The glove I took to spring training in 1962, hooked through the handle of my portable manual typewriter, saw service only once, which was enough.

Early one morning in St. Petersburg, Fla., while the scrubs were batting against a hung-over bullpen coach, I slipped into right field and settled under what broadcasters call “an easy soft fly.” It exploded in my hand. My palm still stings at the memory.

I hung up my glove that day, having survived the revelation that professional athletes were a different species, even if they were the has-beens, hardly-ables and never-will-bes stocking an empty shelf on its way to becoming one of the worst baseball teams of all time. It’s a lesson that has lasted 50 years, since the Mets were new and America felt good about itself.

There was room for a lovable loser in sports in those heady days of J.F.K.’s Camelot, the Peace Corps and John Glenn orbiting the earth. We could take a joke then. America was flexing its muscles, shaking off its ’50s flab as surely as winter-sodden ballplayers were groaning their way into shape for a fresh season.

Among the Mets acquired in the expansion draft because they were considered past their prime or otherwise expendable were some star players, including Frank Thomas, a three-time All-Star slugger at Pittsburgh; Gus Bell, a four-time All-Star at Cincinnati; and the onetime Phillies Whiz Kid Richie Ashburn, a former batting champion with a .308 career average. Alas, there were more critical numbers — the three made up an outfield with 19 children and a combined age of 102...