelor’s degree and it opened doors for an internship at a good-sized paper that hired me full-time after I graduated. Met my future wife at Mizzou, too. And I’m still close to my roommate, a role model and friend after all these years.

Being a reporter has allowed me to meet people from presidents and billionaires to the homeless and to experience things that I will carry with me forever. Through stories I like to think that we’ve been able to shape some decisions that have helped some small parts of the world or even just brought a smile to a reader’s face.

At the end of one hectic and eventful day last year, I was chatting with an editor and said, "Sometimes I just have to pause and say we get to do some really cool things. For all the griping we do, this really is a fun job."

"It’s a life lived," he responded. "We see things and do things that other people just don’t get to see and do." And, of course, our job is to be their eyes and ears and share those experiences with them.

I’ll never know how things would have turned out had I attended the other school. Perhaps things would have been better.

But I do know that I am plenty happy with the way things have played out. I’ve been blessed. And I can trace it back to a professor who, for reasons I can’t explain, one day took an interest in me.

I tracked him down this year to let him know how things turned out and to say "Thank you."

And I even learned that other states do in fact exist, and some of them are kind of nice.

In other words...

Greg Prince's "Faith and Fear in Flushing" is always a great read. But he's topped himself with his latest post, a reimagining of the song "These are a Few of My Favorite Things" from a Mets perspective. Give yourself a holiday treat and read it here.

Off-Seasons Greetings

When people ask me how many baseball caps I have, I tell them 25.

It seems like a big number to them, and they’d be horrified if they knew the real number. Heck, I’d be horrified if I knew the real number, which is why I wear them instead of count them.

Now that you know that, I can tell you I have 25 Christmas CDs.

I know, I know. But I just love holiday music.

I start getting the itch around early October when the new releases hit the shelves. And I used to happily spend hours reconfiguring new mix tapes — and later mix CDs — to be set for when the Christmas season.

Now that I am into the iPod era, I’ve been busy creating new and exciting playlists that aren’t confined by the amount of space on a disc. This spares me the difficult choice of which version of Greg Lake’s "I Believe in Father Christmas" I should include — there’s room for all of them! Some people consider this iPod abuse.

Since the winter meetings are over and Billy Wagner and Carlos Delgado can hang their stocking above the fireplace at Shea, I can unleash the holiday spirit that’s been building.

And I’m big into sharing, at least sharing my views of the very best out there.

So if I was going to make an ultimate mix tape-CD-playlist, here are some all-time faves I’d include, as well as some albums that stand as awesome collections.

Here are some of the ground rules. I like stuff from the rock ‘n’ roll era, and I lean toward upbeat versions of traditional songs. I was in a doctor’s waiting room last week and some country guy was singing "Daddy, please don’t get drunk for Christmas because I don’t want to see Momma cry" over the speaker and almost begged to be sedated so I couldn’t hear it anymore. So nonsense like that does not make the mix.

Here’s what does. Some of these you’ll know, some you’ve probably never heard of. These are my favorite Christmas songs:

A very merry Christmas
And a happy new year
Let’s hope it’s a good one
Without any tears.

"Happy Christmas (War is Over)," John Lennon and Yoko Ono.
Such a beautiful song, with the Harlem Children’s Choir in the background. Almost as good is the flip side of my 45, which is Yoko Ono’s "Listen, the Snow is Falling." My wife hates it, but it just sounds like Christmas in New York to me.

"A Christmas Gift for You from Phil Spector," Various artists
It's been called the best Christmas album of the rock era, and it's certainly the most influential. And, truth be told, it was a failure the year it was released. Spector had the misfortune of offering this collection the year John F. Kennedy was killed, and a mourning nation apparently wanted no part of people messing with holiday standards. But given the gift of time, we know that Spector unleashes his "wall of sound" brilliantly. It's a reflection of its time, yet still sounds fresh. The songs are all great, but the highpoints are Darlene Love's "Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)" and "Sleigh Ride" by the Ronettes.

How a little baby boy
Could bring the people
So much joy
Son of a carpenter
Mary carried the light
This must be Christmas
Must be tonight

"Christmas Must Be Tonight," Robbie Robertson
I was in a West Palm Beach Starbucks last month and heard a previously unknown (at least to me) version of this song playing on the speakers and stopped dead in my tracks and asked the clerk who it was. Turns out that it’s on Starbucks’ "Elton John’s Christmas Party" CD, and is probably the original version of the song from the 1970s. So now I have three versions, all very different and all very good. My favorite is from the from the "Scrooged" soundtrack, of all places, a very 1980s treatment.

Through the years we all may be together
If the fates allow
Hang a shining star apon the highest bough
And have yourself a merry little Christmas now

"Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas," Pretenders
There are a zillion versions of this song, but I like the Pretenders softly swaying version the best. It’s from the first Very Special Christmas CD frm 1987, which is by far the best of the five in the series, boasting an amazing amont of A-listers, from Eurythmics to Bruce Springsteen to Madonna to John Mellencamp to Run-DMC. Most of the songs hold up pretty well, though I’m sure Bon Jovi cringes when it hears "Back Door Santa" today. And it should. The Pretenders’ other holiday offering, "2000 Miles" is a classic, too. Of course, also included on this CD is...

"Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)" U2
A lot of bands have taken a turn with this Darlene Love classic, but Bono and the boys do a fantastic job. It’s also kind of a surprise that a band with openly Christian members who include religious references in many of their songs would pick a very secular Christmas song to record.

"Deck the Halls, Bruise Your Hand," Relient K
If the Ramones went to church and grew up in suburban Ohio, they'd be Relient K. The Christian pop-punkers issued this 10-song EP in 2003 and it is filled songs that are both reverent and fun. Not a lot of bands take a stab at Handel's "Hallelujah Chorus," and even fewer get the thing done is a minute and eight seconds.

So on with the boots, back out in the snow
To the only all-night grocery,
When what to my wondering eyes should appear
In the line is that guy I've been chasing all year!
"I'm spending this one alone," he said.
"Need a break; this year's been crazy."
I said, "Me too, but why are you?
You mean you forgot cranberries too?"
Then suddenly we laughed and laughed
Caught on to what was happening
That Christmas magic's brought this tale
To a very happy ending!

"Christmas Wrapping," The Waitresses
I’ve loved this since it debuted on Ze records holiday disc, and you can find it all over the place today. Who’d have believed that the short-lived new wave band would be forever known for a Christmas song. The band played at Nassau Community College when I went there. But the lead singer heard on the song, Patty Donahue, had apparently abruptly quit and was replaced by Holly Vincent from Holly and the Italians. Holly was so new that she actually carried on stage index cards with the lyrics, which didn’t exactly thrill the crowd. I think things went downhill from there.

So call on your angels
Your beaten and broken
It's time that we mend them
So they don't fade with the season
Let our mercy be the gifts we lay
From Brooklyn to Broadway
And celebrate each and every day
This New York City Christmas

"A New York Christmas" Rob Thomas
I’m a sucker for all things New York, and this blending of the homeland with a Christmas song is just phenemonal. It was first available only as a download to benefit Sidewalk Angels Foundation, Thomas’ charity that helps the homeless. But now you can find it as a CD single and some compilations, including one from Target this year. I hum this one all year long.

So now, it’s Christmas in my heart
God sent heaven down to Earth
And called him Jesus

"Christmas in My Heart," By The Tree
This offering from the contemporary Christian band came out last year on the Absolute Favorite Christmas package and fast became one of my top songs. The chorus sounds a little like Sheryl Crow’s "Soak up the Sun," but don’t let that stop you.

"Christmas day is in our grasp
As long as we have hands to clasp."

"Welcome Christmas," Love Spirals Downwards
This is the song from the "Grinch Who Stole Christmas" in a most unexpected place. "Excelsis, a Dark Noel" is a downer goth CD, pretty much music to contemplate a holiday suicide by. Hey, sometimes you take a chance ona disc and it doesn't pan out. Execpt, that is, for this lilting, angelic cut. It probably got the band thrown out of the goth club, but the Whos down in Whoville, the tall and the small, would be proud.

So we're having a reggae Christmas
-- down in Jamaica!
We’re having a good time, too
Hey mon, we're having a reggae Christmas
A merry Christmas and a reggae new year to you

"Reggae Christmas" Bryan Adams
I picked up Bryan’s "Christmastime" 45 while in college and thought the song was pretty good. Then I flipped over to the B-side, and "Reggae Christmas" rocks! It’s bouncy, it’s fun and the steel drums are cool.

"A Lump of Coal," various artists
I was walking through an Ann Arbor music store and stumbled upon this cassette and took a chance on this 1991 release. I had heard of just one of the performers -- Henry Rollins -- but thought I'd give it a try. I was blown away, and it remains one my faves. It's mostly alt. rockers taking turns with traditional songs. Compilations are amixed bag, but seven of the 11 cuts still make get added to playlists. The best is Carnival Art's "Bring a Torch Jeanette Isabella," and they wrap up the song by weaving in the fa-hey-dor-rae stuff from the Grinch. Brilliant! The Crash Test Dummies chip in with "The First Noel."

"Santa Claus is Coming to Town," Bruce Springsteen
Springsteen recorded this at C.W. Post University on Long Island. Look it up! For years it was unreleased and it was a treat when I could catch it on WBAB. It was eventually offered on an otherwise dreadful children's album, then finally issued on a CD single with "My Hometown." And take note, Bruce is using Phil Spector's arrangement of "Santa Claus."

So now you know what I'll be listening to all month. I'd love to hear what some of your favorites are!

Every Signature Tells a Story: Face-to-Face With Bud Selig

Miller Park, scene of the confrontation.

If any of this is to make sense, you must remember one thing: I'm not a fan of Bud Selig.

I don't like what he shut down the game in 1994, I don't like that the Tampa Bay Devil Rays exist, I'm still bitter about the 2002 All-Star Game ending in a tie.

In fact, Will's Website, Baseballtruth.com, was created to dispel what we thought were an onslaught on half-truths, un-truths and outright lies spewing from the commissioner's office in the days leading to the labor brawl some five years ago.

And when we weren't seething at Bud, we were mocking him. Hey, it was easy. The hair, the fractured syntax, the ever-present can of Diet Coke -- to the chagrin of Pepsi, one of baseball's main sponsors.

But despite my travels in and around baseball, I had never come face-to-face with the man we held responsible for much our grand game's problems. Then again, it's not like I was actively seeking him out, either.

Before I begin this sordid tale, you must know that it was first told on Baseball Truth, and you can find its original version at Best of the Responsorial archives along with some other fine reading.

Anyway, tracking down Bud wasn't on the agenda when Andrew, my then-11-year-old son, and I made our way to Milwaukee for Father's Day weekend in 2004.

Our plans called for checking out a game at Miller Park, then hitting the awesome Milwaukee Zoo the next day. The city is only about five hours from Grand Rapids, and I've enjoyed my short stays there before.

The ballpark is spectacular, with the famous tailgating, the amazing brats and their secret sauce and the Little League field that is on the site of the Brewers' former home, County Stadium, where Hank Aaron once roamed.

It was also cool because it was an inter-league game against the Minnesota Twins, and Twins fans were out in force.

We snagged tickets in the last row of the reserved seats on the lower level. Behind us was an aisle, then a row of luxury boxes that included a couple rows of seats.

We were having a great time. Then it happened.

Looking around the yard, a guy sitting in the first row of one of the boxes caught my eye. The hair, the glasses...it was Allan H. Selig himself, otherwise known as "Bud" to friend and foe alike. And we are firmly in the "foe" camp.

This shouldn't have been a surprise. Afterall, we all know that Bud was owner of the team, even while serving as commissioner. But you just don't expect to run into such people.

And there he was. The object of scorn and derision.

The only thing I could think to do was call Will and get instructions on how to take matters into my own hands. This was risky, as Will was in California attending important family business, and I didn't think his sister would appreciate if her walk down the aisle was interupted by Will's cell phone going off and me ranting and raving.

Luckily, it was an opportune time. Will answered, told me to calm down and asked if I was wearing my BaseballTruth.com Executive Game IV T-shirt.

We openly dream that Bud will one day Google himself, see a link to our site, read our rantings, recognize the (many) errors of his ways and see the light -- then give us free tickets to games, since we helped him out so much. This has not happened yet, best that we can tell.

Alas, I was wearing my game-worn, 1994 Brewers Duffy Dyer jersey. Yes, the former Mets catcher was once a Brewers coach. Even while wearing a Brewers jersey I cannot hide my inner-Met.

So I summoned all of my courage, marched up to his box and gestured that I wanted to shake his hand. He leaned over the rail, extended his hand and I was ready ready to unload.

What I meant to say: "Hey Bud. Shouldn't you be busy figuring out why half the players are pumped up bigger than balloons in the Macy's Thanksgiving parade instead of lounging around here in somebody's luxury box? Or are you going to sit back and wait until some more of the game's hallowed records are rendered meaningless while promoting 'roided sluggers to the masses."

What actually came out: " Ah, ah, Mr. Commissioner. Nice to meet you.

Bud: "Hi. Hi Nice to meet you, too."

What I meant to say: "Looks like half of your -- err, your's daughter's -- ballpark is filled with Twins fans. Of course, that wouldn't be the case had you been able to carry out that devious plot you and Polhad cooked up in 2001, something about contracting the team and ruining baseball in yet another fine city."

What actually came out: "Thanks for inter-league play."

Bud: "You're welcome. Thanks for coming."

What I meant to say: "Nice cash cow playground the taxpayers of Wisconsin built for you. You can practically see the darn thing from the Mars Cheese Castle. I'm sure you -- err, your daughter -- is plowing all that new dough back into the team. Hey, are those a bunch of stud free-agents I see out there? Oh, nope. I guess you guys are just pocketing that cash. Hey, didn't I see a tie game here once?"

What I actually said: "This ballpark is AWESOME!"

Bud: "Isn't it beautiful?"

I was in the Bud vortex, even asking him to sign my program. Walking back to my seat, I started thinking...maybe the players are paid too much ...Spider-man ads would have made those drab bases look better...There's nothing wrong with a tie All-Star game when you run out of pitchers...why can't the Mets and Yankees and Cubs and White Sox play a series every month?

Luckily the sausage race started and snapped me back into reality. Who knew that Bud could neutralize me with his charm? The opportunity was lost. He deflected my gripes. The game would continue down it's troubled path.

Will, of course, was both blunt and accurate: I choked like the Braves in the moment of truth!