99: Giveaway Day at Shea

(This is the latest installment in an ongoing series at Y2K focusing on topics raised in Matthew Silverman's "100 Things Mets Fans Should Know & Do Before They Die". Today's installment? Number 99: Giveaway Day at Shea.)

Why 99? Three reasons: Turk, the little lamb, and the 1999 Mets, perhaps the most beloved Mets team of the past 20 years.

On a scale of 1-to-10, necessity of knowing or doing before you die? 3.

Ahh giveaway days at Shea. Who can forget them? The bobbleheads you coveted. The children you contemplated stealing from as your blood boiled, cursing the fact that you were 25, not 12 or under.

For the Glass Man there's one giveaway day to look forward to, and it comes every home opener. That's the day they dole out the fabled Mets magnetic season schedule.

The Mets' magnetic season schedule has been a staple on family refrigerators as long as I can remember. Unless things have changed since I lived there, it's possible the schedule from the 2002 season -- adorned with memorable Mets like Roberto Alomar and Mo Vaughn -- is still somewhere on my parents' refrigerator, but 2002 is only half of it. We've been plastering those puppies on the family fridge for as long as I can remember.

Other than that, I don't have much memory of Shea giveaways, aside from the aforementioned envy associated with being aged out of receiving one. Maybe once we got some Mets seat cushions, which were probably great for one game and then doomed to a life of dust collection in some forgotten corner of our apartment.

What's great about this installment in Silverman's book (which, if I'm honest, is pretty forgettable), are the more esoteric Shea giveaways that everyone else forgot about. Negro League caps in the 1990s? Pitchers (including 4 tumblers) in 1988? Russian tea dolls in 2003? Jesus, where was I, those all sound awesome!

Seriously though, the only item on his list of selected giveaways that bear any personal resonance with me are those miniature batting helmets. I had at least one of those, and I remember it being a source of fascination when, as a young boy, I played with Legos or what have you. I'm pretty sure they served ice cream in those things, but maybe not.

In any event, the chapter concludes on a high note as Silverman sends a kiss to that beloved 1999 team. I'd be curious actually, do other fans remember 1999 as fondly as me and my friends do? In my group of friends at least, that 1999 team is worshiped.

First there was the greatest infield of all time -- John Olerud and Robin Ventura at the corners, Rey-Rey catching everything at short, The Fonz being a quiet all-star at second.

The outfield was less loveable, though there was the incomparable Rickey Henderson holding it down in left.

The catching corps of Mike Piazza and Todd Pratt was perhaps the greatest backstop tandem in Mets history.

And then there was the pitching staff, packed with Mets legends like Rick Reed, white Bobby Jones, and a pre-hated Al Leiter (I still like him). Masato Yoshii tossed some innings that year, ditto Glendon Rusch, Orel Hershiser, Pat Mahomes (what!), and even a young Octavio Dotel, the savior.

That group won 97 games and sent the Mets to their first postseason in 11 years. Not just that, but they also gave fans what Silverman calls "perhaps the most satisfying giveaway," which "came after the Mets beat the Pirates to assure themselves of a one-game playoff for the wild-card on the final day of the 1999 season," (Silverman, 248).

I remember watching that game at home, and the joy and the anticipation that accompanied that final win. I'm pretty sure it was Rick Reed who tossed a gem that last game. It was the start of an amazing playoff run, one, like all the others since, that ended too soon.

- A.F.O.M.G.