Hey, Mets.
Go? Let’s.
Hit’em long,
Throw’em strong,

Leather, flash,
Bases dash,
Play ball,
All fall.

So Mr. Met
Must never fret,
Think magic numbers & old tricks,
Like Sixty-Nine & Eighty-Six.

If fortunes stray,
For miracles pray
When hope is nada,
Believe, ya’ gotta,

Yes, Mets.
Get it, let’s:
A pennant pretty,
New for Citi.

Then stay sound,
From the mound,
The rubber, toed,
The batters, mowed,

The flames dealt,
The lineups melt.
That’s how it’s been
When it’s amazin’:

Gems hurled,
To the Series, World,
Cool as Vlassic
In the Classic.

Show no quit
In the books, put it.
Not a bit of fade,
‘Till there’s a parade.

Orange and blue,
Make a scene
Out in Queens

End our wait
To celebrate
Yo, Mets.
Go! Let’s!


STILL HAVE my David Cone autographed 8×10 glossy, purchased at a baseball card show (what are those?!?) circa 1990. I can recall hearing on the radio that he’d been traded to the Blue Jays in August ’92. I was crushed.

While I can’t express as eloquently as others have the emotional roller-coaster of being a former die-hardI am very much in their tent when it comes to the New York Mets.  They were my first irrational sports love, and since then, have remained one of the teams that occupies a permanent place inside me.  Admittedly, and without shame, I’d call my Met fandom today a fraction of what it once was.  Now when I cheer, out of respect for the every day, pavement pounding, orange-and-blue collar fans, I cheer quietly ; in the same way many Catholics describe their faith, I say I’m lapsed.  But I also contend, as evidenced by the sporadic but unmistakeable ways that it surfaces every so often, that my Met-love won’t ever completely be gone.  Which is why since they won the National League last night for the 3rd time in my lifetime, only their fifth pennant in 53 seasons, I’ve had Mets on the brain, dripping in bits and bursts into a notebook and then above. Somethings, when you learn them young enough, simply become a part of you.  They might fade like the snapshots in Back to the Future (sorry, Cubs fans), but in time, the real stuff always returns.


THE REMNANT: A Let’s Go Mets Story

My first creation with the app OVER, which enables the design combination of text and images.


At one time about baseball
There was little I didn’t know
From Tinker to Evers to Chance
To Cano.
But that knowledge has slipped
As I’ve watched the game less
Which I was ok with
‘Till my ignorance caused a mess:

One night I awoke
Suddenly from a crash
That sounded like a baseball
Coming through my window sash.
I squinted to gather
What it really was I saw
Sitting there resembling
A fluffy bear paw.

Sensing my fear it
Spoke first calling, “Child,
You need worry not
For my manner is mild.
At least to you it will be
For you’ve wronged me not.”
“Who are you?” I quaked.
“If we’ve met … I’ve forgot.”

“Some call me ‘Donnie Lipsmack’”
it laughed, “when I’m brash.
But most use my full name:
The Ghost of Don Mattingly’s Mustache.”
Hearing that I sat up and
Gave my eyes a wipe.
Sure enough the ‘stache had on
Number 23 in pinstripes.

Next I learned this apparition
Visiting that night
Had come on a mission
To make an old wrong right.
“I’ve come back,” said the Ghost,
“To settle a score
With the Ghost of Keith Hernandez’s Mustache,
That so-called hirsute legend of yore.

“Long ago we competed
For all the damsels fairest,
Who loved us most because
Our mustaches were the rarest.
And though many eyes then
Stuck to my upper lip
Hernandez’s was always
Considered more hip.”

“But I’m confused, Ghost,
Why come to see me?”
He motioned to the Keith poster up on my wall.
“‘Cause I thought you’d know where that ghost might be.”
“All I know, Ghost
Is Keith’s real mustache lives on.”
And the color drained from him.
“You’re telling me that thing isn’t gone?”

“Not last that I checked,
Though it’s been a while.”
“I was afraid of this,” he said,
through an upside down smile.
“I couldn’t beat it on Earth
and it won’t join me in the Sky.
The odds, for eternity,
That lip hair will defy.”

The good mood he’d arrived with
Had vanished in a flash.
Then Don’s whiskers’ specter
Began to sound rash.
“I’ll be second forever.
Know what that is? Lame!
Can I go on? How?!?
There’s no way!” he exclaimed.

“We should look it up, Ghost,
There’s a chance I’m not right.”
“M’boy,” he said, “I’m certain
that you’re too polite.
But there is no need
To go on pretending
the reign of Keith Hernandez’s mustache
Will have an ending.”

Like a wind-starved kite
With body language bad,
The Ghost of Don Mattingly’s Mustache
Was sad.
Slinking back to the window
At the spot he’d broken in,
The Ghost whimpered,
“Send my people a bill for the glass here, eh, cousin?”

Then like that: he jumped,
And I was by myself again.
When I heard a new voice say,
“Ol’ Lipsmack, aw hell, he was a great friend.”
Now with my blankets
Thrown over my head
I peeked at the Keith poster
Across from my bed

And saw there popping off
The image on the paper
Hernandez’s mustache,
But translucent, like a vapor.
“But how could you too
Be a ghost,” I inquired.
“When the real Keith’s real mustache
Has not yet expired?”

“Au contraire, my good friend,”
he said, “That’s not true.
Nowadays Keith’s as clean shaven
As the Mets wear orange and blue.
Google Image it if
You need confirmation,
Only now in this Ghostly form
Is the Hernanstache a sensation.”

“Well that means,” I said,
“Mattingly’s mustache’s ghost
Based on my bad info
Just made himself toast.”
“Oh don’t sweat it, pal,”
Keith’s ‘stache Ghost assured me
Things will work out fine for him.
Always do for a Yankee.”

“How can you be sure?
They’re not all in baseball heaven.”
Keith’s Mustache Ghost laughed:
“Because at title counting time,
they have 27.”

It was a good point,
And it was his last.
After that without more visitors
that haunted night passed.
Sometimes still I feel bad
Lipsmack’s Ghost met his Gillette,
Though I bet he’d choose death
Over life as a Met.

Keith SANS ‘STACHE – Keith Hernandez today, with a clean upper lip. If only the Lapsed Mets Fan had known, perhaps the Ghost of Don Mattingly’s Mustache could have been saved. (Photo – Gary Gershoff)