NEW YORK -- During his four-season tour with the Mets in the 90s, Ryan Thompson hit 39 home runs, about 120 fewer than he had hoped to hit. Yet, despite his modest output, Thompson proved to be a more accomplished slugger than he was a baseball historian.

His sense of history and prowess with the bat came together in the summer of 1994, when manager Dallas Green asked Ralph Kiner to share his expertise and tutor the young, talented and not particularly realistic outfielder. Green hoped Kiner could impart some wisdom to the slugger-wannabe, who believed the game was mostly a home run derby and swung as if it were.

Always one to help, Kiner met briefly with Thompson one day on the road and then again the following day. After the longer session, Thompson returned to his locker unsure of how much trust to put in what he had heard. "They got that announcer working with me, now," he said, with some annoyance in his voice.

At that point, "That Announcer" was in his 33rd summer speaking into a Mets microphone and, unbeknownst to Thompson, in his 43rd year as a prominent presence in the big-league pantheon. Kiner wasn't merely a voice, but rather a vein rich in baseball knowledge and lore. His voice was one of experience. And what experience!

Then, as now -- whether the topic was Thompson or Nolan Ryan, Leo's lip or Casey's hip, Mookie or El Duque, Piggy's tomatoes or Strawberry's Field, Roger Cedeno or Rogers Hornsby, Gary Cooper or Cooperstown, Mr. Met or Miss Rheingold, Mettle the Mule or the black cat, David Cone or Gary Cohen, the Hammer or Nails, the '62 Mets or the '93 mess, the K Corner or Bobby O, Wagner's heat or Tug's screwball, Liz Taylor's smile or George Foster's scowl, Rusty's ribs or Pedro's shoulder, Mazzilli's pants or Lindsey's jackets or Robert L. Miller or Robert E. Mets -- Kiner has had a firm grasp of the topic, something to say about it and a willingness to share it with all.

So many of us have heard him and benefited from his knowledge, expertise and his vast library of anecdotes. Whether it happened to The Franchise or the franchise, to Dallas, Pumpsie or Shawn Green, to Bobby Gene Smith or Joe Smith, Kiner probably knows something about it, can relate to it and provide a better understanding of it.

Come Saturday night at Shea Stadium, the process will be reversed. Kiner, Hall of Fame player, announcer and civic treasure, will hear us, and, we hope, understand how much we appreciate how he has enhanced our baseball senses.

He will be hailed and celebrated on Ralph Kiner Night. No. 4 will be high-fived by thousands in attendance and millions more at home as he never was following any of his 369 home runs. On Saturday night, we'll all be in Kiner's Korner.

At this time, in this market, we relate to "That Announcer" primarily as Thompson did. Kiner now adds color to cablecasts. But let us not forget what he achieved before he, Lindsey Nelson and Bob Murphy introduced us to the Metropolitan Baseball Club 45 years ago.

Before he became our link to the past and a valued component of the present, Kiner was a star of the brightest magnitude, a slugger and a gentleman of Hall of Fame caliber. On the strength of power hitting from 1946 through 1955, he put himself on the outskirts of Cooperstown and became a permanent resident 20 years later. Through his charisma and persona, he became a celebrity who transcended the game. He made Pittsburgh the home run capital for most of a decade and, at times, a suburb of Hollywood. Liz Taylor and Janet Leigh were on his arm.

These days, a third generation of Mets fans hears him, knows him as Ralph -- though Tom Seaver often calls him Mr. Kiner -- and benefits from his encyclopedic memory and his feel for the game. The phrase "He's forgotten more than you'll ever know" doesn't work with Ralph. He remembers all of it. He has recall of Ruth, memory of Mays and a vivid image of the fastball he hit for a triple in Ebbets Field in 1948, and the pitch sequence that preceded it.

And he hasn't forgotten the feeling of champagne being poured over his head after the '69 Mets made their Miracle.

For so many years, Kiner's Korner was the postscript of Mets' games.

"You can't say you're an official Met unless you've been in the Korner with Ralph," Tug McGraw would say.

How else would we have learned that Choo-Choo Coleman's wife's name was "Mrs. Coleman," had Ralph's probing on the Korner not pulled that information from the Mets' catcher?

Kiner, 84, hasn't been there for all of it, just most of it. There's a reason the home television broadcasting booth at Shea Stadium bears his name. He has the second-longest broadcasting tenure among active announcers in the game. He is one of 10 broadcasters in baseball history to spend at least 35 consecutive seasons with one franchise.

At Shea, he is part of the scenery. His "Ralph" is recognized as readily as any of the one-name Mets identities -- Cleon, Buddy, Tug, Rusty, Mookie, Darryl, Doc, Lenny or Pedro.

And those who know him trust his baseball acumen, even if Thompson didn't.

It was in September 1969 that Kiner's knowledge provided an assist to the push that produced the franchise's first World Series appearance.

Ron Swoboda had been slumping -- three singles and nine strikeouts in 20 at-bats -- when the Mets reached St. Louis on Sept. 15. He asked Kiner for help. The two worked in the batting cage at old Busch Stadium, using an old machine that spit pitches from between two touching tires moving in opposite directions. Kiner detected and corrected a flaw in Swoboda's swing.

That night, Steve Carlton struck out 19 Mets batters. But the Mets won, 4-3, with Swoboda hitting a pair of two-run home runs.

"Ralph was one of us," Swoboda said two years ago. "Everybody knew him, liked him and respected his knowledge of the game. He helped me lots of times, not just that one night. But think of that night. I wasn't hitting anything. He works with me and look what happened. I said to Ralph once, 'What'd you hit, 369 [homers]? You deserve at least one of the two I hit that night. You've got 370 now.'"