If nobody cares whether or not Tim Marchman cares about the Mets, did the tree really fall? Or something like that. Minaya and Manuel Over the past few days I've had several false starts on what I'd intended to be a lengthy post on the Mets that would be more worth your time than, say, this, but I just don't care enough for it to be worth the effort I'd put into writing it when I could be reading a Henry Kissinger biography and baking. I'll say this: I was born in Queens to a National League family. I still have my ticker tape from the '86 parade and my first Keith Hernandez card, I courted my wife by taking her to Shea Stadium and my son is the only kid in Hyde Park who wears David Wright and Jose Reyes shirts. The Smithers Institute, Vince Coleman, Bobby Bonilla, sexy general managers, Jason Isringhausen's tuberculosis, Jason Isringhausen playing for a beer league, Todd Zeile, the Juan Samuel trade, Mo Vaughn, Mark Corey's seizure, David Cone's 1988 stint as a sportswriter, Gregg Jefferies' stint as a WFAN writer, the neon men on the side of Shea, Carlos Baerga, John Franco's mustache, Edgardo Alfonzo's back problems, the David Cone trade, late model Armando Benitez, the Scott Kazmir trade, the 7 train, signing Tom Glavine, the collapses and the volume of the Shea sound system all failed to make me stop caring about the team. Last year�all of it, from the Adam Rubin incident to the handling of Ryan Church and David Wright�managed to finally beat it out of me. So while I don't really think that Manuel and Minaya were the problem, and while I'd even say that a team whose most valuable property is Ike Davis probably should have kept the incumbents around so as to take the blame for what will doubtless be a lousy 2011, I'm indifferent to their fate and apathetic about my apathy.