Let's face it. During the baseball season, we define ourselves through our beloved teams. We suffer and complain when they lose. We gloat to our friends and slap hands with strangers when they win. We pick out little things to love about them and ignore their obvious drawbacks.

I once read about two minor league owners who swapped teams. Ha, ha. They should be immortalized in the Hall of Lame, along with the genius who started wiggling the camera during AT&T ads. They were screwing with their fans' identities. Who do you root for? Should you move?

As baseball moves into the 1990s, this Met fan is having a little identity crisis of his own, his second one. Everyone hates the Mets. And I'm beginning to wonder if all those people don't have a point.

Early in the '80s, the Mets were impossible to resist. They had a theme song that went, "The Mets are really socking the ball--they're hitting those homers, over the wall." They had perennial losing pitchers like Pete Falcone, Bob Apodaca and Skip Lockwood. They had young, exciting players with goofy grins and exotic names like Mookie Wilson and Hubie Brooks. They had Rusty Staub, the league's fattest pinch-hitter.(Staub was especially fun to have around. When your friend had to retrieve the ball from the bush you could yell, "Quick, you've got a shot at second base! Rusty's running!")

But midway through the decade General Manager Frank Cashen got serious. Suddenly, the Mets were trading for honest-to-goodness superstars like Keith Hernandez and Gary Carter, and drafting superstars-to-be-in-a-hurry, Dwight Gooden and Darryl Strawberry. With a new manager, Davey Johnson, at the helm, the Amazins vaulted into contention.

This was my first crisis. Winning teams burden their fans with emotionally taxing tasks like check- ing the out-of-town scoreboard. But I was afull-fledged teenager now, and I was ready for thepsychological strain of a pennant race. In 1984and 1985, the Mets came tantalizingly close, yettheir second-place finishes were acceptable. Afterall, they weren't supposed to be any good. Theyplayed well. They tried hard.

New York cruised through the 1986 regularseason with ease. We crushed people. We bragged.We were bad.

My high school soccer team had its leaguechampionship game during Game 5 of the NLplayoffs. While we were thrashing Woodmere, werelied on updates from kids with radios in thestands:

"Third inning, no score!"

"Seventh inning, no score!"

"Oh, no. Ninth inning, Astros, 3-0. Wait, 3-1!OHMIGOD! THE METS TIED IT UP! THEY TIED IT UP!"

We closed out our championship, and dashed forthe locker room. I was dressed by the bottom ofthe 11th. I listened to the 12th and 13th in thecar. I was home for the 14th, and watched LennyDykstra hit the biggest home run of his life. Ormine.

That night, I saw Lenny in a Port Washingtonrestaurant. You wouldn't believe the standingovation he got. Or how rudely he blew his admirersoff.

The World Series, of course, was the pinnacleof my spectatorial career. Mookie hit The GroundBall, Buckner misplayed it into the history books,Jesse O threw his mitt on to the front page ofevery New York tabloid and the Mets piled on tothe mound for a drunken champagne celebration thatlasted hours.

We were the champs. Everyone hated us. What athrill.

But the last three years have been trying timesfor us Met lovers. We wanted to think of Mexcareening down the first-base line to snag a buntand nab a runner at third, not Keith Hernandeztestifying about cocaine deals in Pittsburgh. Dr.K winning the Cy Young, not Dwight Gooden in cokerehab. The Kid diving into the fourth row for aseventh-row foul ball, not Gary Carter mugging forTV and irritating everyone with his golly-geefamily man routine. Straw slamming 35 taters, notDarryl Strawberry acting like a two-year-old.Nails hitting the miraculous round-tripper, notLenny Dykstra wigging out in the Pasta Pot.

It's not that these guys were my heroes. Theywere just cogs in the machine that I loved. Butthen they had to go out and act like human beings.Mediocre ones.

Still, I was faithful to my squad. After all,they were the Mets. But now, I don't even know whothey are. The attrition began with the swapping ofDykstra and fun-loving Roger McDowell toPhiladelphia. Mookie was next, sent to Toronto todrag the Jays into the playoffs.

October has been the cruelest month.Co-Captains Hernandez and Carter have been let go.The final blow will drop tomorrow when Cashenfires Johnson. All Davey has done is win moregames than anyone else since he was hired. Herefused to kick dirt on umps, like Earl Weaver. Hedidn't abuse his pitchers, like Billy Martin. Henever tried to win games by himself, like WhiteyHerzog. He wasn't a celebrity, like Tommy Lasorda.He just let his players win.

Who will I be cheering on at Shea as the Metsenter their third new era of the decade? Will I beable to get excited about Dave Magadan, KevinElster and balding Barry Lyons?

Sure I will. Once you adopt a team, you don'tabandon it, even when its prominent players moveon. Even with an altered cast of characters, theMets are still the Mets. Shea is still Shea. Andthe memories of the '80s are still mine