Yankee Stadium will soon be gone, but the Yankees will remain.  Proud, arrogant, wealthy.

The Mets?  When Shea Stadium goes down so does the last link to the "real" New York Mets.  A team defined by an adjective.

Lovable.

From Stengel to Manuel the Mets have progressed from the Bronx Bombers' goofy kid brother to a weird Yankee doppleganger.  Expected to win, heavily financed, and anything but the object of a fan's affection, the Mets now move to (with apologies to the Flying Burrito Brothers) their own gilded palace of sin.  And leave behind the happiness that was the New York Metropolitan Baseball Club (their corporate name).

Are today's Mets lovable?  If your heart skips a beat at the joys of better baseball through corporate accounting.

And so ends an era.

We've traded Eddie Kranepool for Carlos Delgado and lost in the exchange.  David Wright is wonderful player, but no Eddie Charles.  Where have you gone Tom Seaver?  Johan Santana is a poor substitute, even for Dwight Gooden.  Carlos Beltran for Darryl Strawberry?  I wouldn't take Beltran for Lenny Dykstra.

Who has caught a game like Gary Carter?  Or even Choo Choo Coleman, for much different reasons.

How could you not pull for a team with a catcher named Choo Choo?

And how can you pull for an underachieving soap opera of a team constantly on a Wizard of Oz style quest for a heart?  A tupperware bowl full of Omar Minaya's flavorless salsa recipe.

They've even messed up the uniform while forgetting the history behind it.

The Mets hat has the old Giants "NY" in their orange on Dodger blue.  A mix of the powerful Giants and the often amazing Dodgers.  The logo starts on the left with a church spire to represent Brooklyn, followed by the old Williamsburg Bank (the tallest building in Brooklyn).  Then you've got the Woolworth Building, Empire State building, the downtown skyline, and finally the United Nations building. 



You don't notice the Mets logo or cap lettering anymore, buried as it is on a uniform that looks like something a roadie for the Beastie Boys would wear.  Black and blue.  A punk uniform for a souless baseball card collection that folds under pressure.  A bullpen so wretched only Mrs. O'Leary's cow could love.  A team that isn't.

Farewell Shea Stadium.  Too bad you never got the dome you were intended to have.  Or the Continenatl League team you might have had if William Shea's threat hadn't brought the National League back to New York. 

Farewell the Mets.

So long Ron Hunt, who "took one for the team" so many times.  George Theodore, who roamed left field with the grace of a wounded rhinoceros.  Farewell the "Amazing Mets" of 69 and those mad men of the 80's who owned the baseball world and knew it.  At least we have Hernandez and Darling around to keep the memories alive.

Will there be no more Mookie Wilsons?  Is Omar Minaya ever going to give us another Gil Hodges in the dugout?  Did Buddy Harrelson labor all those years at shortstop only to see Jose Reyes throw his legacy over the first baseman into the stands? 

I'll miss those guys.  I miss the smile of Tug McGraw and the good humor of Marv Thornberry.  Stengel's reinvention of English as a second language.  Koosman's poise, Ryan's heat, Davey Johnson's head, and Gil Hodges' heart.

Meet the Mets, Greet the Mets.

And wave goodbye now they are gone.