My uncle took me to my first Mets game when I was little. I asked him why there were police on the field; they were the umpires. A bright sunny day that lives on in memory. Everything was fresh and clean and exciting, and there was more grass than I'd ever seen in my entire life. That was 1968, and I was hooked. The next year they won it all, and being seven, just assumed it would continue forever. Foolish boy I was. Hung in through the late 70's/early 80's where they would rope off the upper deck because there were no paying customers. Celebrated 1986 with my girlfriend (now my wife). Survived bleach and cherrybombs in the early 90's. Took my son to Opening Day 1996 as a 7-month old, and he grew to worship Mike Piazza as only little kids can do. Made it through 2003, barely. Died as Beltran left the bat on his shoulder. Skyped with my son at college as we watched the Mets sweep the Cubs together, 200 miles apart. And right now desperately pine for any scrap of baseball news as pitchers and catchers draw closer, but not close enough. It's easy being a Yankee fan. Takes more work to be a Met fan. You've got to really want it, because about once a decade they squeeze your testicles in a drill press. But when it's good, it's really really good. Two of the best memories ever, the Grand Slam Single and Endy's catch, were in series that they ultimately lost. That's something Yankee fans can never, ever relate to.