This is not a little spooky. Saturday, of course, Blanco hits the walkoff home run. I'm there with an old friend with whom I've been going to games for twenty seasons. Our first game was an exhibition against the Blue Jays in 1991. His mother joined us then. Our first official game was against the Dodgers in '92. It was won on a walkoff home run by Dave Magadan. We were at Shea for Ventura's walkoff versus the just traded Turk Wendell in July '01, though he had to leave early and miss it. That was the last time, you may have read, that the Mets had back-to-back walkoff homers before this weekend (Robin's was the front end then; Henry's was the back end now). We've been to lots of games together. Yet Saturday's, which involved a last-minute invite from him to me because the guy he was going to go with had to visit his mother's grave site with his family, had a special feel to it even before Blanco's blast. It was like we connected on a whole new level after two decades. I parted ways with him in a very good mood. About twelve hours later, very early Sunday morning, he calls me. Tells me his mother died Saturday afternoon. Not utterly shocking circumstances (she was 83 and had been on oxygen for five months) but not exactly expected. He wouldn't have been going to a Mets game had it been. Obviously, a sad moment between us. Today he tells me he's since learned that his mother, a big fan, made it through the end of Saturday's game. The last swing she saw was Henry Blanco swinging for the fences. The last Mets game she ever saw was one that ended with Henry Blanco crossing home plate and being mobbed by his teammates. The last game her son went to while she was still alive was one where he and I embraced in jubilation at the end. I don't think we'd ever done that outside of our one postseason game. And now, the day before my friend's mother's funeral, Henry Blanco turns up on the bereavement list. Very spooky.