THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Tuesday, July 5, 1994 TAG: 9407050143
SECTION: SPORTS PAGE: C2 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: BY DAVE LEWIS, STAFF WRITER
LENGTH: Long : 107 lines
From world champs to world chumps.
Hey, it only took the New York Mets 25 years, but then who's counting?
And don't tell me about those 1986 Mets. They didn't win the World Series, the Boston Red Sox lost it when a certain first baseman decided to play Dr. Strangeglove.
This season, in case you haven't noticed by now, marks the 25th anniversary of the Miracle Mets, who - as fast as you could say Tom Seaver - snuck up on the baseball world as 100-1 underdogs in 1969 by turning from lovable losers into wondrous winners.
And here's the kicker: They won 100 games during the regular season barely using a kid pitcher by the name of Nolan Ryan.
Oh, my, what a year.
The Mets, who had never finished higher than ninth place since their birth in 1962, were young and unpretentious.
Their only clubhouse controversy was finding out who forget to put the lid on the mustard jar on the coldcuts table.
It was also the year the Mets moved their Triple-A operations to Portsmouth's Lawrence Stadium for one season while Norfolk was building a ``state-of-the-art'' ballpark called Met Park.
As a young, wide-eyed baseball writer covering the Tides, I was more concerned with fortunes of manager Clyde McCullough's happy mix of youth and veterans than I was with the day-to-day events in New York.
Kids like Jon Matlack, Mike Jorgensen and Roy Foster joined old-timers Billy Connors, Larry Bearnarth, Orlando McFarlane and Choo-Choo Coleman, with talented fellows like Amos Otis, Jim Gosger and Danny Frisella thrown in, to win the International League pennant on the next-to-last day of the season.
So who cared about the Mets?
Besides, they were light years behind the Chicago Cubs in the NL East race. But then they copied the Tides with a
late-season charge, swept the Braves in a 3-game playoff and found themselves face-to-face with the mighty Baltimore Orioles - Brooks, Boog, Blair, Belanger, Buford, Palmer, McNally and, of course, Frank Robinson.
I won't bore you with how the Mets, earning a split in Baltimore, swept the the Orioles at Shea Stadium on three glorious autumn New York afternoons.
Besides, most of it is fuzzy.
Other things, however, are as clear as yesterday.
After the Mets clinched the Series, I worked my way through their champagne-soaked clubhouse and the haze of victory cigars into manager Gil Hodges' tiny office.
Between answering questions, this quiet fellow with huge hands accepted congratulations from a variety of folks.
There was a handsome lady rubbing a large piece of Shea Stadium sod to her face and proclaiming, ``this is my power puff. See, no wrinkles.''
Lord, honey, it was Pearl Bailey!
Soon afterwards, a squatty, elderly gentleman pushed his way through the mob, stuck his hand out to Hodges and said, ``from one champion to the other.''
And just like that, New York Jets coach Weeb Ewbank, who had just as shockingly taken apart that other Baltimore team (Colts) nine months earlier in Super Bowl III, disappeared into the crowd.
Returning to the press box, I had my first opportunity to survey the chewed-up field which looked as though a giant gopher had run amok. Obviously, every fan must have pulled up a souvenir piece of sod.
Earlier that day as the Mets were about to put the stunned Orioles to rest, I watched a fan dancing down the aisle holding aloft a scrawny bird hanging from a string on a long stick.
On the other side of the stadium was a pudgy fellow sitting behind the third-base dugout with all those flash signs - ``Wow''! ``Take that''!
Amazingly, the guy had a opinion for every situation. Some were even humorous.
Then there was the noise - that haunting chant of ``Let's Go Mets'' from the 57,000-plus faithful.
Talk about motivation.
Seems like each time a ``Let's Go Mets'' chant would reach a deafening crescendo, some unlikely hero like J.C. Martin or Al Weis or Ron Swoboda would step up to make a key play.
Earlier, politics raised its ugly head when a pamphlet passed outside Shea Stadium quoted Seaver: ``If the Mets can win the World Series, than we can get out of Vietnam.''
At the other end of the spectrum which defined the '60s, a color poster in the Mets' clubhouse featured Hodges' face superimposed on an astronaut walking on the moon. ``Welcome astronauts,'' it said.
Well, why not? The Mets did play out of this world.
Back in the press box area after the game, Casey Stengel was telling anyone who would listen about the good old days.
But a few minutes into either his fifth or sixth story, he was rudely interrupted by a loud voice from across the room.
``Shut your mouth,'' a large fellow behind a typewriter suggested to Casey.
Excuse me. Is this any way to treat a baseball legend?
``This is New York,'' explained the guy with a half-chewed cigar shoved into the corner of his mouth.
Obviously, legends die hard in New York because Casey, bless his heart, kept right on talking.
And miracles die hard in New York, too.
Twenty-five years later I can still feel that ``Let's Go Mets'' magic.
Betcha if you had been there, you could feel it, too. ILLUSTRATION: Color photo
CECELIA JORDAN/Staff
by CNB