It is so much easier to think of stuff to write when all goes badly for the Mets. That is normal. This is strange. But fun.

I am used to putting Mets pennant winners in a formatted scenario in my writing, place on pedestal and watch. The most recent team was in 2000. The most recent postseason team was 2006. I had written about these and the other “special” Mets ballclubs 10 times over in books and on this site. Now, it’s like starting over. I don’t know nothin’. Except this:

• I have been trying to come up with a name for the youth movement or the new age rotation for the update of 100 Things Mets Fans Should Know and Do Before They Die. I’ve got nothing as far as names go. Just call them rather successful.
• Daniel Murphy. No Met has ever reached this level of white hot. Hell, few players ever have. Even Reggie Jackson, when he was undeservedly named MVP of the World Series by Sport Magazine in 1973—I’ve written about this before—did not hit at all during the night games in New York (1-for-12) and 8 for 14 in his last three games in the Oakland sunshine after taking the collar in the opener against Jon Matlack. Mr. October had one home run. Murph does that for daily exercise.
• Yoenis Cespedes and Travis d’Arnaud. It is a strange pair, but when they hit, the Mets are unstoppable. Throw in Lucas Duda. Daniel Murphy can’t possibly stay that hot, but if these three can combine to bring what Murph brought during the playoffs, you’re gonna like the way you look.
• Defense. This team has made some Amazin’ plays of late. The Murphy stop to end Game One. The Duda dives. (Say it fast and it sounds like “The Dude Abides.”)  David Wright playing third base like someone who earned his two Gold Gloves rather than receiving them as consolation prizes for the incredibly productive offense and bitter endings to his team’s 2007 and 2008 seasons.
• And the relief pitching coming through when it was needed. Jon Niese getting the one big out needed in the series (though Bartolo Colon earned the win in Game Four by getting an out that seemed huge to Mets fans used to everything going wrong, but it was a 6-1 lead). Tyler Clippard and Addison Reed holding serve and Jeurys Familia, which is Spanish for whatever über Methead Jim Bruer says it is on a given night. And if there if there is ever a direct-to-video sequel to The Big Lebowksi (Lebo Large Dos: The Quickening?), I would actually watch it just to see him. And I promise to finally sit down and watch his classic performance in Half Baked. (The sequel he’s got to do, Twice Baked—dude….!)
• Terry Collins has to keep being the lucky leprechaun whose every move transforms into a pot o’ gold. I never thought the Mets could win with him. Well, shut my mouth.
• And Sandy Alderson, who some call the grandfather of Moneyball, has out Billy Beaned Billy Beane when it comes to October. Those A’s teams only made it out of the Division Series once, and that year they got smoked by a Detroit Tigers team the Mets should have smoked in the World Series. But the Mets got knocked off before they could reach the 2006 World Series. Well, here we are now.

There is one other thing I know, and this I know from experience. None of this means anything now. For the Mets to end a 29-year championship drought, they have to start from scratch and hold the Royals insert AL team here at bay, get clutch hits, prevent clutch hits, and win on  the road in a hostile environment full of people as hungry for a title as we are.

The World Series is upon us and for once we are not watching it like the dutiful fans we are, respecting the baseball gods rather than loudly ignoring it because our team isn’t there. We’d miss a lot of World Series that way. And if you haven’t ventured up late to see it lately, or endured the braying in the Fox booth—Tim McCarver retired, in case you weren’t aware—the World Series is what baseball is all about. Numbers are great, but winning ends arguments. It might even shut up a Yankees fan. But I’m not sure. It’s been so long, I’ve forgotten what that sounds like.

Playoff baseball has been a solitary experience for me or a long time, watching other teams play and other fans celebrate while a dog slept near me and the family snoozed out of yelling range. But it never meant as much as it did Thursday night in Los Angeles. In California it was over by 8:30 p.m. Let them all hug communally in despair. Let them hold Chase Utley’s hand as he awaits sentencing 10 days after he broke lil’ Ruben Tejada’s ankle on that dirty slide. Let Utley rot.

Here it is after midnight and work first thing in the morning, but I had to put pen to paper, so to speak, to tell you about a memory. I’m not really sure how it goes, but it’s sad and it’s sweet… well, you know.

P. and I were in the upper tank at Shea Stadium, October 9, 1988. We were just so sure that the Mets were going to wipe the floor with L.A. and then beat Oakland as revenge for the 1973 World Series. Instead we saw Mike Scioscia smoke a ball into the bullpen over the head of Randy Myers, who should have been in the game pitching to the squatty body catcher not known for power. We stayed for extra innings. We sipped from a flask, poured it into Cokes in Harry M. Stevens cups. P. tumbled down the emptying rows, stopped by a couple from Commack before he reached the bottom. (P. gave me permission to retell this after finally beating L.A.–somehow 2006 does not feel like it counts because it was too easy.) We all got beat up by L.A. that week. At the time my sister and brother lived in Los Angeles and I’d spent a couple of weeks traveling around out there after graduating college, but you know what, I hate L.A. As we all sang to parody the Randy Newman song. (Don’t look for a link to “I Love L.A.,” I got your link right here.) I haven’t been back to L.A. since my siblings moved away in the 1990s. Those Dodgers fans are so disappointed they want to go to bed… but it’s only 9 o’clock. Sleep tight.

I’ll be out late Saturday night for the NLCS opener, my treat to myself for prudently ending a streak of 23 consecutive Mets home postseason games I’d attended, a streak that started the day before P. and I climbed (and barely stayed in) the upper tank in 1988 and ended Tuesday night, which was good because Monday was the worst Flushing traffic I had ever encountered at a non U.S. Open, fireworks, or Shea closing forever game. I got home at 3 a.m., another record for nights that did not involve a few bar hop stops on the way home. But they won and I did get to work at 8 the next morning. We’re all working hard this time of year.

Forcing myself to end the silly and costly streak was the best thing I could do. Like Cal Ripken, suddenly our voice of October with Ron Darling, taking himself out after proving his point 2,632 games later. It doesn’t matter how many you go to in a row. It matters how many you win. And though the Mets went 15-8 during my run, we know where it got them. The last time I had missed a postseason game was 1986, and they managed to win those last two games without me around.

What I love about now is that you don’t know what the future will bring. That’s OK. Enjoy Murph and Yoenis and Clippard and Kelly and Uribe and everyone who’s having to call the landlord and tell them they will be staying another week.

We’ve heard for years about how great it’s going to be when everything comes together for the Mets. The future is now. Who knows when it ends? Drink it in.