The 1960s, among many other
things, were known for the next level of television programming. If the
’50s were the “Golden Age of TV”, then the 1960s were “The Teenage
Years.” Oh my God!

I was a big Star Trek fan. I wanted to be
Lincoln Hayes from the Mod Squad and Colonel Gallagher from 12 O’clock
High. I didn’t watch the show that lent this article it’s name, however.

I
was told it was about a family that was lost in space. It had an old
guy (no interest there), a whiny kid (oh yeah, just wonderful), and a
talking robot that Spock would have said was interesting but totally
illogical.

Not for me by a long shot.

My high school
years over, I spent most of that summer watching the inaugural New York
Mets team lose game after game after game. Seriously, the best part of
really the first seven seasons was watching some of the greatest
players to have ever played the game showcase their skills at the Polo
Grounds.

Case in point, I’m really not sure if it was 1962 or
1963 and the St. Louis Cardinals were in town to play the Mets. It was
about a zillion feet to dead center field and Willie’s catch off Vic
Wertz in the 1954 World Series was still being talked about in the
stands eight or nine years later.

Lou Brock was a dead red
fastball hitter. His strike zone was from his ankles to his eyeballs
and nobody I had ever seen or even have seen to this day could actually
“tomahawk” a ball 550 feet with a swing from his eyes.

That is
exactly what Brock did that day and the ball landed about 15 rows up
just to the right of dead center field. To this day it was the hardest
hit ball I have ever seen. Awesome doesn’t describe it appropriately.

1963
to 1968 were the years that the Mets were literally “Lost in Space.”
The team totaled 51 wins in 1963, In their first year (1964) at the new
home of the Mets and New York Jets they won 53. 1965 produced 50 wins,
actually three less wins than the previous year. 1966 was the first
year that the Mets didn’t lose more than 100 games.

Wes Westrum
replaced Casey Stengel in 1965, and Bing Devine of St. Louis Cardinals
fame became the General Manger in 1967. So, now was the time to move
ahead right? Wrong. In 1967 the Mets took another step backwards and
lost 101 games again.

There were some good moments during those
years but mostly more of the same from Year One. There was a game in
Chicago that they won, 19-1, setting up the events that eventually led
to the “Black Cat” in 1969. But more on that in part three. . .

The
shiny red apple was unveiled at Shea Stadium in 1964, and every time a
Met would hit the ball out of the park, the apple would rise from
ground and the fans would go wild. It got stuck no fewer than five
times that summer, continuing the futility of this team.

My boyhood hero Duke Snider signed with the Mets in 1963. Believe me, his better days were behind him, but oh, that swing!

I
could imitate it perfectly, and in my own mind, that was the reason I
made the Freshman Baseball Team at Northeastern University in the
Spring of 1963. I played second base, had deceptive speed for a chubby
guy, and could turn a mean double play.

In a game that spring
against Boston University, in front of a rowdy crowd of about, oh, 59
fans, a guy about a foot taller and 30 pounds heavier than me tried to
break up a double play and ploughed right into my rather ample gut.

He knocked himself out cold.

I
turned the double play, we won the only game of that rain shortened
season, and it took seven teammates to carry me off the field.

This was definitely the highlight of my college career.

That
spring the Mets signed Jimmy Piersall, a true nut case whose life and
antics reached the big screen in a fine baseball movie called “Fear
Strikes Out,” starring our even more famous nut case Anthony Perkins;
Psycho anyone?

These lost years also brought to the team the
makings of, unbeknown to all of us, the Miracle Mets. Bud Harrelson and
Ron Swoboda came in ’63. In ’64, it was Tug McGraw, Jerry Koosman.

In
1965, Nolan Ryan signed, and the Mets traded Houston for Jerry Grote.
Duffy Dyer and Jim McAndrew came in 1965, along with Ken Boswell, too.

For the 1966 season, Danny Frisella, Amos Otis, Ron Hunt, Jim Hickman, and Don Cardwell came to town.

However,
the best acquisition in New York Mets history happened when The Mets’
team name was picked out of a hat, giving the Amazins the first pick in
the Amateur Draft. That pick turned into a strapping pitcher named
George Thomas Seaver.

For me to think that Tom Seaver could have
just as easily become a Brave or a Philly makes me shudder; it would
have changed the course of the Mets history, as well as mine.

In
1967, pitchers Gary Gentry, Cal Koonce, Jon Matlock arrived, and
perhaps the key to the championship season to come came with the
arrival of Tommy Agee along with Art Shamsky.

The lovable losers finally seemed to be going in the right direction.

My
life was like a roller coaster, going ahead and seemingly backwards at
the same time. In June of 1964, I lost my Dad. We had talked that
spring about going to some games that summer at the new Shea Stadium,
which had just opened a few months prior.

I had to leave Northeastern that year because my responsibilities and priorities were forced to change.

An
interesting sidelight to those events that spring: about two weeks
before my Dad succumbed to a massive heart attack on his 50th birthday,
I had talked to him about changing my major to Journalism and pursuing
as career as a sports journalist.

It never happened.

My
baseball career ended as I broke an ankle in 1964 and my world class
speed evaporated in the lobby of the Brooklyn Paramount Theater which
was the gymnasium for Long Island University, which became my home for
the next three years.

At least I was home to see many games at Shea and a couple of road games in Philly at Connie Mack Stadium.

Vietnam
and “The Draft”, and I don’t mean the baseball draft, were on the
horizon. Hippies had arrived, protests raged at college campuses, and
my heroes of the ’60s were gone.

The day after June 5, 1968, my
best friend Teddy Blecher and I camped out all night in front of St.
Patrick’s Cathedral in the city and waited for the casket of Bobby
Kennedy to arrive.

I had walked the streets of
Bedford-Stuyvesant with Bobby in 1966 when he ran for Governor of New
York. For me, it was a loss of the greatest magnitude.

On Aug.
25, 1968, at the ripe old age of 23, I got married to a beautiful
blue-eyed blonde from the city. She was not a Mets fan. She liked the
Yankees.

I should have known it wouldn’t last.