The Poker Game

     The competition at the five paddleball courts at Carmine Street in Manhattan was always ferocious. No one wanted to lose and all of us fought like mad, argued like mad, disputed calls like mad, to avoid it. But when all was said and done, one team had gotten to 15 and one team hadn't. The winner got to stay on the court and play the next game. The losers shook or slapped the  hands of the victors, trudged off the court and had to wait for their next opportunity.

And wait. And wait. And, sometimes, wait some more.

The Carmine courts were not only fierce. They were crowded. Often we had to keep written lists of who was waiting for next. Those lists could extend to ten or more names. The waits, that is, were extensive.

Waiting, however, was not our strong point. We were competitive athletes, after all. We had to do something. Some went to the bocce courts  in a distant corner of the park. Others went to the softball field behind the courts  to kick a soccer ball around.  Many more went to nearby stores to buy food and drink.

Billy Abolafia did none of those things.

Billy was a strong, powerful young man with long, flowing hair and a charismatic air about him. People were drawn to him. He was a good player but that didn't seem like his main strength. Billy was a gambler.

When Billy brought a deck of cards to the cement tables and benches a few feet behind the courts, people suddenly knew what we'd do to pass our waiting time: We'd play poker!

The game was quarter/half. A quarter to open, 50 cents if there was a pair showing. Not a cheap game for the late 1980s, but not so expensive that anyone could be badly hurt. "Hey, what if, on the last card, the bet can be a dollar?" Billy suggested. And so, on the 7th card of our stud game, the stakes went up. With 3 raises allowed, that final turn could cost $4. Hmmm. Getting interesting!

With bills now flying around and getting blown in the wind, the game was now TOO INTERESTING to stay on the outside of the court. We began playing in the apartment Billy shared with his girlfriend on the far West Side. And the games, of course, were no longer filling the dead space between times on the court. Now they were going on for hours. Sometimes all night.

Things were getting serious. We were, after all, serious competitors. The quarters and the half dollars disappeared. Now the game was one dollar/two dollars. A five or ten dollar bet was allowed on the final card. Pretty sure Billy made that suggestion. With three raises allowed, that added up...to serious money!

The game we most liked to play was kind of silly, however: Baseball. Threes and nines were wild. A four would get you another card. With all those wild cards it was hard to figure out what was a good hand.

Happily, I figured it out.

After a night of not doing too well, I realized that you couldn't win the poker game of Baseball without at least 4 of a kind. And not just ANY  4 of a kind. It had to be high cards. Unless I had a shot at at least 4 jacks I'd drop out of the pot. Without at least 4 aces I'd bet conservatively, Billy was the best gambler at the table but now I had a clear view of the game.

Two things prevented the others from developing the same clarity.

All of our players came from Carmine. But not all were paddleball players from Carmine. Two were the drug dealers that sold weed and cocaine behind the court.

Now call me naive, but I didn't know that we had our own drug dealers. But we did. And you know, they were nice guys. And they made their products available for free at the poker game. And there was also plenty of beer. And most everyone partook.

But not me. I played sober. Not that it was difficult as I don't like beer, I've never gotten the hang of inhaling and coke just made me feel I'd gotten a numbing shot from the dentist. So half the table was high and I wasn't. BIG advantage.

And then Anita Maldonado joined us!

I love Anita. She's a really fun person. She livened up the game. Now the other thing about Anita is that of all the ferocious competitors in paddleball she is arguably the fiercest of us all. She hated to lose. And that's the attitude she brought to the poker game.

"You've got to be in it to win it," she'd say. It was her competitive philosophy. A GREAT one in athletic events where she would never accept defeat. A poor one in poker where, if you recognize likely defeat early, you can fold your cards and get out of the pot early enough to lose only a small amount. Stay to the bitter end, however, and you can turn a tiny loss into a big one.

And so MY philosophy at the game was play sober, play conservatively and only bet hard if I had a likely winning hand.

The drug dealers brought lots of cash with them and didn't seem to mind when they lost it. Probably the highest of anyone at the table they never seemed to quite figure out when they should be in a pot and when they should fold. "You've got to be in it to win it," I'd sometimes smile at them when they seemed confused at how they'd once again dropped a good bit of cash in a hand they didn't come close to winning.

Then in one game I was up against Anita. I held some wild cards so, feeling strong I bet aggressively. I was unprepared for the ferocity with which Anita pushed back with big raises of her own. I felt sure I had the best hand, but what did it mean that the woman champ was being so strong? Intimidated, I didn't raise her back.

"What have you got?" I asked when I'd called her final bet.

"A pair of aces," she answered.

"Aces," I replied, dumbfounded. "You just have a pair of aces?"

"Yes. What do you have?"

"I have four kings." Shaking my head, I gathered in all the chips. How in a game with all these wild cards, could she be even in the pot, let alone raising, with just a pair? And then, of course, I realized why:

"You've got to be in it to win it!"

And that's how, though I did not win all the time at Carmine, I won every night at Billy's house!

The drug dealers, of course, weren't doing so well. I got a phone call from one of them, Larry.

"Hey, Mike," he said. "I want to ask you something but I'm unsure if our friendship is close enough that it's okay to ask."

"What is it, Larry?"

"Well, I don't have money to buy any more product and I was wondering if you could lend me $1000 so I could. I'd pay you back in a week with $100 extra for your trouble."

"Larry, of course we're good enough friends for you to ask me. You can ask me for anything. But, unfortunately, I can't lend you $1000 for product."

I'd turned my back on the opportunity to get into the drug racket!

The game went on. Nothing changed but the stakes. Incredibly, we were now allowed to bet up to $100 on the last card...with the three raises that would mean as much as $400. None of us really had that kind of money. One night I won close to $1000 but went home with about $125 and a stack of IOUs. Everyone eventually paid up but it had gotten out of hand.

Then a player named Psycho Mike began coming to the game. When he learned that I was a psychotherapist he decided that the reason I was winning was because I was reading minds. When I learned that he was carrying a gun I decided that big money, cocaine, a weapon and paranoia was not a combination I wanted to be part of.

The Poker Game ended for me that night! 

                                          

HOW ASDRUBAL CABRARA IS JUST LIKE TIM HARKNESS

Asdrubal Cabrara's 11th inning home run 2 nights ago was as dramatic as they come, saving the Mets from a gut wrenching defeat and propelling us to the happiest, most satisfying of walk off wins. I could not have been more delighted.

This wasn't the first time.

Back in 1963 my dad took me and my sister Lysie to a Met game at the old Polo Grounds in order to celebrate my junior high school graduation. The guys fell behind early but battled back to tie, possibly because they knew that this was my special day. Then they teased me by coming close to victory several times but somehow not getting the decisive run across.

In the 14th, sadly, the bad guys pushed 2 runs in, but the Mets battled back, loading the bases with 2 outs for Tim Harkness. Tim was a left handed hitting first baseman we'd gotten from the Dodgers and though he hadn't done a whole lot (and would continue on in that vein for the rest of his career), he was one of my favorites. He worked the count to 2-2 and then looked at a fast ball around his knees. I went silent. All of the Polo Grounds seemed to go silent. We waited for the umpire to yell strike 3 and tragically put an end to the long afternoon. But he didn't. Ball 3. The count was full. The runners took off on the next pitch and this time Tim swung....

The crack of the bat sounded clearly way up to the left field foul line where I was sitting. It was the most beautiful sound I've ever heard. The ball shot off Harkness's bat on a rapid line to right field, well over the outfielder and well over the fence. A grand slam! He'd done it! We'd won...the most satisfying of walk off wins!

Leaving the ballpark, I kept shouting "Tim Harkness for MVP." Perhaps my sister was not used to Public Displays of Affection for a Ballplayer because she complained to my dad who simply responded: "Let him have his fun."

The Mets lost 111 games in 1963 and Harkness with his .211 batting average and 10 home runs failed to draw much MVP consideration. It's fair to say that neither the team or my then favorite player gave me much more fun that season.

But for that one day? What a great celebration! The great Tim Harkness. Just like, 2 days ago, the great Asdrubal Cabrara!

RUNNING THROUGH 2015

    You'd think that two surgeries was enough. I mean I had an enlarged prostate. So what? Lots of guys in their 60s have an enlarged prostate. Yes the symptoms could be mind numbing and awful. How would you feel if you couldn't pee and had to go to the emergency room? Terrible, right? But still, it was just an enlarged prostate. A single TURP surgery to cut it down the size should've done the trick. But two? That would DEFINITELY do it! No peeing problems for sure. FOR SURE.

Except it didn't. So when my new urologist said that he didn't understand what my first guy had done and how my prostate was still enlarged and still the cause of my problems, I just shook my head. When he said a third surgery was needed I couldn't believe it. How could this be?  Really, I should've just stayed younger.

But I hadn't. And, as a result, we'd now have to try the same surgery again . And that would screw up my running even more.

I've always run and running has always made me special. Because I could speed around the bases and score runs. Because I could fly across the outfield and steal hits. Because I could outrun my defenders and catch touchdowns.

A bit older, I turned to road running...running great events like the New York Marathon in front of thousands and the Disney World Marathon through Magic Kingdom and Animal Kingdom and EPCOT. Shorter races too where I sometimes won my age group or at least finished among the swiftest.

And then my prostate decided to grow. I don't know why. Seems to happen to many of us, especially if we've chosen to be guys. And so, between the emergency room visits and the urgent care facility visits, the medication that elevated my heart rate and, ultimately, operation number one and operation number two, my training came to a screeching halt. Running became an infrequent luxury rather than a four or five times a week constant.

With all that going on and as I continued growing older, the 7 minute miles I routinely ran in races, the 6 minute miles I strove for in the shorter races, became the rare exceptions. I got slower and slower. When I could run at all. My speedy exceptionalism was gone. My athleticism was now something to be discussed in the past tense.

And, according to my new urologist, I still needed a third surgery. "Why should I believe this time it's going to work?" I asked various friends and family members, none of whom had particularly good answers. But I was still feeling lousy, my running wasn't getting better and the various other remedies I'd tried weren't helping. What choice did I really have?

I had my third TURP surgery in less than two years on September 24, 2014.  I'm delighted to say that it's worked! In late October I was running short distances. Two months later I was doing hard workouts on the track. In early January, 2015, I ran my first race in forever!

I ran it, unfortunately, exceedingly slow!

I needed, I thought, something to inspire me and found it when I won a lottery to gain acceptance into the New York Half Marathon, a major New York Road Runners Event...2nd in prestige here only to the NY Marathon...that winds 13.1 miles through Central Park and the streets of Manhattan to its finish near Wall Street.

I trained for it hard and discovered there were things besides an unruly prostate that got in the way of running: Tight, vulnerable and easily injured muscles. My calves hurt. In the midst of a vigorous treadmill workout the inside of my left knee hurt so bad I had to stop. My calves spasmed and hurt again.

Nevertheless, I made it to the starting line and, more importantly, to the finish. My goal was to break 1 hour and 50 minutes which I did EASILY. If by easily we mean by 26 seconds. A happy achievement that put me tenth among my 76 age group competitors. On the other hand, my time was SO much slower than previous half marathon races. I really hoped that this was not the best I could do.

Still, except for brief pauses for an aching muscle here and there I was so happy to be running regularly. It made me feel, well, special. And young. A month later, in a 10 kilometer race in chilly, windy Central Park, I SMASHED my way through the 8 minute per mile barrier to return to my youthful 7 minute per mile pace. If by smash we mean beating 8 minutes by 2 seconds to run each mile at a 7:58 average.

But I was on my way, getting faster. And I was running really fast on 6th Street track when I blew out my left hamstring.  How could my hamstring just go like that?

Maybe because  my leg muscles have always been tight and I've avoided stretching them because stretching is a bore? And because  the older I got and the longer I ran on tight muscles, the more vulnerable they became?

OK, I needed to stretch. Got it. But would I do that on my own? Not likely. So I hired a trainer to get me to do it.

Helen is great. We stretched. I felt better. Two weeks later I was running again. The first time was terrific. The second time the hamstring went yet again. I ran again three weeks later. But not fast, as I demonstrated in a soft ball game where I managed to get myself thrown out at first base on what should have been a single to left. Ugh!

More injuries. This time my groin. I went to a guy who does body work. "Movement is the key" it says on his web site. He twisted me into a pretzel. He worked the injured area in a way that REALLY hurt.

 Each time I saw him I felt more limber and flexible. So, too, with Helen.  Just as things started to get better there was another leg injury. It lingered.  I had to do something to overcome or at least slow down the ravishes of aging but perhaps stretching and body work wasn't it. Is patience called for?

By mid October, after months of futility, suddenly it all seemed to click into place. The pain was gone. My flexibility was clearly better. I was running regularly. I could increase the distance.

Which was really quite fortuitous because I had signed up to run the Disney World Half Marathon in early January. Ten weeks of training is the  minimum necessary to run it half well. I've been able to train consistently through the rest of 2015 so, 1 week from tomorrow I look forward to racing the race.

Yesterday, on the very last morning of 2015, I set out on a hard workout: A four mile tempo run which means four fast miles sandwiched between a mile warm up and a mile cool down.  Hey, there have been mornings when I've tried this workout and quit after only three. Sometimes it's just too much. But this time I did it. All four swift miles at a pace of 8:20. Pretty good, right? Yeah, I felt pleased to end this whole year without prostate woes on such a strong note.

But just 8:20? That's slow! I've run this work out MUCH faster. In the past. I want to get back there. Don't know if I can.

OPENING DAY HEROICS

Yesterday, the Mets won the first game of the season. They did this without scoring an earned run, with their oldest ever opening day starting pitcher and a closer who, despite veteran status, had never before earned a save. Am I surprised? Not at all. We almost always win the first game.

It wasn't always that way.

When the team came into existence in 1962 I was wise enough to largely ignore them. I was having enough adolescent troubles without adding 120 losses, including 1 on opening day, to the mix. In 1963, much to my horror and at least somewhat to my surprise, I became a Mets fan. From that I learned 2 things: You can't control who (or what) you love and I can be optimistic about anything. Somehow I entered that soon to be horrendous season with a sense of hope. The season's first pitch was a called strike and I remember thinking "we're off to a good start!" The second pitch was hit softly on the ground to our third baseman who fielded it (okay, still good) and threw it into the stands. I don't remember what I thought then or what I thought when we lost that game. Or what I thought when we lost the next season's opener. Or the next season's. Or the next. Or the next. Or the next. Or the next.

That's right, the Mets lost their first 8 opening day games! Which is quite a coincidence, because they also began my initial season as a Mets fanatic by losing their first 8 contests. Did I lose heart? Not at all. In fact, I remember the incredible excitement of the next 4 games which we swept from the Braves. Our shortstop, Al Moran ("Our man, Al Moran!") hit like crazy which is something because he never did again. Nor, for almost the rest of the 1960s, did we get to celebrate many 4 (or 3 or 2) game sweeps. Didn't matter. I was hooked for life.

So am I surprised we won this year's opener? Not at all. Since failing in every one of my teenage years to win the first game of the season, the Mets now have the best first day record in baseball. Given that, in 53 years we've only won the last game of the season twice, you may think that triumphing in the opener is not very important. But you'd be wrong.

As all optimists know, we still have a chance to go undefeated!

MILESTONES

I was just a boy and it was dark and the block from Avenue B to Avenue A seemed endless. Walking slowly towards our apartment at the corner I didn't feel scared, just thoughtful. I thought about what I wanted. What I wanted was to be older.

I wanted to have as many years as I had fingers on my hands. I thought it would be great to be 10!

Shortly before making it to 10, I sat in my dentist's chair and listened to the Dodgers beat the White Sox to clinch the World Series in 6 games. A painful yet happy day for me that I well remember, recall, in fact, far better than the day I reached double figures, which I don't recollect at all. I do, however, recall what I felt a short time late: Disappointment. Being 10 wasn't enough. I needed a year with a "teen" at the end of it. I wanted to be a teenager.

I wanted to be 13. That milestone, of course, would come with another...my bar mitzvah. That was a hard thing to study for; I feared embarrassing myself in front of everyone. Preparing for it was surely the toughest thing I'd done to that point. Good thing I did, because, while I can't remember my 13th birthday at all, I sure remember the big ceremony 10 days later.

It was raining really hard in the morning and, as it was ending, the rabbi said I'd become a man. That was silly. I knew I hadn't. Would a man's legs have been shaking so uncontrollably as mine had when singing my hav Torah? Certainly not. Nevertheless, I hadn't screwed it up so thank goodness for my studying. That was fairly manly, I guess. And, I did 1 other manly thing. Early that morning, at the urging and with the help of my dad, I'd shaved for the first time! Though no hair or stubble had been removed...or was initially present...from my face, it was still quite a manly act! So today I was sort of a man!!

In a few years I'd reached the milestones of moving away from home, attending college and earning the first "D" in my life. Approaching 18 in my sophomore year, my friend Diane wished to take me out drinking to celebrate my legality. Unlike the rest of my family (and certainly to the great confusion of my father who seemed to like most other things about me), I didn't actually enjoy drinking. My preference was to stay in the dorm and watch the hockey game. Diane, sadly, was not a hockey fan. Happily, however, we did no drinking that night.

College continued in my 21st year, as did the war in Vietnam. Things were starting to get a little more difficult. Facing my final semester at Stony Brook, I was student teaching at a nearby high school. I had to survive those classes, graduate and then decide how I wanted to handle career and my low draft number.

Near my 21st birthday, I taught a history class that was observed by both my cooperating teacher at the high school and my supervisor from Stony Brook. The class went very well. At it's conclusion, the students REALLY seemed to understand why Washington didn't want the U.S. to get into any foreign "entangling alliances." In fact, the class went too well. It had concluded 15 minutes before it was scheduled to officially end. What to do with all that additional time. Perhaps my choice of sitting there silently, thinking of the horrible things my cooperating and supervising teachers were about to say, was not the best way?

They liked the class. They advised me of what to do with extra time. They thought I could be a good teacher. Soon I graduated. Eventually I convinced my draft board that perhaps I could serve the country better not in the army. Twenty one turned out a good year...just can't recall the big celebration.

Soon 30 was approaching. This seemed strange. Thirty is not young (ask me if I still feel this way!), and I'd often heard that no one over 30 could be trusted. Frankly that seemed silly to me. On my 30th birthday I wrote myself a note which I still have. It read: "Already?" That morning I went to my grandmother's apartment on Avenue A to pick up some food she'd cooked for me. While there I looked out the window at the kids going into my old elementary school, PS 63. Many of them had once looked so formidable to me. Now they looked like children. I had, indeed, become older!

At 40 my family held a party. My Uncle Billy congratulated me, gave me $100 and observed: "Life begins at 40." Grateful for that encouragement, I looked up from the money and saw that he was smiling and rolling his eyes...not so encouraging! But, in fact, he was right, as I'd just finished therapy school and had begun my practice as a psychotherapist. As I was now finally doing work that I really enjoyed, life had, indeed, just begun!

As 50 approached, however, I was getting a bit tired of aging. I decided NOT to think at all about this milestone but instead concentrate only on the New York Marathon for which I'd registered for the first time and was scheduled 2 days after my Halloween Birthday. It all was going well till a series of calf injuries limited my training. I showed up at the starting line anyways and did my best, but that only got me to mile 17 where I staggered off the course. The next year, however, I tried again and made it to the glorious finish line. I'd now ALWAYS be a marathon finisher! My second half century took a while but was now off to a promising start.

And now my 65th approaches. Three weeks ago I had surgery and that requires that I now take it easy. I thought then that a great goal for the big day would be to do my first post surgery run then. However I've been recovering well and yesterday my surgeon said go ahead and start working out. So today I did 30 minutes on the elliptical. Not too tough, but makes me think that I can run before we get to October 31. So now I'm revising the milestone. Come Halloween I plan on running 65 miles...not that fast, of course...1 mile for each of my years....

Just kidding. I'm a kidder! Maybe I'll aim for 5 or 6 miles, to commemorate either the second or first digit of my new age. That should get things off to a good start!!

RACING THROUGH HARLEM

I'm good with numbers but these didn't make sense...7:20, 13, 8:30, 135. It was 7:20 this morning as I sat in my 13th Street apartment, calves resting on a heating pad, warming and relaxing them for the 8:30 race starting at 135th Street and St. Nicolas Avenue. Chatting contentedly on the phone, Gracie The Cat purring in my lap, it all felt so good till it struck me...What am I doing here? Not fully dressed, no race bib and number, not on the train to Harlem? I'm going to miss the race!!

Contentedness gone, I yelled to my startled friend that I was way late and had to go. Sending Gracie The Cat unintentionally flying, I threw on my things, hoped I'd not forgotten anything else, raced out the door, up 13th to 6th Avenue (just part of my warm up I reassured myself), got a cab and headed uptown.

One hour till race time. I grumbled at each red light, cursed when Central Park appeared closed to traffic, twisted in frustration each time we stopped at another light on 8th Avenue. Did I have enough cash to pay? How do you use a credit card in a taxi? How could I with no glasses and unable to see where the credit card was supposed to go? We passed 120th Street. Forty minutes to race time. I'll make it...if I can find where to get my race bib. Suddenly we halted at 125th...blocked off for the race.

"Damn these runners," I thought, missing the irony. I paid in cash, leaving a big tip as there was no time for change. I started running the half mile to 135th. Other racers were  warming up around me...it felt comforting to be among them. It looked good, if only I could find the place to pick up my race number. There it was! Right across from the start line. In then out. Got everything. Bib, singlet, racing flats on, baggage dropped off. Ready with 20 minutes to spare.

A quick final warm up and stretch. To the start. The loud speaker is on. 50th anniversary of the Civil Rights Act. Chaney, Goodwin and Schwerner. Percy Sutton. Harlem Festival. Trumpet plays America The Beautiful then The Star Spangled Banner. It's time. We're off.

I want to do better than I did 2 years ago. The first mile is narrow and I can't pass anyone. Good. Keeps me under control for the NASTY hills around 1/2 mile in. UP, up, up, turn to the left and up some more. Why hadn't I trained on hills? Another turn left. Mile 1 marker...8:03...9 seconds faster than before. Finally a good number. I'm feeling strong.

But not for long. The course opens up. Mile 2 is fairly flat but I'm suddenly fatigued. Everything feels strained. Pushing on, getting passed by a few but not many, bypassing a couple myself. I think about slowing, want to slow but force myself not to. Mile 3 is easier; just got to get there. The mile 2 marker...8:01. A tiny bit better than last time.

I'm well positioned for a sub 8 minute pace because the final mile is mainly downhill. Gravity will help, I tell myself. Just hang in there. No slacking off so close to the finish. Streets are going by. Where's the damn downhill? I'm about a quarter mile in...have they changed the course? So far just flat. I'm hurting and struggling. There it is! A STEEP downhill. One block. Then 2 blocks. Three. Four. I'm flying! This is the way to race! Left turn at the border of St. Nicolas Park. The downhill had to end sometime. But no! Another lovely downhill block!

I turn downtown towards the finish. It should be soon but this is 127th Street and the race doesn't end till about 135th. I can't see the finish banner. Can't see any more downhills. No more uphills, thankfully, either. But it's a tremendous struggle. WAY too close to the end and my goal to slacken. Just have to push. The streets go by. Still no end in sight. Then there it is! Three mile marker. Got it! 7:39! Gravity is good. Sub 8 minutes in the bag. Tenth of a mile to go. Why is it so long? Don't slow. Instead push. 47 seconds. I'm across the finish line.

24:31 on my watch. A solid 19 seconds quicker than 2 years ago. I've gotten faster. Have I also gotten younger? Exact same time as last week but on a much tougher course. So I'm a better runner now...perhaps a better person? 7:55 pace. Given the state of my training, that's good.

A woman recognizes me and introduces me to her friend: "He's one of the fast ones." I'm pleased. I go to cheer others to the finish. I'm also noting the many who are now ending after me. I especially note the guys and, in particular, the younger guys, which pretty much constitutes ALL the guys.

Another woman, this one wearing a Greater New York singlet like mine, approaches. On the same team but we've never met. She's also recovering from injuries. More runners, including younger guys,  stream in. She, too, was late to the start and had no time to get ready. "So mile 1 was your warm up," I observe. "How fast did you run it?"

"7:30," she responds. Damn! Way faster than me and I had several warm ups and I'm also, you know, a guy. She apologizes for telling me all about her injuries. To make her feel better I tell her all about mine, emphasizing that they came not just from running but from softball too. I'm a multi athletic guy is my point though incapable yet of racing a 7:30 on crowded, uphill first miles.

It's all relative, you know. And for me this was relatively good.

WHY I'M THINKING ABOUT WILBUR HUCKLE

I've been thinking about Wilbur Huckle. Wilbur was an infielder in the Mets' farm system from 1963-1971. He was featured with Cleon Jones on a TOPPS baseball card, 1964 Mets Rookie Stars. Unlike Cleon, however, a star he was never to be.

But what a name! Once I had to give a speech in high school English class. Among the topics I chose: Met players with funny names. Choo Choo Coleman and Duke Carmel got laughs. Cliff Cook and Hot Rod Kanehl not much. Wilbur Huckle? People rolled in the aisles!

I saw great possibilities. Suppose he joined the Mets and lead the team to victory over Pittsburg. Next day headline: Huckle Buries Pirates! Dwelling, perhaps, too much on his inability to get on base (.314 on base percentage), the Mets were blind to the potential.

The fans were displeased, but had limited means of self expression. They created a button to be worn to games: "Wilbur Huckle For President," read one, but LBJ was elected instead and no major party nominated Huckle. Despite his name, the Rookie Card, my imagination and the buttons he played out his 9 year career without ever joining the Mets.

He became our disappeared hero.

Which brings me to Wilmer Flores. His similarities with Wilbur are obvious. Almost the same first name. Both have been righty batting infielders playing for a bunch of Met minor league teams. Oh, and a difference: Where Wilbur couldn't hit or hit for power (14 home runs in 746 games), Wilmer can (13 this season alone in 55 AAA games with Las Vegas).

You'd think this would make Wilmer of interest to the big club. We've struggled for runs and have a shortstop, Reuben Tejada, who is a limited hitter with no power. His .289 slugging average is dwarfed by Flores' monumental .568 for Las Vegas this season. Heck, even Huckle slugged better, at .324 lifetime! As Wilmer was born in Venezuela, we can't nominate him for President, but he could be an upgrade at shortstop, right? Only common sense that he deserves a chance. The Mets, apparently, disagree.

Wilmer has been called up 4 times over the last 2 seasons. The first, in August of 2013, came when David Wright was injured. Flores played until he stepped on third base the wrong way...hey, at least he'd made it to third...and sprained his ankle. Season over. This year he didn't make the squad out of spring training, but got called up...for 1 game at second base...then sent back to Las Vegas. About a month later, with the team having trouble scoring, back he came to play shortstop. In fact he played only sporadically and was soon returned to the minors so he could play regularly. That he did and well, amassing a 23 game hitting streak and driving in more than a run per game. Enough to earn a recall? Nope. Not till Tejada took a fastball to the helmet.

Up came Flores, but not to play regularly. Since that recent recall he's not started more than 1 game in a row. The Mets must be waiting to make sure Tejada is okay and hasn't lost any of his power. Then they can ship out Wilmer again or relegate him to the bench.

Many Mets fans are unhappy. There's a "Free Wilmer" campaign bubbling on line. Met blogs and twitter are filled with angry, uncomprehending, comments. For all the good that it's done, next we might try buttons.

Flores has been treated like a yoyo. While it may seem he's had more of a chance than Huckle who never rode all the way up, the opportunity is largely illusory. Without anything approaching regular time, Flores has been placed in a situation most likely to bring on failure. Then he can continue to yoyo till he quietly fades away. Disappears.

Wilmer Flores is becoming the new Wilbur Huckle!