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TRUE ORANGE AND BLUE

I’ll post my usual assemblage of thoughts about the state of the world on Thursday.

But as a devoted fan of the New York Mets, I feel compelled to write a few words about being a devoted fan of the New York Mets.

I haven’t always been a devoted fan of the New York Mets (OK, I’ll stop with the ‘devoted’ stuff). My parents bonded over their love of the other team in town, the one with all the prominent Italian-Americans such as Joe DiMaggio, Yogi Berra and Phil Rizzuto. 

So I had that team’s swag when I was 7, long before anyone knew about team swag.

My mother’s father was a fan of the other New York team. But he and, because I admired my grandfather so much, I dumped them in late 1964 when they fired Berra as manager after losing the World Series in seven games.

The Mets built their new home, Shea Stadium, less than two miles from my childhood home. They weren’t an easy team to adopt, since they were bad. Notoriously, comically bad.

But Grandpa and I stuck with the Mets. We were rewarded five years later when they shocked the world and went from godawful to World Series champions. 

I stuck with them until 1977, when they unceremoniously dumped their greatest-ever player, Tom Seaver. Back to Brand X I went, watching them win two Series.

Then, in 1985, Berra – in his second time around as their manager – got fired again by the team’s impetuous, boorish owner. 

It was back to the Mets again. And because I feared that I showed signs of being one of the things I hate most – a front-runner – I vowed to stay true to the Orange and Blue.

That has not been the easiest thing to do.

After proving me right in 1986 with their second Series win, they have failed to achieve another one.

They had great chances several times, including a World Series against that other team in 2000. The closest they’ve come is avoiding a sweep, twice.

In the process of staying true to the Mets and cheering them all the damn time, I did a godawful, terrible thing:

I helped turn my kids into Mets fans, too.

For the more than 30 years of both their lives, they have never had the opportunity to see the Mets be the last team standing. To see them ride through New York’s Canyon of Heroes with the city’s denizens hurling garbage at them, because there’s no such thing as ticker tape in the 21st century.

My son actually works for them. He spent about 55 of his days or nights this season helping a pretty full Citi Field cheer for players who carry their hopes of glory for the franchise.

That faith was not rewarded yesterday. After compiling the best record in baseball through early June and holding a playoff spot until the 160th game of the 162-game season, the Mets ended 2025 failing to make the postseason.

It’s not the first time they faltered on the last day of the regular season. It’s not even the second. Three times this century, they’ve been on the outside of glory after failing miserably in the final game. This despite having a payroll something around $340 million, including more than $50 million for outfielder Juan Soto in the first of a 15-year contract.

It might be all right if I suffered these defeats by myself.

But I don’t.

When they were in elementary school, they heard the taunts of the other team’s fans. When the Mets lost the World Series to the other team, the school held a parade to celebrate. I was incensed – but somehow not surprised – that the principal could be that insensitive.

But like me, they’ve stuck with the Mets. We go to games together, drag their Mom to the ballpark on occasion, have converted my daughter’s wife and are working on my son’s girlfriend.

I want so very badly for the Mets to win a World Series before I pass from this life, so I can celebrate with my family and revel in the reflected glory. I would even just like not to have to listen to fans of other teams – and THAT other team – make snide remarks about they’re cheering for active teams in October and we’re not.

But I’m not as despondent as I thought I’d be when this collapse appeared imminent. I got to see 25 Mets games in 2025 and created memories with the people I love. We got to cheer and enjoy some special moments. 

It’s nice to win – and it hurts a lot to lose. But baseball has meant joy, excitement and – most importantly – family for 71 years.

I’ll be back. We’ll get ‘em next year. 

And if your team is in the postseason, congratulations. Enjoy this moment.

Even if you root for that other team.

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O SAY, CAN YOU SEE?

I’m not one for performative patriotism.

But recently, I’ve had a lot of thoughts about a performance of the National Anthem I saw.

It was before the start of a Mets game at Citi Field in New York. The day was chilly – the temperature never rose above 47 degrees. At least it was sunny – I sat close to the field and the  sun beating down helped keep things comfortable.

On an aesthetic level, I’ve never been a big fan of “The Star Spangled Banner.” My argument boils down to this – the nation that produced George Gershwin, Duke Ellington, Carole King and Stevie Wonder should not be represented by a Maryland lawyer’s poem sung to the tune of a British drinking song.

The song is hard to sing. It’s a so-so message. And, in the dumb way the United States seems to think of patriotism, it’s about a flag.

(Getting hung up on the flag is also the problem with the Pledge Of Allegiance. That’s a topic for another time.)

Another issue is that the government of the United States has not inspired any fervent love since, oh, noon ET on January 20. The inanity of Trumpism clouds every decent day and exacerbates the lousy ones.

This was particularly true when this anthem was performed. It was five days after the Mets’ home opener against the Toronto Blue Jays, the only Major League Baseball team that makes its home outside this country.

Until 2025, no one gave much thought to the rendition of “O Canada” when a Canadian team showed up in a U.S. stadium. But then Trump, not content with taking a dump on the rest of the world, decided to pick on the best neighbor any country has ever had.

That led to the boos from about a tenth of the crowd. Forget that some young woman is performing before 40,000 people and hearing disdain from about 4,000 people. She’s doing her best, but, yeah, boo anyway. 

I wasn’t shocked by this. But I was not going to follow that wretched display by singing “The Star Spangled Banner” with these slugs. 

So I found what I thought was appropriate- bowing my head as if this were a moment of silence, in memory of what we as Americans have lost because of this stupidity. (It also made me respect, all the more, what Colin Kaepernick did by kneeling – had I stronger knees, I might have thought about it.)

Fast forward five days. It’s only going to be the U.S. anthem at the game on the cold day because the Mets were playing Miami. I get up, remove my hat and bow my head.

And then I hear the anthem.

It was performed by a chorus of students from the Celia Cruz Bronx High School of Music. It is one of the special high schools in the New York City public school system – you need to go through an audition process to get in.

And, for the few who don’t know, it’s named for one of the most influential Latin musicians in U.S.  history. She left Cuba shortly after the revolution and made great music with another renowned Hispanic artist, Tito Puente. Her influence was such that, if you look in your loose change, you might have the quarter with her image that came out last year.

The chorus performed a capella. You had to think about that, because the harmonies created were so lush that they seemed like an orchestra.

What was striking was that these students – from all over New York City and most, but not all of them, kids of color – were putting incredible passion into this rendition. Maybe it was because they wanted to impress thousands of people hearing them. 

But that kind of performance requires more than showing off your musical chops. It was as if they believed they were honoring their home with the magic of their combination. There was commitment to their vocalizing. 

When the National Anthem is performed at a baseball game, it’s pretty pro forma. As the singer finally gets to the last lines – “O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave…” – the crowd usually starts cheering, almost as if to rush things along and get the game started.

Not this time. The crowd didn’t want to miss the end. They didn’t start cheering until the chorus was finished. And it erupted. It was as if we heard this song that we’d heard more times than we can count for the first time ever.

I wasn’t expecting to be stirred by a song I don’t like. But I was – and I’ll tell you why.

Those kids aren’t what Trump and the livestock that support him have in mind about making America great again. And I’m sure the worst of them – Trump included – would never appreciate the care and devotion the Celia Cruz chorus put into the song. They would prefer you stand there listening to some band go through the motions. 

But the students are what truly makes America great. Their backgrounds are varied and fascinating. When they came together that chilly afternoon, they made a sound that haunted and inspired.

I will still bow my head for “The Star Spangled Banner” in sadness until this idiocy ends or it destroys me, whichever comes first. But as long as I can, I will fight for a country that includes and celebrates diversity, equity and inclusion – and understands that a mosaic is a far more interesting and wondrous work of art than a whitewash.

And, if Taylor Swift or Beyoncé can write a better anthem, please go at it.

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9 – MEET THE METS

My parents, both baseball fans, knew when I was born that I would root for a team from New York.

I’m sure they expected it to be their team, the Yankees. The Yanks had just won the World Series for the fifth straight year. And given the Italian heritage of the team – Lazzeri, Crosetti, DiMaggio, Rizzuto and Berra – it seemed likely.

My Dad had grown up in Brooklyn and been to his share of Dodger games, especially during World War II when kids got in for bringing old tires or scrap metal to the gate. He had a soft spot for them – they were the team of Duke Snider, Carl Furillo and Jackie Robinson. And they were pretty good, having won the past two National League pennants.

Neither of my parents were fond of the Giants, who played in Manhattan across the Harlem River from the Yankees. But the Giants had inspired all of baseball in 1951 when Bobby Thomson’s famous home run capped a spectacular comeback. And they were getting their young phenom, Willie Mays, back from two years in the military.

So which of those three teams would the new gleam of their eye cheer for when he turned 70 years old in 2024?

Meet the Mets.

No, kids, the Mets did not exist in 1954 – although you could have confused them with the hapless Washington Senators of Douglas Wallop’s best-selling novel, “The Year the Yankees Lost the Pennant,” which was in the process of becoming a Broadway musical.

New York baseball fans did not imagine that the Dodgers and Giants would leave. Maybe the Giants, although they won the World Series in 1954 with the help of Mays’ play known simply as “The Catch ” Brooklyn loved the Dodgers and Ebbets Field, the bandbox where they played, and that bond seemed unbreakable.

But Walter O’Malley – who bought the Dodgers in 1950 – wanted a new, modern stadium – and he wanted it in downtown Brooklyn, where the Barclays Center arena is today. The city, in the person of “Master Builder” Robert Moses, offered him a place in Flushing instead, thinking O’Malley was bluffing about moving the Dodgers to Los Angeles. 

Bad call, Bob. O’Malley took the team west – and convinced Giants owner Horace Stoneham to go to San Francisco.

From 1958 through 1961, New York had one team. The Yankees. But there were way too many National League fans for that to last too long. After a lot of threats to form a third league, New York was granted a franchise to begin playing in 1962.

There were a lot of things that made the Mets attractive to me. They were building a stadium very close to where we lived in Flushing. My Dad took me to the ground breaking for what would become Shea Stadium in 1961. 

And then, when Yogi Berra was fired as manager after the Yanks won the pennant but lost the World Series in 1964, that was it. My grandfather and I were Mets fans.

Being a Mets fan is a lot harder than being a Yankees fan. A lot. Mets fans have suffered through some of the worst baseball ever played. The team still holds the modern record for the worst season ever – 40 wins, 120 losses in 1962. There are a lot more losing seasons than winning ones. Yes, there’s the occasional miracle – see 1969 – but heartbreak is the default mode.

And we’re fatalistic to a flaw. 

One time, my Mom and I were watching a game entering the ninth inning with the Mets up 4-2. I said “Goodbye, Mom.” And she responded, “How can you leave? Don’t you want to see them win?”

I said. “No, I don’t want to see them lose.”

My mother was too used to rooting for a team with Mariano Rivera as its closer. “Oh, ye of little faith. Stay and watch them win.”

“OK,” I said. “I’ll stay to prove my point.”

Which the Mets did. Final score: San Francisco 5, Mets 4.

But it’s also a lot more fun to be a Mets fan. When we’re winning, we’re happy and loud, full of braggadocio for a team that more often doesn’t have much. Met fans brought clever banners to the ballpark and embraced quirky players from Marvelous Marv Throneberry to Daniel Vogelbach. They’re the team of Hayden “Sidd” Finch and Chico Escuela, who don’t really exist, but the Mets went along with the joke. 

It seems like work to be a Yankee fan – if the team doesn’t win the World Series, the whole year is an abysmal failure.

So let Los Angeles have the Dodgers. Let San Francisco have the Giants. Let the Bronx have its Bombers. They might have all been here in 1954, but two of them are gone now.

We have the Mets. LGM!

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