The success of the Mets this season brings to mind one of my favorite Dan Barry columns, from days when things were a bit darker:
Mr. Met does not have the ability to speak. This could be related to his hydrocephalic condition, or to fear among his handlers that if he ever brought foam tongue to palate, he might sound like Anna Nicole Smith, or some tapped-out denizen of a Flushing boardinghouse who gargles with gin.
Whatever the reason, it is probably best that he remain mute. For if Mr. Met could speak, he might release a bansheelike wail that lasts through the day and well into the night, long after the lights at Shea Stadium had stopped illuminating the latest crime committed in the name of baseball.
The sleepless children of Queens would ask: "What's that sound, Daddy? It's making me sad." Their fathers would answer: "That's Mr. Met, my child, crying for us all. Now let's sing that lullaby you used to like."
And, with voices trembling, they would sing: "Meet the Mets, meet the Mets, step right up and ..."
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