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This was the moment when it felt like the walls were about to cave in for good in that last week of September 1999, and Edgardo Alfonzo was officially lost. The Mets had spent the prior four months playing superb baseball. Just over a week earlier, safely in the playoff picture, they’d flown to Atlanta a game out of first place, intent on catching the Braves.

The Braves swept them. Then the Phillies swept them, too, at old Veterans Stadium, and the Braves took two out of three back at Shea Stadium, clinching the division, pouring acid and lime on the remains of the Mets season. They were two games out of the wild card with three to play.

Alfonzo? Across the season’s first 145 games he’d blossomed into a star and a legit MVP candidate (he’d finish eighth), hitting .310/.398/.511, 25 homers, 102 RBI, with elite defense at second base. But in the seven-game losing streak that turned the season upside down he’d been anemic: four hits in 30 plate appearances, one extra-base hit, one RBI.

In the home clubhouse at Shea, just before you’d turn left to exit toward the field, the manager’s office sat on the right. The door was open. Alfonzo noted Bobby Valentine at his desk. He walked in, asked, “How are you doing?”’