It is sort of about night baseball vs. day baseball. New York, as opposed to The New Yorker, had and has a beat largely devoted to the city's nightlife. And what that cover captures for me is how rooting on the Mets transformed the city's nightlife, making every spot feel like home, and everybody you met feel like friends, because together we were watching the greatest show on earth and we all shared the privilege, if only symbolically, of having a front row seat. Even Joe Klein didn't need to be anonymous yet, because right and wrong had no shades of gray. Just blue and orange and every other primary (and secondary) color falling before it. Keith waxes nostalgic about 8:05 Friday nights starts in that era. I'm as romantic about day baseball as anybody, but by September 1986, the night couldn't come fast enough. Each night meant a new way for the rest of the baseball world to try and fail, and for the Mets, Gary Carter, and his three powder-blue-hosed penises to find a new and spectacular and righteous way to triumph. "Let's Go, Mets!" is history etched in electricity.