01/30/2011 04:33 pm ET | Updated May 25, 2011

Buy Me Some Peanuts and a Piece of the Mets

When I was solvent, the Mets weren't for sale. When I had money, I spent tons of it on Mets partial season ticket plans. I should have taken the major bucks I shelled out over many disappointing seasons and invested that money.

I never moved in Madoff-circles, or even people-who-had-cousins-who-played-tennis-with-Madoff circles. So while my bank account would have been tantalizingly hefty (and I am Jewish), that bum Bernie would never have had the opportunity to ponzi away my money.

With the ticket money squirreled away, the thousands not spent on parking, plus the cash I wouldn't have squandered on $5 waters and $6 pretzels (don't get me started on the steep cost of a squished knish), I'd now be in position to become an equity partner in the NY Mets.

I'd step up to the plate with capital that earned me interest during the many painful off-seasons, most of which ended before the playoffs began (now's not a good time to get me started on how Carlos Beltran broke my heart in 2006 and Tom Glavine devastated me in 2007). My wealth would have swelled simply by refraining from pre-paying for post-season tickets. As things actually transpired, the team made my money work for them through the next spring, when it graciously game me credit towards increasingly more expensive seats in front of a decreasingly skillful team.

Staying away from the ballpark meant that I also saved mega-money not spent on players' jerseys, as well as caps, blankets, sweatshirts, and other assorted paraphernalia (and don't even get me started on how unappealing a bobble-head doll looks once outside the confines of the stadium shop). With all due respect to emerging economies, I believe I spent more on Mets' souvenirs and tchotkes than some nations spend on infrastructure.

As Messrs. Wilpon, Katz, and Wilpon now stand with hands outstretched, begging for a reliever to save them from their business jam, I could come swooping in on the Tug McGraw bullpen cart, clutching wads of cash, and retire the debt! My accumulated cash would be enough to bolster the roster and rebuild Mets fans' confidence that the team cared enough to spend the very best.

Mets fans everywhere would get excited about the robust team that my money made possible, and the buzz would build and build like the anticipation of a Darryl Strawberry at-bat. For 81 games (plus) each season, throngs of orange and blue clad fans would storm the gates of the newly renamed Shea! Hey! Stadium, with its better sightlines and retractable awning, passing by statues of great Mets like Seaver, Koosman, Staub, Agee, and Piazza.

And while the delirious throngs are chanting "Let's Go Mets!" from the first inning through the last, I'd be charging $20 for parking, $5 for water, and an arm plus a leg for a stadium seat cushion.