Friday was something of a dark day here at Futility Infielder World Headquarters, for the simple reason that my favorite active player, David Cone, announced his retirement. The 40-year-old Cone had been attempting to resume his comeback with the Mets, but after one less-than-encouraging outing and with his ERA still hovering above 6.00, he decided his body could take no more. Surprisingly, it wasn’t Cone’s medical-marvel arm which finally ran out of gas, but an arthritic hip.

Say this for David Cone: whether he was at the top of his game or the bottom, the cerebral righty always kept things interesting. His evolution from brash young punk to mercenary marksman to sage elder statesman to grizzled vet salvaging his dignity with one last go-round was a story too rich for fiction (Roger Angell did pretty well with the facts). He was a pleasure to behold, no matter which uniform he was wearing.

I remember gleefully jeering the punk who provided the Dodgers with bulletin-board material before Game Two of the 1988 NLCS, then allowed five runs in the first two innings. Who knew the brash young punk doing the jeering would one day be calling him a favorite? In fact, if the tale is to be told properly, it was Cone who finally turned me towards being a Yankee fan.

In 1996, my second baseball season year in New York City, I read the sports pages daily, waiting for George Steinbrenner, his new manager Joe Torre, or one of the players to spark a controversy worthy of the Bronx Zoo’s legacy, whereupon the team would implode. Remarkably, it never happened. I had no great affection for Cone at this point in his career, but his seven innings of no-hit ball in his post-aneurysm comeback on September 2 — and his willingness to call it a day at that point — exemplified these new Yankees: they had perspective. My Dodgers were still a factor in the National League at that point, but in my disgust with their meek showing down the stretch (a choke in the season’s final week relegating them to the Wild Card, then a quick cha-cha-cha out of the postseason entirely), it seemed automatic to turn my attentions to the Bronx side. The rest, as they say, is history.

I revelled in Cone’s finest moments as a Yankee, and empathized with him through his lowest. He was the voice of the team as far as I was concerned, and his honesty and accountability in the face of adversity, particularly in that miserable 2000 season, proved worthy of a role model. Even milking forty-five minutes of World Series postgame press conference out of a five-pitch outing, Cone was a treat to savor.

I’ll be adding an entry for Cone to my Wall of Fame in due time, but I’ve already written about him on several occasions. What follows is a six-pack of links to some of my Cone-related pieces, all of them dating from after his career in pinstripes ended:

• My Yankees’ replica jersey is a midnight-blue batting practice model adorned by Cone’s number 36. I took quite a razzing one spring day in 2001 from a dimwitted bitch with a what-have-you-done-for-me-lately attitude towards Cone, then rehabbing in preparation to pitch for the Red Sox.

• Here’s a piece about Cone as he kept the Red Sox afloat during the summer of 2001.

• Cone continued to pitch well for the Sox throughout that summer, but perhaps his finest moment of the season came on September 2, 2001 — five years to the day since his the post-aneurysm game. As his replacement on the Yankees, Mike Mussina, came within one strike of a perfect game, Cone hung tough, holding the Yanks scoreless into the ninth inning before surrendering an RBI double to Enrique Wilson. I missed Cone’s own perfect game, but this game, with its rich, multi-layered storylines, may have been even better. Possibly the best pitching duel I’ve ever seen.

• Through a complete fluke of post-September 11 rescheduling, I had tickets for Cal Ripken Jr.’s final game. Who should he be facing that night but David Cone. In what looked like it might stand as his own farewell to the major leagues, Cone threw eight innings of three-hit ball, allowing only one unearned run and resisting the easy temptation to groove one to Cal for old time’s sake.

• Cone spent last season evaluating his options, dabbling in broadcasting while he waited for a phone call that never came.

• My Spring Training trip this past March took me to Port St. Lucie on the off chance that Cone might be pitching for the Mets that night as his comeback attempt continued. I got lucky.

But then again, we were all lucky to have David Cone.