Mr. Met: A suspiciously engorged cranium.
As a Mets loyalist I've looked at the burgeoning Kirk Radomski scandal, riddled with juicers, sprucers and gooses (OK, geese), with a weary, leary eye. Sure, this gentleman, once a clubhouse assistant (a/k/a jock jockey) for Queens' Kings, was a supplier for some of baseball's most surrepticious steroid users. He's believed to be the primary pinch hitter (the Lenny Harris, if you will) for baseball's drug-needy after BALCO folded up shop. And Radomski, by all accounts, is a pesky stool pigeon. A rat with gouda wedged between his chompers. His testimony may leak (or will, if you're cynic) and will be bulging with names like Dante Bichette (or not) and Paul Molitor (OK, definitely not). And yet, because his affiliation with an actual Major League Baseball organization is so loose and ill-defined, he is slathered with the Mets emblem. Which, naturally, implies the Mets complicity in his dastardliness. Nonsense. These Mets he worked with were model citizens.