I LOVE THE METS

Bob Murphy is irreplaceable.

If I was driving anywhere and I heard Bob Murphy on the radio, I knew I was home. I knew it was summer. I was soothed.

No sport sounds better on radio than baseball. And no baseball game on the radio sounded better than Bob Murphy calling the Mets. He did it for 31 years. Like Charles Schulz, who died the day after writing and illustrating his last Peanuts comic strip, Bob Murphy died less than a year after leaving the New York Mets broadcast booth.

I truly believe that that's the way it goes. You can be perfect for something. It's in you. It's immutable. Then you discover it. How perfectly full it must feel to find it. How perfectly finished it must feel to end it.

I was destined to be a Mets fan. Never gave it a second thought. I don't begrudge the Yankees. I'm not one of those Mets fans. I'm just more suited for the Mets. I find quixotic dignity in holding on-in waiting for it. They don't call them the "Miracle" Mets for nothing. Long-suffering makes miracles from the mundane.

Mets fans hold on to glimmers. We hailed rookie Mike Vail's 23-game hitting streak in September 1975 as a sign of hope. We pointed to young talent like Joel Youngblood and Steve Henderson as re-building blocks. "Hendu Can Do," said the sign in the outfield. Craig Swan had the lowest ERA in the National League in 1978. You couldn't take that away from us. Every time Dave Kingman came to the plate it could happen. We could win this time if he hit a home run. The world took notice of our star-our matinee idol-Lee Mazzilli who, in the 1979 All-Star Game, hit a game-tying home run in the eighth inning and drew a walk with the bases loaded off of Yankees ace Ron Guidry in the ninth to force in the winning run. That night belonged to us.

And, there was Seaver-always and forever Tom Seaver.

"Goddamn Mets!" my grandmother would grumble at the transistor radio in her kitchen. My Uncle Marvin giggled at that. My dad's first secretary, Mrs. Follett, listened to Mets games on her earpiece. Who knew? I thought she was typing dictation. When I was just 11 years old, I called in to a local radio talk show to answer a trivia question. The answer was "Ed Kranepool." An elderly woman called in right after me and said "I'd like to take that boy to a Mets game." We didn't go, but that was very kind of her.

Being a Mets fan means running the emotional gamut. 1969 was a miracle. "You Gotta Believe" was a spiritual experience. Mookie's ground ball-hell, the whole at-bat-was destiny unshakeable in the face of all force, matter, and reason opposing it.

Then there's the other 9/11 tragedy: Terry Pendleton's traumatizing game-tying, ninth-inning 3-run home run off Roger McDowell in Shea Stadium on September 11, 1987. The Mets were never the same after that. There's Mike Scioscia's crushing 1988 NLCS Game 4 home run off of Dwight Gooden. After that, Doc was never the same.

Everybody knew Bud Harrelson was safe at home plate in the 1973 World Series; and all of us saw Harrelson hold a mirror to Pete Rose in their brawl at second base in the 1973 NLCS. Buddy took a beating-but it was Rose who looked ugly.

I'll insist to this day that if Timo Perez had been running-as he should've been-from first base with two outs when Todd Zeile lined a double to right field in a scoreless sixth inning in Game 1of the 2000 World Series (aka the now-legendary "Subway Series"), Timo wouldn't have been thrown out at home, the Mets would've won that game (Yankees won 4?3 in 12 innings) and that would've changed the whole calculus and attitude of that series, giving the Mets a win in Yankee Stadium and giving them enough initial momentum to win it all. That's what I think

The Mets play in Queens.

So who cares? There's no storied history there. No great sports legends. Nobody writes books about their sports memories in Queens.

But I've got memories. My grandfather lived in 178th Street and Union Turnpike. We'd walk down to the "Hot Bagels" store together to pick up a dozen fresh doughy bagels. That bag stayed warm all day. Before heading back, we'd stop at the luncheonette. He had his coffee and I had a vanilla malted. Hanging on the wall across the counter, above the soda fountain were autographed pictures of Jerry Koosman, Felix Millan and Yogi Berra in a Mets uniform. No Yankees. The Mets game ? not the Yankees game- came in crystal clear on the transistor radio in front of the pies next to the napkin holder. And the Mets were losing again. This was Queens, 1975.

"You like the game, Davey?" my grandfather asked me in his thick Russian accent. He didn't know anything about baseball.

"I love it, Grandpa." That was good enough for him. Someday, I'll write that book.

In 2004, Ty Wigginton began the season as the 124th third baseman in New York Mets history. That made it an average of three different third basemen every year for the then 42-year-old franchise. They said he was just a placeholder for a kid in the minors who is the Mets' "third baseman of the future." On July 30, 2004, the Mets traded Wigginton to make room for David Wright. After a terrific half season in 2004, Wright hit .306 in 27 games with 14 homers and 102 RBI's. He is the Mets' 125th third baseman. He's the new glimmer.

Somewhere, George Santayana is laughing. Somehow, I remain on this journey with them-the Mets. And somehow, I am ennobled.