   After 8,019 games, the outpouring of joy and relief was
massive and genuine, a Shea Stadium-sized weight lifted off a
fanbase's shoulders in a single wet Friday evening. It was an
occasion to celebrate, and celebrate they have. They are
entitled to this moment, to keep forever—they've suffered long
enough for it. But there's a niggling question that no one can
bring themselves to verbalize—could it have been even better if
someone other than Johan Santana was the one to break the
streak? Does an individual effort mean more if it comes from
someone more closely identified with the team?  Santana's not
beloved. He came to Queens a mercenary, and has anchored some of
the more disappointing seasons in Mets history. He's missed more
than a full year, making it impossible to view his massive
contract as anything but a disappointment so far. He's not, for
lack of a less disgusting crosstown term, a "True Met." No one's
going to be wearing his throwback Mets jersey in 30 years. Maybe
all that is forgiven and forgo