By the way, I like the Mets too. How can you dislike a Benny Agbayani, a home run hitter who looks about as menacing as a smile button? Or Piazza, who I'd be if I couldn't be Paul O'Neill. Rich, handsome and tough. Or their newest star, Timo Perez. He's been playing for the Hiroshima Toyo Carp in Japan for the last few years. He speaks Spanish, not much English, so he chats with Bobby Valentine, his manager, in Japanese. I'd love to see that.

Looking at both teams, it's hard to imagine any of these guys with the drinking and drugging habits of the "Ball Four" '70s party animals. They're too smart for that. They're making too much money. I used to have an image of ballplayers chewing tobacco and riding home in pickup trucks after the game, maybe goin' huntin' with their dogs. And maybe they do all that. But they're millionaires doin' that. And they're millionaires playing ball, and these days if they're stupid enough to mess with that good thing, they've got managers and agents who wise them up fast.

The only dope anyone in baseball is doing now is steroidal. But you know what? That isn't the Yankees or Mets culture either. These guys are not the meaty types, no lumbering, scowling Mark McGwires or Mo Vaughns or Jim Thomes. These are not big home run teams. These are team teams, featuring pitching and defense.

Of course, when you get down to it, Valentine is the star of the Mets. He's a tactician, a National League manager, with lots of room for strategy. He's also slightly uncentered, frenetic, making remarks about his players with no concern for their feelings, wearing disguises when he gets thrown out of games and ready to argue at the drop of a hat. He's fun, but I'd never want to be him.

On the second night, I watched the game on Fox while listening to the radio personalities of the local Mets and Yankees stations. I could hear the grinding wheels of the city against itself. A telling moment was when Scott Brosius hit a home run. On the Yankees station, Michael Kay and John Sterling were verbally high-fiving. On the Mets station, the hit was compared to a foul pop by a Met in the previous inning. Nothing special. Nothing to get excited about. Nah. Just a home run.

It wasn't the same as the first night, but it was still sweet. Very sweet. In a way, I had never left. The night before, when it was over, while Frank sang, we let ourselves get carried by the tide of blue out into the night. Outside the stadium, crowds milled, still cranked up from the long, dragged-out battle. Hot dog wrappers and police horseshit littered the ground. People kept screaming and chanting. I'd high-fived so many strangers my palms hurt. I didn't realize how much shouting I'd been doing until I tried to swallow and couldn't because my throat was totally swollen and inflamed. We passed cars mired in the human mud. Inside, drivers smiled to themselves while the passengers who thought they were getting a quick ride home fretted. Hey baby, this is a Subway Series. You gotta take the subway.

Recent Stories