Well this was a crazy week even by Mets standards, one that began on a promising note when R.A. Dickey shook off his own poor start, and pitched a scrappy overachieving team to a respectable .500 mark and an upset of the Yankees, and ended seven days later with the Mets just as embarrassing as ever, with Dickey on the way to the disabled list and the overachievers badly exposed.
In the middle of it all was Fred Wilpon, whose show of pathetic self-pity and delusion in the pages of The New Yorker seemingly sapped whatever energy the Mets had exhibited on their long journey back to .500. Poor Fred: Doesn’t matter who gets dragged through the mud in his rush to clear his name and prove his own ignorance, while at the same time he’s got his hand out for new investors so that he won’t be hurt by his money-losing Mets. Fred doesn’t appear to understand that he’s in the image business, or that players and fans will get along just fine were he not around, but we can hope that’s something David Einhorn will teach him the hard way.
Einhorn was a name Met fans had barely known before this morning though by the time this afternoon’s loss to the Cubs began most of us already knew the story of how the tiny Dave Kingman fan grew up to become one of the hottest and most feared sluggers in the hedge fund game. I’d be awfully suprised if he doesn’t wind up going Barbarians-at-the-Gate on his new partners before long. Wouldn’t you?
Sadly, this week also included the sudden death of Dana Brand, an intelligent, sentimental and friendly Mets fan who wrote about fandom with passion and insight in books and on-line and who was at work organizing a scholarly symposium to coincide with the team’s 50th anniversary next year. I’d spoken last to Dana only a few months back at the SABR meeting in New York, where the two of us shared a mutual anticipation that the Wilpons would go Chapter 11 at some point this year. Dana was a guy who clung hard to his fandom in such challenging times, who understood he could love the team in spite of its seeming indifference to fans, and it’s sad to lose him.
Please see Matt Silverman, Greg Prince and Steve Keane for their memories of Dana.

Hello again from sole possession of 4th place. These banged-up replace-Mets are impressing me with their drive, even while disaster forever lurks nearby.
Actually, Gordon, I don’t, and the photo you provided (posted above) only makes things more mysterious. A google search for “Castro 60” reveals that the man pictured should be Lilliano Castro, who was photographed along with the rest of the Mets at spring training. But that’s the only clue to his identity, the google trail goes cold after several pages noting this photograph. I’d guess Mr. Castro is an organizational instructor of some kind, probably a catching instructor. But if there was a press release noting such, I missed it. A look back at our spring training rosters shows No. 60 as “vacant.”
Sorry about the infrequent updates. Became convinced my enthusiasm at the tail end of the winning streak killed it and was scared to further mess it up. Now it seems hardly to matter. Tuesday’s gutwrenching loss almost assured a humiliation on Wednesday and the loss to injury of Pedro Beato didn’t help. The Mets real trouble however is the offense, with too little coming from the end of the lineup and less than that from the bench so far. It sure hasn’t helped that Jason Bay’s missed more time than we could afford to lose already (and it’s still early). His latest absence for paternity leave forced the recall of Lucas Duda, in whom Terry Collins (and Lucas Duda for that matter) has no faith.
Super job by Dillon Gee and beleaguered manager Terry Collins on Sunday to stop an ugly losing streak. Seems like last weekend’s surprise series loss to Washington was so demoralizing it seemed combat against a superior opponent in the Rockies offered no choice but to succumb, hard at first, then increasingly easily. At some point it became less about admiring the Mets for hanging in there, and started to resemble something like a bare-knuckle beating. By the time they got to Atlanta of course Wright was in the throes of a patented three-whiffs-a-night slump. Things had to get worse before they had a chance to get better.