“Clendenon,” Swoboda noted sardonically, “called it the stupidest catch he ever saw because I went for it.”

Clendenon. Alert, tough, college-educated. A veteran voice in the clubhouse. And a central figure in that wild August game in San Francisco that Gaspar so vividly remembers. Here’s how he tells it:

“It’s the bottom of the ninth, tie score, one out, Bob Burda is on first, Willie McCovey is up and we have the McCovey shift on. Everyone is pulled over to the right. I’m playing left, but I’m almost in center. Tug McGraw is pitching and McCovey sticks out his bat and hits a high, nine-iron shot down the left-field line. I chase after the ball, pick it up and throw blindly toward home plate.

“I knew it was the game right there. I figured Burda was going to score easy. But you know what? I threw a rocket to Jerry Grote, all the way in the air, and Burda was out by 15 feet. And Grote was so stunned he rolled the ball back to the mound even though there only two outs. And McCovey, who had reached second, sees this and takes off for third. And Clendenon, who was always paying attention, picks the ball up and throws to third. Double play.

“The next inning, Clendenon hits a home run and we win the game.”

McAndrew said: “Clendenon could strap you on his back and get those big hits to drive in runs for a week or 10 days. All the low-scoring games, we won them.”

And all the crazy games — the Mets won them, too. Some mystical combination of talent, toughness, luck and magic conquered everything in its path. For one season.

“The next year,” Swoboda said, “we tried to make it happen, rather than let it happen. Something was missing. All it does is add more mystery to 1969 in my book.”

A magical, mystical mystery, actually. One that, 50 years later, still endures.