IT is good that the Mets saw fit to honor Jackie Robinson. It is honorable. It is right that in their new ballpark, the Mets decided to create a permanent reminder to the world that on the subject of racial tolerance, and advancement, the city of New York — and, specifically, one of its National League franchises — ran ahead of the curve.
I suspect most Mets fans have little problem with that, either. Or even the fact that the most prominent and ballyhooed portion of Citi Field, the Jackie Robinson Rotunda, is named after someone who not only never played for the Mets, and never worked in any capacity for the Mets, but in fact played his last game six full years before the Mets even were born.
What has to burn Mets fans, though, and should, is the fact that the Mets, as has been their custom forever, made no effort to make sure there was any kind of nod to their own history anywhere notable at their new ballpark. There is talk of a Mets Hall of Fame someday, but there has been similar talk forever. You only have one opportunity to open a new ballpark. And the Mets whiffed.
That isn’t unusual, because this is a franchise that has gone to great lengths over the years to, for some mysterious, inexplicable reason, to distance itself from its own history. It is madness, and remains madness, that only one player — Tom Seaver — has his number retired, though it seems inevitable that Mike Piazza’s No. 31 will join Seaver’s 41 soon enough.
It is absurd that not one member of the 1986 Mets — winners of 108 regular-season games and a World Series — has their number retired. Not the No. 17 of Keith Hernandez, the catalyst of the renaissance that culminated with ’86. Not Gary Carter, the only member of that team in the Hall of Fame. Not No. 5, worn by Davey Johnson, the best manager in the team’s history (though it would seem that ship has sailed, because David Wright has gained proprietorship over the number now).
But it is the worst kind of slap at Mets fans that there isn’t a room, or a hallway, or a wing, dedicated — on the day the place opened — to the team’s history. It is inexcusable. And Mets fans have every right to be as angry about that as they do about obstructed seats, about the fact that the stadium’s security guards seem to be dressed in Phillies jackets, about the fact that other than orange foul poles there’s no nod at all to the Mets’ team colors — the same team colors the Mets have no problem at all seeing their fans shell out souvenir money for.
This has nothing to do with the Yankees, by the way. Look, nobody with a rational molecule in their brain would ever think to compare themselves with the Yankees unless you happen to play basketball in Boston or ice hockey in Montreal. The Yankees have more history than any of them; more history than any 15 teams in baseball. And the Yankees are more than happy to celebrate that history, to revel in it, to bathe in it. The Yankees would have opened a New Yankee Stadium without a home plate before they would have opened it without Monument Park. They have a peerless history. They should commemorate it at every turn.
But here’s something the men who run the Mets never want to acknowledge, for whatever reason: the Mets have a pretty significant history, too, and that’s true even without trying to attach themselves to their spiritual antecedents, the Dodgers and the Giants. The Mets have won two world championships; of all the teams born since baseball first expanded in 1961, 14 in all, just the Marlins and Blue Jays have won that many. Of the other 16, the Mets have as many as the Phillies, Cubs, Indians and Twins/Senators, all of whom had a 60-year head start on them.
What of the memories? Think of all the crazy games this team has played. There wasn’t a place to put a big screen and a constant loop of highlights from the Imperfect Game, the Black Cat Game, the Ball Off The Top of the Fence Game, the Grand Single Game, the Buckner Game a you get the idea.
And think about this: name me another franchise, in baseball or any other sport, in which two of its teams are instant metaphors, for entirely different reasons? If you coach a Little League team, or play in a YMCA hoops league, and your team isn’t very good, what do you invariably say? “We’re the ’62 Mets.” Conversely, if you’re team comes out of nowhere to turn things around, what do you say about yourselves? “We’re like the ’69 Mets.” God, in the form of George Burns, said it Himself: “The last miracle I performed was the 1969 Mets.”
You don’t think that matters? You’re either wrong or you’re one of the people who designed this ballpark. And maybe both. I was talking with my friend Peter Schwartz, one of the gifted radio voices, who told me a story the other day about how he and his wife decided to encourage their 20-month-old son’s rooting interest. He’s a Yankees/Islanders fan. She’s a Mets/Rangers fan. They compromised: he would root for the Mets and the Islanders. There are certain things, it’s important to think them through.
It would have been nice if the Mets had.
(Mike Vaccaro’s e-mail address is michael.vaccaro@nypost.com and his third book, “The First Fall Classic,” will be released in October. For a daily dose of Vac’s Whacks, check out blogs.nypost.com/sports/vaccaro)