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The bookkeeping is terrible, of course: The Mets won 40 games, lost 120, had one rained out and played a rain-shortened tie that was not resumed. They scored 617 runs and gave up 948, with an astounding 210 fielding errors leading to 147 unearned runs. Their best pitcher, Roger Craig, was 10-24 with three saves in 233 innings. Al Jackson was 8-20. Jay Hook was 8-19. Craig Anderson was 3-17. Richie Ashburn, a future Hall of Famer but slowed mightily at age 35, hit .306 and a journeyman named Frank Thomas — not to be confused with future Hall slugger Frank Thomas 30 years later — peppered the short foul line at the Polo Grounds for 34 homers.

But it didn’t add up to enough and on opening day, in St. Louis, the die was cast when 16 Mets, heading for the bus to the ballpark, were trapped in the hotel elevator for a half-hour.

Previous to that, in spring training, the team threw a cocktail party for itself after beating the Yankees 4-3 in an exhibition game. Once everyone was trying, the Mets lost the first nine games of their official existence. Soon they added a 17-game losing streak, then another of seven. By the time these then-nine-year-old eyes saw them, in the creaky old Polo Grounds around mid-season, they were some 40 games below .500 and deservedly so. Another 13-game losing streak was coming.

Ashburn, in centre field, covered little ground, but could get to short fly balls. Trouble is, shortstop Elio Chacón, who spoke no English, couldn’t understand Ashburn calling for the ball and wiped him out a couple of times in collisions. A bilingual teammate found the solution: He told Ashburn to shout ”Yo la tengo!” on such fly balls. Chacón understood and the next time one went up, Ashburn charged in yelling ”Yo la tengo!” Chacón peeled off, Ashburn settled in to make the catch and promptly was wiped out by the left-fielder, who spoke no Spanish.

By mid-season the fans, non-Yankee types desperate for National League baseball after the beloved Giants and Dodgers had fled to the West Coast five years previous, embraced and even cherished their overmatched representatives. Even down six or eight runs, a rally of two or three hits was enough to get the park roaring and shaking. The fans loved their Mets.

Take Marvelous Marv, a stone-gloved first baseman with the good sense to poke fun at his own failings. There are many Marvelous Marv stories, but the favourite here concerns the time he participated in a rundown, but neglected to remove himself from the baseline after getting rid of the ball. He bumped the runner, who was declared safe. A barrage of enemy runs ensued. Anxious to make amends next inning, Marv hit a two-run triple to tie the game. Except he was called out for missing first base. As manager Stengel charged out to do battle with the umps, he was headed off by his first-base coach. “Don’t bother, Casey,” the man said. “He missed second base, too.”

Throneberry watched his backup, named Ed Bouchee, make a couple of errors and strike out with the bases loaded one day. “What are you trying to do?” Marv asked him. “Steal my fans?”

Speaking of which, five Marv fans entered with lettered T-shirts spelling out M-A-R-V-! Late in the game they charged on to the dugout roof, but spelled out V-R-A-M-! instead. (Alcohol may have been involved.)

Stengel, legendary manipulator of the English language, had skippered the stainless-steel Yankees for 12 years, making 10 World Series and winning seven, but was fired after losing the title in 1960 to the Pirates. “I was fired for turning 70,’ he said at the time. “I’ll never make that mistake again.”

Stengel turned 72 during the 1962 season and the Mets threw him a birthday party. According to legend, Throneberry — whom Stengel usually addressed as Thornberry — complained that he didn’t get a piece of cake. “We was going to give you one, Marv,” Stengel said. “But we was afraid you would drop it.”

Stengel navigated through 45 players for the 25-man roster that season. Among his bullpen options was Wilmer (Vinegar Bend) Mizell, who forged a nine-year career in the big leagues before a multi-term career in the U.S. House of Representatives. One would think Mizell was one of those folksy southern types named for his hometown. Except he was born in Leakesville, Miss., close to nearby Vinegar Bend, Ala., where he started his pro career. It was mostly over for Vinegar Bend by ‘62, though. In 38 innings he yielded 48 hits and 25 walks. Similarly, Sherman (Roadblock) Jones lasted only eight games (ERA 7.71) before, in the parlance of the day, he “threw his arm out.”

Stengel used seven different catchers, including the immortal Choo Choo Coleman, of whom Roger Angell in the New Yorker once said: “He handles the outside curve like a man fighting bees.” Coleman was, possibly, distrustful of the media and when Mets TV guy Ralph Kiner tried a friendly interview on live television, he asked how Choo Choo had picked up that nickname.

“Don’t know,” he replied.

Undaunted, Kiner pressed on. “Well, tell us about your wife. What’s her name and what’s she like?”

“Her name is Mrs. Coleman and she likes me,” Choo Choo answered.

The pitching staff also contained two men named Robert (Bob) Miller. One, a right-hander, was selling cars in Detroit when he got the call to return to the majors after a six-year absence. The other was a left-hander who went 1-12 that year, mostly as a starter, but recovered to spend 17 years in the majors. In someone’s idea of a cruel joke, especially on hotel switchboards, they roomed together on the road. Stengel made it simple to tell them apart. He called one of them Nelson and trusted his coaches to find the right one.

The only pitcher on the team with a winning record, at 5-4, was Ken MacKenzie, the lone Canadian on the team and also the lone Yale University graduate. When Stengel brought him into games, he would hand him the baseball and say, “Pretend you’re pitching against them Harvards.”

Wonder if they’ll be telling similar stories about the White Sox in 60 years.