Anyway...

Via metsgrrl, Greg Prince writes an elegy and kvetch about the Mets and their history, particularly with fan relations.

That didn’t get used in the movie, but I thought of it again after seeing the film a third time. Citi Field seamlessly (albeit with a little psychic kicking and screaming) has taken over as my destination, even if it could never quite fill the role as brilliantly as Shea. Citi Field was destined to be Roger Moore to Shea’s Sean Connery. Yet it’s where I go as much as I can. I don’t dream about it the same way, I don’t reflexively answer that it’s where I want to be. If there’s a threat of rain before a game to which I hold a ticket, I still say something to the effect of “I’m going to check the weather at Shea,” not to be contrary, but just because that’s where I’ve always looked.

(No, I haven't.  Clinching has happened [the Twins!  The Reds!  Texas!  Philadelphia!], but I've been distracted lately; also, my team [rebuilding decade, remember] is prevented from achieving the cellar only because the team currently occupying last place has moved in with deck chairs and a barbecue pit.)