If you're a sports fan from the Tri-State area, her raspy voice is as recognizable as those of the hosts who graciously took her calls for years on WFAN-AM (660 on the radio dial). Her impassioned pleas to New York Mets management and undying devotion to her favorite professional sports franchise were as much an institution as "The Fan" has become for two decades in New York, New Jersey and Connecticut.Whether the topic of choice was the 2000 Subway Series, the Mets' acquisition of Mike Piazza or the demise of manager Bobby Valentine, Doris from Rego Park consistently contributed her cogent remarks. While not always the most objective observer of America's pastime, her comments were never malicious nor baseless.

The 58-year-old died on Monday after years of struggle with a lifelong disease - neurofibromatosis - that restricted her movement and led to excruciating bouts with both breast and lung cancer. Always determined to support her beloved Mets, Doris Bauer took the subway to Shea Stadium at least three times a month, her chronic cough drawing the ire of fellow passengers.

Doris spent her entire adult life in the Queens home where she was raised by two parents who fled to America before the Holocaust. While her assortment of disabilities severely hampered any potential for a meaningful social life, Doris found her summer sanctuary in the athletes wearing blue and orange, as well as her nightly slot on WFAN.

In the Metro section of Sunday's New York Times, a well-deserved article by Corey Kilgannon titled " 'Doris From Rego Park' Mourned On Late-Night Sports Talk Radio" finally heaps the praise upon Doris that she so eagerly doled out to her favorite Met stars.

Doris, writes Kilgannon, was "distinguished by a chronic cough and a fierce loyalty to the New York Mets." She was, he continues, "perhaps the best-known caller to the overnight program on WFAN, which attracts insomniacs, grave-yard shifters, taxi drivers and second-guessing sports fans whose phone calls make up a constant drone of New York sports chatter."

Famed WFAN late-night host Joe Benigno, who suffered alongside Doris as the Mets failed to meet expectations year after year, waited until her usual call-in time of 1 a.m. on Monday morning to announce her untimely passing.

"Doris' whole life was the Mets, baseball and calling the station," Benigno said. "It was the little joy she had in life. This was her family."

Doris, who set her alarm for 1 a.m. before she went to bed and collected hundreds of newspaper clippings on the sport she loved, was an aberration in the often insane world of maniacal sports fans. No matter the circumstances, you never felt as if she'd even contemplate jumping onto another, more successful, team's bandwagon. Like all die-hard Mets fans, she despised the Yankees and Braves and worshipped Mets heroes like Lenny "Nails" Dykstra and Keith Hernandez.

In the rare instances when Mets shortcomings really riled her up, she refused to direct her wrath at the moment's preferred scapegoat, often reminding enraged callers like the infamously pessimistic Yankee fan Jerome from Manhattan that the manager and owners don't play the game.

Doris, who grew up a Brooklyn Dodgers fan, fell in love with the "Amazin' Mets" of the late 1960s. She would ultimately purchase a season ticket plan that allowed her to watch the Mets live in person every Sunday. Weakened by chemotherapy, she nevertheless endured every Sunday home game this past season, as the Mets - beset by injuries to Piazza and the ineffective play of former All-Stars like Mo Vaughn and Roberto Alomar - reshuffled their entire lineup and lost nearly 100 games.

To some, she has come to represent the forgotten fan, the fan whose interests greedy owners neglect when they lobby for corporate-friendly luxury boxes and discard tradition to introduce new black jerseys aimed at increasing merchandise revenue. Doris was a throwback, content to sit in the stands and stare out at the plush Shea grass and well-manicured dirt. With the stench of stale beer and cigarette smoke, and the sound of ball smacking leather combining to create the unmistakable atmosphere of a day at the park, Doris was in heaven, scribbling tirelessly in her scorecard.

So the next time Al Leiter strikes out the side or Jose Reyes swipes a pair of bases, think of Doris and remember hundred-million-dollar salaries and steroid controversies aside, the game of baseball is at its core an escape that can still resonate in the deepest crevices of human fulfillment.