A John Wayne Movie? Try Laurel and Hardy

There used to be this stock scene in John Wayne movies where the grizzled, hard-bitten old top kick, played by Duke Wayne himself, would take over this demoralized platoon of foul-ups, misfits, mama’s boys and crybabies and mold them into a formidable fighting force that would drive the Japanese Imperial Army out of Burma or the Nazis out of Sicily or whatever.

It was boffo entertainment, sure-fire box office. The plot was simple. Wayne would kick butt, snarl, bully, sneer and cajole until his men/boys hated him more than they did the enemy, but he would get them in such a rebellious mood, they would sit around, darkly thinking of mutiny.

In the meantime, they would turn into crack troops, exactly as he had planned it--resolute, defiant, the few good men the officer corps always wanted.

Well, the New York Mets’ hierarchy must have caught a few old screenings of “The Sands of Iwo Jima,” or maybe it was “She Wore a Yellow Ribbon,” because they just replaced the squad leader of their faltering platoon, a gang of sad sacks known as the New York Metropolitans. This is a baseball team that kept shooting itself in the foot, players marching into a swamp, falling on their swords, looking around to see where to go to surrender. This is the most inept force this side of McHale’s Navy.

You couldn’t believe this gang of cutups could be nine games behind an expansion team--and 27 games out of the league lead--and it wasn’t even summer yet. This was a team chopping a hole in the bottom of the lifeboat. The Mets would have to improve to be considered a disaster.

This was a scenario that called for John Wayne, all right, if not for St. Francis of Assisi.

So, the Met management, bless their little peaked heads, went out and got their John Wayne.

Dallas Green is the nearest thing to the Duke you will find in a baseball uniform. He should show up in a green beret. Physically imposing, as Wayne was, well over 6 feet, wrists like wagon tongues, temper of a mule-skinner and the vocabulary to match, he looked like the most perfect man this side of General Patton for this role.

In the movies, the plot moves along to where the GIs or Marines finally figure what their tormentor is up to. He’s trying to make them men. One by one, they catch on (the roll call, by the way, was always “O’Brien, Winialski, Schmidt, Ginsberg, Mason, LeClerc, Flores and Luciano”). They go to the sarge finally and confess tearfully that they didn’t know what he was doing, but now they realize it was all for their own good and he has saved their lives and incidentally won the war.

It hasn’t quite worked out that way for the Mets. This script needs a rewrite. The real-life screw-up platoon looks at their new mentor with this, “Is this guy kidding?” look or a “Where you been, man? We’re 27 games out. Why don’t you just go play golf and leave us alone?”

Pitchers still go out to the mound with a sigh and a “let’s get this thing over with” attitude. They watch resignedly as an infielder kicks away double-play balls, the center fielder is out of position and the players play as if they haven’t been introduced to each other. Talk about lost battalions.

This has not gone unnoticed in the New York press, which, unlike the Mets, has not lost any of its fighting spirit. The Daily News on Tuesday printed a team logo on its front page in which the franchise was identified as the “New York Mess.” The lead columnist, Mike Lupica, scattered blame like confetti.

For once, he didn’t blame the ineptitude on the field. He blamed it in the front office. He listed the guys who were responsible for the calamity on the field, and they were all wearing ties and collars.

To be sure, none of them took a called third strike with the bases loaded or dropped a fly ball in short center or threw a hanging curve to Lenny Dykstra. But, then, history didn’t pick on General Custer because he couldn’t shoot straight. It was his front-office decisions.

The press has already called attention to all the clownishness on the field--the missed signals, the missed pitches, the missed catches, the gopher balls. Lupica concentrated on the mistakes by the high command. “Someone has to be held accountable for this besides an unmotivated outfielder,” he observed darkly.

New York is not a patient town. It does not suffer losses gracefully. Dallas Green did all his shtick. He held loud meeting after loud meeting. He coaxed, got choleric, even abusive, tried everything Wayne would. The evidence is, he just made all these millionaires uncomfortable. They showed up, didn’t they? What more did he want? I mean, it’s just a game, right? Not World War III. Not the Burma Road.

Dallas even went out the other night and attacked the umpires. He raged, shook his fist, threw chairs. His team sat there amazed.

This is not going to play in Peoria. There is something terminally wrong with the New York Mess that would stress even the real John Wayne. This is a team with Doc Gooden, Bret Saberhagen--Cy Young Award pitchers both--Eddie Murray, Howard Johnson, Bobby Bonilla, Vince Coleman and John Franco, and they can’t catch the Florida Marlins? They have a worse record than the Colorado Rockies?

The other night at Shea Stadium, reporters waited patiently for a session with Green. It never materialized. He was in constant meetings with his general manager, Al Harazin.

The next morning, we found out why. Harazin had been put in a boat and cast adrift.

Lupica was defiant. “Don’t look at me that way!” he said in mock alarm. “I didn’t do it! I know he’s got mouths to feed and to face the guys at the Lambs’ Club. Hey, there are casualties in war.”

Not even John Wayne could save this picture.