I consider that the best possible endorsement of Greg W. Prince's book I could possibly give. Anyway, here's an excerpt from the book where Greg explains why on earth he could possibly be so attached to such an awful, awful team. So enjoy this Mets fans. This is your one gift this year.

I don't love the Mets because of all their October participation. If that's what I came for, my love would be pretty darn intermittent. They're 7-for-40 getting there on my watch and 2-for-7 when there are playoffs to watch. Two world championships in their and my lifetime. They were awesome, but they're not why I love the Mets.

I don't love the Mets because they are such a well-run organization filled with the kind of people to whose baseball acumen you'd willingly trust your fate. There are less successful franchises all about, but I swear only the Pirates and their sixteen consecutive losing seasons sit between the Mets and rock bottom in terms of reasonable return on resources.

I don't love the Mets because they treat their customers with care and respect. My almost-mandatory attendance at every single home game in September 2008 indicated to me that it is company policy to approach us with unsurpassed indifference and hold us in utter contempt. On any given night, we were 50,000 walking cash machines or, perhaps, the reason a whole lot of people couldn't knock off early.

I don't love the Mets because of the great mass of Mets fans who surround me too often. Too many Mets fans come to Mets games for reasons that apparently have nothing to do with supporting the Mets. These are the kinds of people who stand in your way in supermarket aisles and cut you off on the Southern State Parkway and boo their cats for not being dogs.

I don't love the Mets because of the players who composed the most recent Met roster. The players on the Mets, individually and as a unit, don't automatically forge an instinctual connection with me. I had nothing against Shea's final edition, but I found myself with little in particular for them. Some struck me as talented, enthusiastic, and good-natured, and I appreciated their efforts on my nominal behalf. Mostly, though, I didn't feel the 2008 bunch all that much. And, though it's not a hanging offense, they just weren't very good.

I don't love the Mets because I'm rebelling against or reacting to the presence of some other team ... any other team. The Mets are front and center. Everybody else in the majors is tied for second through thirtieth (OK, second through twenty-ninth; thirtieth is reserved for that bunch in the Bronx, but they're of peripheral concern most of the time).

I don't love the Mets because it gives me license to behave as a "crazy fan." I don't know whether it's crazy to give one's mental well-being over to the fickle physical fortunes of a batch of youthful millionaires. I don't know whether it's crazy to risk vast quantities of disappointment in the longshot search for a modicum of solace. I don't know whether it's crazy to think the angst I incur as a preoccupational hazard is, in fact, maybe its own reward. But I'm a big fan. I'm not a crazy fan.

I don't love the Mets for the reasons that are often cited for loving the Mets. Oh, I love the Miracle, Magic, Amazin', Believe ethos. I love the Black Cat and Bill Buckner and the Grand Slam Single. If I drank more, I'd drink only Rheingold. If my DVR would dispense them, I'd watch nothing but Met-tinged episodes of Seinfeld and The Odd Couple while eating nothing but warm Kahn's Beef Franks topped with nothing but Gulden's Brown Mustard, the mustard Sharon Grote served to her family. I love all that stuff. But that's just part of the deal, not the deal itself.

I love the Mets because I love the Mets. Call it circular reasoning whose perimeter permits no logic to permeate. I love the Mets because I love the Mets even though there is, at certain times, almost nothing on the surface about the Mets that I can stand.

I love the Mets because I have always loved the Mets. It's no more mystical than that. I picked them up at six and stayed with them. It occurred to me at nineteen that by then the Mets had been the only non-familial constant in my life dating back to when I could account for my constants. It's only grown deeper since I was nineteen, which was 1982, which was a terrible season (65–97), but that didn't stop me. None of the terrible years has ever stopped me. It doesn't necessarily reflect on the purity of my character except maybe for its streaks of stubbornness or loyalty. It doesn't necessarily confirm that I automatically value the perennially put-upon underdog versus the well-fed overcat. It doesn't necessarily illustrate how not bad I might look in blue and orange. I've enjoyed reflecting on how these past forty seasons have transpired and what these past forty seasons have meant to me, but I could have wrapped this thing up in less time than it took Johan Santana to wrap the Fish inside his complete game three-hit short-rest shutout on the final Saturday of 2008:

I was little.

They were local.

It was 1969.

From there, it was easy. I was a Mets fan then, I'm a Mets fan now.

Remember, before there was a book, there was a blog. Go there too.

The following excerpt talks about Roger's former sister-in-law, Kathy Huston Clemens, who was killed in a drug-related shooting incident at her home in 1999. Even though they were only bonded by Clemens' drug-addicted brother Randy, her former husband, Kathy was one of the most influential people in Roger's life growing up.

This is when the happiness is supposed to begin.

Roger Clemens was, at long last, a world champion. On October 29, 1999, he rode in the Yankees' confetti­ coated victory parade down Manhattan's Canyon of Heroes. He looked up at the tall buildings that lined Broadway and marveled at his good fortune. He was fitted for a three­ carat diamond ring, featuring a blue stone shaped in the interlocking NY symbol in the middle and a 14­ carat white gold NY covered with round diamonds on top. He was lauded for his "gutsy" performance in game four of the World Series, when he had finally pitched like the Rocket of old.

Clemens reported to spring training in the best shape of his career, aided by Brian McNamee, whom the Yankees had hired as an assistant strength and conditioning coach. He pitched relatively well to open the season, helping the Yankees jump out to a 22­12 start. He had his trainer, he had his fastball and he had his ring.

And, then, silence.

The phone call came on May 18, 2000. The words hit Roger Clemens hard, like one of his very own 98­ mph fastballs to the head.

"Roger, Kathy has been killed."

"Kathy" was Katherine Huston Clemens, Roger's former sister­-in­-law and the woman largely responsible for turning the baseball player from an awkward, uncomfortable boy into a confident, successful man. When Roger had moved from Ohio to Houston as a teenager to live with Kathy and Randy, his older brother and childhood hero, she had been the one who made certain he did his homework; who talked to him about everything, from girls to college to careers; who saw him as more than a vehicle to fortune and fame.

"She loved Roger," says Carolyn Gray, Kathy's sister. "And Roger really loved her."

The once­ upon­ a­ time Vandalia­ Butler High School prom king and queen had been divorced for more than a decade, yet Kathy was still tormented by Randy and his alleged drug abuse. He often asked her for money and had been in and out of rehab oh, how many times? Two? Three? "It hurt Kathy so bad," says Gray. "You could have no idea." A popular third­ grade teacher at Holmsley Elementary School in Houston, "Mrs. Clemens" was known for making up stories about the cursive letters and arriving at school with rollers in her hair.

In short, Kathy wanted nothing to do with the world her ex­husband had subjected the family to. Yes, she was once married to a junkie. But why should that ruin her life? Why did it have to haunt her all these years later? Most troubling was what Randy's addiction had done to their two children, Marcus and Jessica. In particular, it was her 19­ year­ old son who warranted the concern. Coated in tattoos and piercings, Marcus- like Randy- turned to dealing and using drugs in his late teenage years. Once, Marcus had come to visit his uncle in Houston, only to be stopped at the front door. "Son, you can come in," Roger said. "But first you've gotta take all those metal things out of your body. I don't want my kids seeing you looking like that."

On the night of May 17, Marcus Clemens, now 19, was sick in bed with the flu, and his mother had stayed home at their apartment to care for him. There was a knock on the back door. Kathy looked through the peephole and, not recognizing the men standing there, returned upstairs to her boy. Marcus asked his mother for some Sprite, and as Kathy walked back down to the kitchen, she heard another knock. This time, for a reason that has never been determined, she opened the door.

Five men, ranging in age from 18 to 26, barged into the apartment, demanding to see Marcus. They had come to steal what they were certain would be a large amount of money and Marcus' stash of Ecstacy. Her son still upstairs, Kathy ordered the intruders to leave.

Justin Gore, a 20­ year­ old wayward drug dealer, whipped out a gun and pointed it at the woman who had once been named Houston's Teacher of the Year. Kathy let out a terrified scream.

Then Gore squeezed the trigger.

"I jumped up as fast as I could and went to the top of the stairs," Marcus later said. "There were two more shots, and I saw her fall." As the intruders ran off, Marcus dashed downstairs, dragging his mother's body into the living room. She had been hit in the head, neck and chest and wasn't breathing. Blood streamed across the floor. The ambulance came within minutes but nothing could be done. Kathy died en route by Life Flight to Memorial Hermann Hospital.

She was 46 years old.

At approximately the same time Kathy's life was ending, Roger Cle­mens' night was thriving. As she was staring down a gunman, he was facing the Chicago White Sox at Yankee Stadium. As she was being pronounced dead, he was being pronounced alive, having won his fourth game with a beautiful seven­ inning, two­ run, nine­ strikeout masterpiece. As Marcus was describing to Houston police what had transpired in his apartment, Clemens was describing to the Times, the News and the Post what had transpired on his home field. "When we're right as a team swinging the bats, there are not too many holes in our lineup," he said. "That was evident tonight."

In hindsight, it all seemed so . . . vapid. Bernie Williams hit two home runs for New York, Chuck Knoblauch tripled, Jorge Posada stole a base- blah, blah, blah. Who the hell cared? Certainly not Clemens, who was shocked, dismayed, heartbroken by the news.

And furious.

Not merely at the killers, whom police described as transients who "float from one rave party to another rave party." No, he was furious with his older brother, Randy. When Roger learned the details of the case- the drugs, the violence- he blamed Randy. His brother was the one who had made drugs a part of the family's life. Had Randy died in a drug deal gone bad, well, Roger would have been devastated but not surprised. His life had been heading in that direction for many years.

But this was Kathy.

The next day, Roger spoke with Carolyn Gray and her husband, John, who lived in Vandalia, Ohio, near his boyhood home. "Listen, you don't worry about paying for anything involving the funeral or burial," Roger told them. "If it hadn't been for Kathy, I have no idea where I'd be today."

"No," said Carolyn, "she was my sister, and I should . . ."

"Yes," Roger said firmly. "I'm going to handle this. She was your sister, but she was like a mother to me. You have so much to worry about. Let me worry about this."

"As far as I'm concerned," says Carolyn, "Roger can do no wrong in my eyes. I'll always remember the way he was at that time. Always."

On the morning of the viewing, Kathy's family was asked to come to Holmsley Elementary School. Upon arriving, Carolyn began to sob. The sidewalks were coated with farewell messages written in chalk. A banner stretched across a hallway read WE LOVE YOU MRS. CLEMENS and was signed by every student. Carolyn was handed an envelope filled with letters from Kathy's third­ graders.

Dear Mrs. Clemens:
I'm very, very sad that you have a new address. But one good thing is I know where it is- heaven. I'm very, very sorry that your wonderful and beautiful life had to end in pain. I guess God couldn't wait to get you in his arms. Maybe he wants to start a school, up in heaven for the younger angels, and he knew you would be the best. Though I can never see you in this lifetime, I can always have you in my hart [sic] and mind. There are also great memories I wouldn't change a bit. I miss you very much.

Love,
Leslie
PS: See you in heaven.

The funeral was held in the chapel at Waltrip Funeral Directors in Houston. An overflowing crowd of family members, friends and coworkers bid farewell to a woman described by her sister as "loving, adventurous, daring, full of life."

Outside the building, a handful of police officers lined the front steps. They were there at the behest of Roger, with one primary directive: If you see Randy Clemens, do not allow him inside.

Somehow, New York's rapacious press corps missed the news about Kathy Huston Clemens. Not a single article appeared in the local newspapers. Clemens kept the information mostly to himself, confiding only in manager Joe Torre and a handful of teammates when he left for the funeral.

As far as Roger was concerned, the relationship with his brother was irreparably harmed. Though it was Kathy who had passed, Randy Clemens- the man largely responsible for creating the Rocket- was dead to him, too.

The following excerpt details the pre-fight scene at UFC 82.

****

A UFC card today must resemble boxing in its 1940s heyday. It is the rare sporting event that feels like just that: an event. And the presence of scalpers is the least of it. A day before the fights, thousands of rabid UFC fans converged on Nationwide Arena to attend the weigh-in. After a brief intro from Joe Rogan and some pro forma waves and blown kisses from the Octagon Girls™—yes, the term is really trademarked by the UFC—the 22 fighters on the card stripped to their short or skivvies, stood on a scale and posed with their opponent for a photo-op. Wearing ratty jeans, a leather jacket and a smirk, Dana White stood behind the fighters. When he smacked them on the back, they released their pose, left the stage and went to rehydrate, adding as much as 10 pounds in water to their frames. This weigh-in could have been quietly conducted in a hotel ballroom, the way boxing has done it for years. Instead, the UFC has shrewdly used this as another means of hardening the bonds between consumer and product.

The day of the fight, there was a current of anticipation. Throughout town, the prevailing question was: “Are you going to the show tonight?” as if UFC 82 were an exclusive ball. Limos and cabs lined the street outside the arena. As the Octagon was being assembled inside and the techies did their last sound checks, the fighters were back at the hotel, engaging in the fool’s errand of trying to relax. They meditated. They went through light workouts. They fired up the PlayStation. They drank their own piss. (More on this a little later.)

At 6:30 or so, I made my way to the arena press room. The boys with lacquered hair from the Ohio Athletic Commission were setting up ringside. “We do everything from drug testing to making sure their entrance music doesn’t have profane lyrics,” one of them explained. Waitresses in the luxury suites were arranging premium booze, and microbrew and novelty martinis. As I foraged at a media buffet that included fresh mozzarella salad and fancy Italian pastries, it was hard not to marvel at how far the entire sport had come since Pat Miletich was fighting on UFC cards held inside crappy armories on the banks of the swamps outside New Orleans.

When the Nationwide Arena doors finally opened to the public at 7:30, a tidal wave of fans—a near-capacity crowd of 16,431, in all—filed in. This isn’t boxing, where only the die-hards condescend to watch the preliminary bouts. Before the first fight, most of the seats were filled. The real UFC tribalists were easy to spot, what with their abundant pierces and tats, their UFC hoodies and their angry t-shirts. (“You Say Tomato, I Say Fuck You.” “Exercise Your Demons.”) But there were just as many young, professional-looking guys in their “go-out shirts” and designer jeans. There were blacks and whites and Hispanics and, no doubt because of Anderson Silva’s appearance on the card, a knot of crazy-loud Brazilians. Based on the license plates in the parking lot, they came from all over the Midwest. The tickets weren’t cheap, ranging from $60 to $1,000 but the crowd was more diverse than any audience you’d find at an NBA or NFL game.

The fighters themselves were remarkably diverse, too, ranging in age from 21 to 37. There were, as usual, a few local boys on the card, increasingly easy to find now that MMA is sanctioned in most states. But aside from three Ohioans, the card resembled a model U.N. In addition to Silva, the slate of fighters included a Japanese refugee from PRIDE (Yushin Okami), a black Frenchman (Cheick Kongo), an Italian (Alessio Sakara), a Swede (!) who trains in Brazil (David Bielkheden), and a former Olympic wrestler (Dan Henderson, Silva’s opponent). There were three well-regarded veterans of The Ultimate Fighter reality show—the impish Chris Leben, the new-agey Diego Sanchez and the swaggering Josh Koschek.

The diversity extended to the fighters’ bodies as well. There are some near-universals among UFC fighters: their skin is stained with tattoo ink. They have protruding muscles, especially thighs that defy human proportion. They have short (un-pullable) hair or simply a clean-shaven head. Like human NASCAR-mobiles, they wear shorts slathered with all manner of sponsor-patches, another source of revenue. (Leben’s patch for “Condomdepot.net” was particularly memorable.) But their body types are remarkably varied, from the essentially fat-free 155-lb. whip Jorge Gurgel, to the rangy Jon Fitch to Heath Herring, a burly Texan who looks like a beef-fed lineman right out of Friday Night Lights. In short, inasmuch as the Octagon is a sort of terrarium, it contains a remarkable range of species.

Rounding out this menagerie was Luke “The Silent Assassin” Cummo, far and away the most unique fighter, I would meet while working on this project. A former cab driver, Cummo discovered martial arts while living on Long Island and became a protégé of Matt Serra. As Cummo ascended the MMA ladder, appearing on the reality show and eventually earning a four-fight UFC contract, he didn’t succumb to convention. When I first met Cummo at a UFC fight in Houston, he explained that he eats only “Life Food for a sustainable future,” a diet that forbids beans, grains and animal products. A typical meal for Cummo is a bowl of soup containing onions, garlic, buckwheat, and sunflower seeds.

When Cummo won his fight that night in Houston and was interviewed in the Octagon by Joe Rogan, he blurted out, “All politicians are puppets and the only way to make a difference in the world is the way you live your life!” This didn’t play too well in the heart of Texas, and Cummo left the stage to boos. Strangely enough, when UFC reps handed reporters a sheet of Cummo’s post-fight quotes, there was no mention of corrupt politicians. Cummo’s remarks were condensed and distilled to the following verbal oatmeal: “Even though I got the win there is always room for improvement, I got taken down so I need to work on my defense…I’m now going to hit the gym and prepare for my challenge here in the UFC.”

In Ohio, I saw Cummo outside his locker room and remarked that he looked decidedly smaller than his opponent, Luigi Fioravanti, an Iraqi war veteran. Perhaps that was because while Fioravanti was adding mass—gulping water and gorging on steak the day after the weigh-in—Cummo had had nothing to eat all day. Not only that, without a trace of self-consciousness, Cummo explained that he had “purified” himself by practicing “urine recycling.” Come again? “I drink my own urine. I had my last meal last night and then I continually drink my urine. Eventually when I poop—you know, when I do No.2—all that comes out is urine. Then I know my digestive system is completely empty. At first I used to put some honey in it, heat it up and drink it like a tea. But now I just drink it fresh. That’s when it’s most delicious.”

*****

PHOTO: By Brekken

It's about a guy who grew up playing golf near Tiger Woods (they were a year apart in high school) and for better and for worse has been obsessed with him ever since. A year ago, in the throes of the writer's strike in Hollywood and with his career in limbo, Smiley decided to turn to the one person he thought could show him the path to wisdom and happiness but without ever speaking to him. Thus, Smiley traveled from the seaside cliffs of San Diego to the deserts of Duai, through the gates of Augusta National, and ultimately to Torrey Pines and Tiger's heroic one-legged victory. Here are a couple of excerpts I'm sure you'll enjoy.

Tavistock Cup, Orlando, Florida, March 24, 2008

I sit down for dinner at nearby Jersey Mike's sub shop and start to flip through the complimentary Tavistock program. The paper they use to print it is of such high quality that when I try to hold open the pages with my soda, the cover flies back at me in rebellion. Given the ads inside, it's apparent its producers are well aware of their readers' taste. One realty listing is for a $12 million "French farmhouse" that boasts of having its own massage room and "apothecary theatre lobby." I know what a theatre lobby is, and I know that an apothecary is a pharmacy. How in the world those combine into something enticing is beyond me, but then again, I'm not the Tavistock Cup's target audience.

What I am anxious to read are the profiles on the players. They are all asked a variety of banal questions, such as "Name something you do that's 'green.' " Who knew that England's Justin Rose and his wife make their own compost? I turn to Tiger's Q and A, expecting to read IMG-filtered answers. What I find are the same seemingly ridiculous questions but, in response, a collection of answers that read as more honest and devoid of calculation than anything he's said in years.

What does he hope someone invents before he dies? "Teleporting." This is a guy who hates to waste time. His favorite childhood cartoon character? Optimus Prime from Transformers — the leader of the Autobots who battled without end. If NASA ever okays a trip to outer space, will Tiger go? "Damn right!" The possibility of what is to be gained from a challenge excites him more than the risks. I keep reading. What does Tiger think he will be doing thirty years from now? "Hopefully I won't be fertilizer by then." My favorite answer is his last. "What disease do you want to see cured in your lifetime?" Most players give the obligatory sad response, naming some illness and then presumably hanging their heads and asking for a tissue. The disease Tiger would like to see cured? "The yips!" My soda almost falls over again, this time from my knocking the table while laughing. It is clear that Tiger Woods is much funnier and more interesting in private than he can ever afford to be in public.

—-—-—-

The Masters, Augusta, GA, April 9, 2008

Wednesday • Already out of tickets, I had walked down Washington Road after Tuesday's practice round and taken down some scalpers' phone numbers. When I wake up this morning, I call them at random to see what the day will cost. The low price is Tony, asking $350. Yesterday, he was working the curb near Arby's. Today, he's setup on the south end of town, just off the Bobby Jones Expressway, and claims to have only one left. I am obviously losing a sense of what is too much to pay for a ticket and set out in my red Pontiac to find him.

On the way, I pass another scalper who offers me the same ticket for only $300. I call Tony to see if he can match the price. "What?!" He's angry. "You're killing me! I could have just sold your ticket to someone for four hundred!" He hems and haws as if he's getting ripped off on a ticket that has a face value of $36. His tough Boston accent is intimidating, but it's the first time I've had any leverage, and I let him wriggle.

He finally agrees to match it, so I keep driving. Tony is on the sidewalk with another scalper, working the long line of traffic headed to the course. I pull over, and he comes to the window, but he wants to make small talk first. I'm not sure why I mentioned that I was a TV writer, but he gets excited and decides to pitch me his life story, which he thinks would make a great movie. "It'd be called Death Row to Front Row," he says. "You were on death row?" I ask, quietly slipping the car from park into reverse. Tony explains that yes, technically he killed a guy, but eventually they proved it was self-defense and now he's free. "Awesome," I say. His buddy interjects that he thinks his life would make a great movie too, but says it would have to be an adult film.

The conversation thankfully returns to my ticket. Tony's still not convinced that I actually found someone selling "a Wednesday" for $300. He turns to his pal and says, "Should we take a ride?" This is just what I want — to be driving around Augusta with these guys. The other scalper, the sixty-something leader of the gang, cools him off. "You got it for two seventy-five. You made twenty-five. Good." I give Tony the cash, he gives me the ticket. Never having taken the Pontiac out of reverse, I make my escape.

At the course I discover that Tiger isn't even going to play a practice round today, which means I just paid three hundred bucks to watch Tiger on the putting green. I can't conceive of being able to go play Augusta National and choosing not to do so. But statistically, recent history points to the putting green as the place where Tiger needs to be. He hit more greens at Doral than he had hit any other week since the Buick Invitational. But the thirty-two putts he had in his third round was his worst number of the entire season. He is still easily the favorite, but the question in my mind is whether he has arrived in Georgia having fixed whatever was wrong in Florida. Based on a story I heard a few months
earlier, I can only assume he had.

It was back in February, and my old boss Alan invited me to play Lakeside, a gorgeous, Hollywood-friendly club across the cement-bottomed Los Angeles River from Universal Studios. After our round he introduced me to Ernie, one of Lakeside's starters who had been there for thirty years. "You want a Tiger story? I got one." He told me about a time years ago when Earl Woods was in L.A. having bypass surgery. That day Ernie got a call from Kevin Costner, who told him "Tiger needs a place to hide out." Ernie said no problem, and later that day Tiger showed up. "I tell him, 'What do you want to do? You want to play, you want to hit balls?' " Tiger just held up his hands. In one hand was his putter and in the other were three golf balls. "This is the worst part of my game," Tiger explained.

He walked to Lakeside's putting green, dropped the three balls, and started putting around to the different flags. "An hour and forty minutes later — I timed it — and he's still putting." Finally, Tiger stopped going in circles and found the toughest putt on the green. Ernie stepped out from behind the starter window to show me. It was about twenty five feet, broke four feet left to right, and was dead downhill. It was Tiger's winning Bay Hill putt on steroids. After another hour and fifty minutes, Ernie realized the game. Tiger wouldn't let himself leave until he had made the hardest putt on the putting green three times in a row. Tiger came back the next day and did the same thing. Ernie said Tiger spent eight hours on the putting green those two days at Lakeside. It was early 1997. A few months later, Tiger won his first Masters by twelve shots.

Bob Smiley (pictured above watching Tiger from afar) has worked on various sitcoms since 1999, including four years on CBS' "Yes, Dear." He's also written for the "1/2 Hour News Hour" and assisted William F. Buckley on his novel "Getting it Right." He is a contributing writer for ESPN's golf coverage and is the author of Fore Right, a satirical golf blog. "Follow The Roar ..." is published by HarperCollins.