I think I started getting excited around 3 p.m. — the Mets are playing tonight! Weirdly, it was almost like Opening Day II — no, I didn't have particularly high hopes, not after the torrent of injuries and bad luck and craptacular baseball that was the first half of 2009, and not after Omar Minaya brought that first half to a thudding halt by making a jaw-droppingly stupid trade. (Yes, I advocating trading Ryan Church. I don't remember advocating trading him for a player who is quantifiably worse in every measurable capacity except birthdate, though.) But still, this is baseball — take it away for 72 hours and I was a wreck no matter what the standings say. They're the Mets, and if I can watch them play baseball I will, even if I suspect that baseball will wind up being painful to watch.

So I was happy at 3 p.m. Heck, by 5 p.m. I was thinking that they do have a pretty soft schedule, and by 6 p.m. I was thinking good thoughts about Angels Pagan and Berroa, and by 7 p.m. we practically had the division won. Six-and-a-half out, so what? That's nothing that can't be cured by a 12-game winning streak, or by Jeff Francoeur suddenly becoming a convert to the Church of OBP (crap, I said “Church”), or by Jose and the Carloses being rebuilt in a secret operating room by government agents. (STRONGER! FASTER!) Bring on the Braves!

But that feeling faded fast. Oliver Perez got through the first with unaccustomed rapidity as Joshua and I watched. The kid was pleased, but I shook my head, muttering that two of those outs had gone awfully far. Being proved right within three pitches by Yunel Escobar and Garret Anderson might have given my son newfound respect for me, but I would have been happier if he'd gone to sleep thinking his dad was sure a pessimistic bringdown.

Oliver pitched tolerably; these days that's grounds for optimism. It was somewhat cruelly ironic for him to start the second half against Derek Lowe, who's morphed from The Pitcher Who We Sensibly Didn't Want to Pay $15 Million When He's 40 to The One That Got Away and Left Us Watching Fuckin' Oliver Perez. Honesty and the fact that you can check compel me to admit that I thought paying Lowe that much for that long would have been nuts and bringing back Oliver was an acceptable gamble, so I can't do more than mutter on that score. And I already bitched about Church-for-Francoeur, so let's just move on.

By the way, this blog post went through rehearsal with a lot of bitching about Brian Schneider and his apparent inability to block the plate. But then Schneider made that insane, backhanded spear of an Ollieball that was headed for the backstop. I don't know how he did it; Keith was so discombobulated he said “Jesus” on the air, and so Schneider not quite doing two things at once was forgiven. Though I'm still not buying a Toyota from him or harboring any desire to see him in 2010.

Anyway, after a brief Met uprising matched by the Braves, it was down to the middle relievers, as approximately 68 trillion baseball games have been before. Whose reliever will be unlucky and/or bad first? It was ours, of course — Pedro Feliciano committing the oft-punished sin of walking the leadoff hitter, which led to Bobby Parnell against Chipper Jones and me sitting glumly in bed knowing how that would end. I've long maintained Chipper will get a standing ovation at Citi Field when he arrives for his apparent last at-bat, heralded for being a worthy enemy all these long years. Yes, but we'll also be cheering the fact that he soon will no longer be able to bedevil us. How many generations of young Met hurlers has Larry Wayne sent trudging off how many mounds?

As a final note, this game did have a vivid demonstration of how fundamentally unfair baseball can be. Pat Misch — whom I only recently stopped confusing with Jon Switzer — is pitching in the eighth. Anderson slaps a ball into the hole that Alex Cora knocks down, but it squirts away just long enough for Anderson to be safe at first. Casey Kotchman sneaks one between short and third. Greg Norton — precursor to the most depressing Mets Dash in history, now hitting under .100 — hits a well-placed changeup one-handed for a little parachute and the insurance run. Nate McLouth then hits a tracer — easily the hardest-hit ball of the inning. So of course that's the one that winds up in the second baseman's glove. Baseball, man.

Ah well. 7 1/2 back, cavalry not detectably closer, front office should be kept away from telephones and email to fend off further absurd moves. And somehow, despite all this, I wish it were tomorrow, with Mike Pelfrey and Jair Jurrjens warming up and the evening cooling down and the game just a few minutes away. Baseball, man.

The first of three AMAZIN' TUESDAYS is coming to Two Boots Tavern July 21. It will be a Mets night devoted to reading, rooting and Roger Cedeño. Get all the details here. And get your copy of Faith and Fear in Flushing: An Intense Personal History of the New York Mets from Amazon, Barnes & Noble or a bookstore near you. Keep in touch and join the discussion on Facebook.

Once a year I forget how much I hate every player on 15 rival rosters and root for the National League All-Stars. But every year, given the shark-infested waters under the various bridges we've burned ('06 NLCS, '07/'08 collapses), it gets harder to muster that ol' team spirit.

It got more difficult between innings at Sunday's Mets game when the CitiVision operators offered a “salute” to the 2009 Senior Circuit standard-bearers.

They commenced by showing us first baseman Albert Pujols. I don't think anybody in the stands was really paying attention at that point. No reaction whatsoever for someone who usually generates jeers and bad 33-month old memories. I applauded so softly that it was imperceptible even to myself. But I did applaud. At this point Albert Pujols is the George Washington of the National League. He's at the head of the list and you can't dispute his ranking.

Then second baseman Chase Utley. This unleashed the furies. BOOO!!! Chase Utley? Signature player of our current archrivals? The only batter in the history of civilization whose home run stroke has been shown to have benefited from Citi Field's contorted dimensions? I know we're all in this together come Tuesday night, but nobody here wants to look at Chase Utley unless it's video of him falling into a pit on top of…

Shortstop Hanley Ramirez? YEECH! And BOOOOOO!!!!!! Hanley Ramirez is a one-man teal wrecking crew. He plays on while Reyes gingerly jogs. His team is ahead of ours in the standings, which isn't nearly the Marlins' biggest crime based on their accumulated record of late September misconduct in these parts.

Third baseman David Wright. Supportive applause, warm cheers. Our guy. The Mets brass sometimes likes to promote its own. Sometimes.

Outfield starters next. They begin with Carlos Beltran. Good choice. He won't play in St. Louis. I don't know if he'll even show up (probably not). But nice to remember he was having a good season before going down. Another positive reception.

Outfielder Ryan Braun. A pin could drop.

Outfielder Raul Ibañez. That's not Ra-uuuul we're responding, but it's his uniform absorbing the abuuuuse more than the man. He hasn't been around here enough to meaningfully stoke our collective ire (though he's sure making strides).

I'm thinking we're moving onto the pitchers, but I've conveniently forgotten the other position whose starter is voted on by the fans. And the Mets being the Mets, it is his face now featured on our screen.

Catcher Yadier Molina.

AAAAAUUUUUGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

AAAAAUUUUUGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!

Part of me respects the Mets' attempt to accurately complete the lineup. I don't like when history is revised to make people comfortable (our 2006 highlights DVD implies Game Seven ended with Endy's catch). But the Mets can sure be weirdly selective in what they choose to emphasize. The key, I suppose, is making certain Mets fans feel at least a little belittled by their own organization. Two weeks ago, during the Subway Series finale (the score of which was 3-2 at the time), they skipped the Eighth Inning Singalong altogether. The Eighth Inning Singalong is a dopey conceit, but this was when “Meet The Mets” had trumped “Sweet Caroline” as the song of record. To the extent the Singalong is liked or even anticipated, “Meet The Mets” is the reason why. “Meet The Mets” is our song.

But gee, you could hear somebody in charge thinking, if we play “Meet The Mets,” a good portion of this crowd at this particular game might mock it. And since we can't count on our Citi Field patrons showing any more life than our baseball team, let's just skip the whole thing.

The organist did play “Sweet Caroline” during the pregame that Sunday night, incidentally. They really can't help themselves, can they? (It was booed at 7:20 prior to an 8:05 start.)

As usual, I digress. The Mets plastered, without a satiric caption, the face of Yadier Molina, the single worst villain from a practical standpoint in Mets history. Quick — name someone else who hit a home run that almost literally ended a Mets postseason. Do the Yankees blow kisses to Bill Mazeroski or Luis Gonzalez? Falling down the Chase-Hanley hole isn't good enough for Yadier. Get those Arpielle mini-excavators to race over his supine body, and that we can applaud. Better yet, announce Yadier Molina's All-Star image and post “NO PICTURE AVAILABLE”. You don't need to be John McEnroe to declare YOU CAN'T BE SERIOUS about expecting a respectful round of applause from a building filled with Mets fans when you're beaming Yadier Molina in oversized living (unfortunately) color.

Catcher Yadier Molina.

AAAAAUUUUUGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!

AAAAAUUUUUGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!

It crossed my mind that maybe somebody in the control booth was having diabolically ironic fun with us. But I don't think the fourth-grade interns they hire for stuff like this go that deep.

They finished up by showing Johan and Frankie, and they were clapped upon, but geez. After the Mets sent their best to Chase Utley, Hanley Ramirez and Yadier Molina, it's no wonder the apple was too embarrassed to show its face more than once.

There's a most pleasing sliver of my baseball season that recurs now and again, one I tend to forget about as soon as it's transpired, which is too bad. It's the great underreported gem of any year. I don't think I truly noticed it myself until yesterday.

Let's say it's a Sunday morning and I've made arrangements to meet somebody outside the ballpark — whichever ballpark it happens to be this year — kind of early, like an hour before gametime. Doesn't happen too often, and when it does, I'm a little cranky at first because it means sacrificing the few winks I generally get between Ed Randall and Ed Coleman; my sleeping patterns are perpetually askew, so I appreciate the extra hour here and there.

But if I'm going to push myself out the door for anything on a Sunday morning, it's going to be for a Mets game. Push, I did Sunday. Down to the LIRR station, up to the LIRR platform (where I run into my junior high English teacher and her husband; he's a Mets fan who has almost finished my book and tells me we had essentially the same mother — the things you never imagine learning while slogging through eighth grade), onto the 11:01 to Woodside. Except for presenting my ten-trip to the conductor once before Jamaica and once after, I'm cut off from the world by my iPod and several sections of the Times. Come the first sighting of the Interboro Jackie Robinson Parkway, I trade my reading glasses for my distance glasses, stuff all reading materials back into my 2004-model Sports Bag Day Catch The Energy sports bag and prepare to disembark. Moments later, it's Woodside, where the LIRR connection is too far off to stand around and wait for, so I invest two flights of stairs and one Metrocard swipe in the 7.

It's Sunday, so there's no express. Weeknights I won't take the local. Weeknights are too rushed for the local, even if I'm an hour early for the game as occasionally happens. Who want to make eight stops when you can make only two? On Sunday, there's no such decision to make. It's Sunday, so it's all local.

And it's all good. On Sunday morning, when it's not yet noon, the local can take its time. On Sunday morning, the first two cars are blissfully uncrowded. It's not a matter of getting a seat. It's a matter of which seat I'd like. Sometimes I want the window because I need WFAN reception, but I've sort of fallen out of that slice of the ritual. The iPod doesn't leave my ears for a long time. I've got a big chunk of bench to myself, I've got my music, I've got my reading glasses on and my papers out again.

It's a sweet ride. Well-paced. There's no onslaught of Manhattan passengers at 74th Street. It's too soon for that. There are just enough Mets fans so I don't feel like an oddball and just enough neighborhood folks — Jackson Heights, Corona, Flushing — to remind me there's a world outside the Gates where I'm headed. On weeknights I feel like something of an intruder among tired people returning home from work. Sunday morning is Sunday morning. Nobody's intruding on anyone. There's plenty of time, there's plenty of space.

I look up from my reading and try to gauge the Mets fans. Which ones are the habitual attendees, the ones whose grim devotion to the cause puts mine to shame? Which ones are the couples whose boyfriend half got the tickets in hope of impressing or indoctrinating the girlfriend half? Which ones are the citydwellers who haven't been to a game in years but somebody gave them tickets; who only go to a game once a year and treat it as an adventure; who like the Mets fine but could take or leave them? It's easy enough to make out the parents who are raising their kids right. I wonder how many innings the children on board will sit through, squirm through, nosh through, whine through, want stuff through and show just enough interest through so the dad is given heart to do this all again when they're just a little older.

I like the out-of-town visitors, especially when a team without a huge following is playing the Mets and that team isn't a current or ancient enemy. We've had our battles with Cincinnati, to be sure, but hostilities have been minimal in this century. There's always a trickle of Reds fans or their counterparts on these veritable special guest occasions. They're fine until further notice. I like the nonaligned riders, too, the stray American League fan on a ballpark sojourn. I don't mind taking out my earbuds to give directions, though “Mets-Willets Point” is pretty hard to miss.

Past Junction Boulevard. Past 103rd Street. Past 111th Street. Into the station of choice. The papers are back in the bag again and the distance glasses are on again. Our car empties. Every car empties. More Mets fans than I realized on the rest of the train even if it's still before noon. So many different variations on Metswear. Plenty of homages to WRIGHT, of course. BELTRAN and REYES are active. SANTANA pitches every day if you are to believe the backs of the jerseys and t-shirts. Somebody's still clinging to PIAZZA. There's always a SEAVER just as there's always someone who won't waste a perfectly good ALOMAR even if Alomar was a perfect waste. PULSIPHER and PAYTON sneak through the turnstiles from another era. Somebody handed down a CARTER to the next generation. And somebody else goes to a lot of trouble and secures something otherworldly like a Chiba Lotte Marines top with VALENTINE 2 on the back (when such exotica is spotted, one must stop observing, step up and salute with a “hey, nice jersey!”)

Early on a Sunday, there won't be much in the way of chanting. If it's the Reds or some other cameo-appearer, there won't be smack talk. The drinking teens are taking a later train, so it's not particularly loud. Some 40,000 may find their way into our ultimate destination in the next hour or so, but it's not a stampede from the 7, through the station, down the staircase. It's steady. Steady and reassuring. I've been doing this forever. Shea Stadium becomes Citi Field and I'm still doing it. Gate E is now the Left Field Gate, but the principle remains the same. Sometimes, if tickets were distributed in advance, we meet inside. Sometimes, if someone's grilling, we meet at somebody's van. Sometimes texts and cell calls fly. Sometimes it's as simple as the solitude of the stairs, the plaza, a side trip to my brick and the appointed spot at the appointed moment, a little after noon. The earbuds stay in until the person of the hour emerges as promised.

The initial recognition, the warm greeting, the cheery interaction between friends is the payoff on the ride. You were looking forward to this and this, it turns out, was worth looking forward to. A dozen sidebars will reveal themselves, other swell Mets fans will join in, but eventually, because there is a main event involved, the substance of the game supercedes all. You enjoyed the ride, you enjoy your friends, you embrace your surroundings, but the fortunes of the afternoon are at last in the hands of the Mets. This particular Sunday, they hit plenty, they pitch just enough and they win their second in a row, a streak that will stay current for several days running thanks to the vagaries of the July schedule. The Mets are on a roll. Life, therefore, rocks.

The ride home will be better because of what just happened. The ride in, however, was guaranteed to be good no matter what was going to occur. It was something comfortingly familiar yet it was loaded with anticipation for the unknown. I've done it so many times and I always want to do it again. Especially on a sleepy Sunday morning.

• Baseball takes an All-Star Break but Faith and Fear in Flushing plays through. Look for our annual series of midsummer essays to carry you through to 7:00 Thursday night.

• You might want to christen the return to real baseball July 16 with a trip to Foley's NY on W. 33rd St. between Fifth and Sixth, across from the Empire State Building. As the Mets take on Ryan Church and the Braves in Atlanta at 7:00 PM, Foley's will feature the stylings of Frank Messina, the Mets Poet. We saw Frank at Varsity Letters in April, and he (and his book) are worth your attention.

• As long as you're making plans to take in a road game at a public venue, we suggest you mark your calendars for 7:00 PM, July 21, the first of Three AMAZIN' TUESDAYS at Two Boots Tavern on the Lower East Side. I'll be hosting along with Jon Springer of Mets By The Numbers, and our special guests will include Paul Lukas of ESPN Uni Watch and Matt Silverman, co-author (with Keith Hernandez) of Shea Goodbye. All the salient details are here. We'd love to see you for an immensely Mets evening of reading, rooting and Rey Ordoñez.

• Read the book my junior high English teacher's husband is enjoying: Faith and Fear in Flushing: An Intense Personal History of the New York Mets, available at local bookstore and online from Amazon and Barnes & Noble. Join the discussion on Facebook.

Jeff Francoeur is the best thing to happen to this ballclub of ours since the butcher and the baker and the people down the street gathered to make an appointment to get acquainted with the Mets of New York town.

Jeff Francoeur is the rising tide that lifts all boats: Johan Santana threw his best game in ages; Omir Santos rediscovered his magic; Angel Pagan stayed healthy; and Bachman-Turner Overdrive blared.

Jeff Francoeur is the blanket that covers right field, the bolt that solidifies the lineup, the spark 24 otherwise flickering personalities required in order to light up Citi Field.

Jeff Francoeur is the reason the Mets are banishing Gold's from their hot dogs and topping all Franc-furters with Frenchy's mustard.

Jeff Francoeur is wearing No. 12 because he was thought to be no more than half the player Willie Mays was — but now that's he's proven that estimate was off by 100%, he'll be suiting up in No. 24 tomorrow.

Jeff Francoeur is on the Mets and the Mets are 1-0 with him and for one game, we the hypercritical Mets fans have no complaints…none at all.

Jeff Francoeur joined the struggling Mets and the Mets stopped struggling. Tell the boys from 1969 there's a new miracle worker in town.

Join us July 21 for the first of Three AMAZIN' TUESDAYS at Two Boots Tavern, a Mets night devoted to reading, rooting and, of course, Jeff Francoeur. Get all the details here. And if you can take a moment's breather from rightfully praising Jeff Francoeur, get your copy of Faith and Fear in Flushing: An Intense Personal History of the New York Mets from Amazon, Barnes & Noble or a bookstore near you. Keep in touch and join the discussion on Facebook.

What's the big deal about Jonathan Sanchez? We have no hitters in our lineup all the time.

On the Friday night the Mets traded Church, their offense may as well have stayed in temple. Then again, every night is the Sabbath for these bats. A day of rest…a week of rest…a month of rest…there's a reason Bob's Discount Furniture, purveyor of sleeper sofas, sponsors the Mets.

Meet the Slumber Company. And it's not like the rightfielder we just traded for is Dave Parker.

Then again, why get out of bed when you're facing Bronson Arroyo, the second-greatest pitcher in the history of baseball (bowing only to Joel Piñeiro)? Arroyo toys with the Mets over and over. I can only assume he's won three or four Cy Youngs.

Arroyo (21 runs surrendered in his three previous starts against non-Mets) is clearly unbeatable. The guy from the other night on the Dodgers is unbeatable. So is the Phillies starter last Sunday. They're so awesome I couldn't remember their names without looking. No offense (as if we have any to give) to Clayton Kershaw and Joe Blanton. It's just that it's getting hard to keep track of who shuts us out. The Mets have been shut out three times in five games by three different teams. They've absorbed a shutout in five of their past six full series. Since scoring nine inexplicable runs against Pittsburgh on July 2, they've scored 10 runs in seven games. The last Met to homer was Fernando Tatis, more than a week ago. The last Met to steal a base was Frank Taveras, around 1980.

The Reds launched two balls that somehow cleared the unclearable fences of Yosem-iti Field (last Mets home homer was by Gary Sheffield seven home games ago). Can't do anything about those once they're gone. It was the run Cincinnati scored in between the Joey Votto and Lance Nix blasts that illustrated why this team has exhausted its slack quota vis-à-vis its lack of Reyes, Beltran, Delgado, whoever. Brandon Phillips is on third. Jerry Hairston misses a squeeze bunt. Phillips is as dead as the Mets lineup. Brian Schneider, who somehow survives while all associated with him are whisked away, fires to David Wright. All Phillips can do is create a basepath of distraction inside the third base line and hope the Mets botch an easy out. And it works. Wright throws a little high to Schneider and Schneider is completely flummoxed. It flicks off his glove and Phillips steps on the plate.

I cursed out David Wright's off-target throw for a minute or two, which made me feel guilty since David must be crying himself to sleep most nights. Switching over to MLB Network during the next commercial break made me feel better. The throw, according to Dave Valle and repeated slo-mo replay, wasn't off-target. Schneider, the big-deal defensive catcher, presented Wright with a terrible target, too high and too far to the right of the plate. It wasn't the fault of DW after all.

It was all BS.

Wright and Schneider aren't Buffalo herdsmen. They're not playing because somebody in front of them isn't. They're the starters. They're the veterans. And they can't execute a play in which a baserunner is dying to be executed. It's just one play, but it's been a season of so many plays like that. Amid nonexistent hitting and barely adequate starting pitching, the Mets can't throw from home to third to home without giving up a run.

No wonder we're caught in a most un-Wise big city crunch.

Into the teeth of 2009 steps Jeff Francoeur, so I'm feeling better. They built largely unnecessary Citi Field primarily to take our money, but also allegedly from some vague desire to promote outfield adventures. Jeff's our man, I guess. He's got that cannon of an arm. So did Ellis Valentine. Come to think of it, so did Ryan Church.

What did Church do so badly that he needed to be traded? Nothing from what I saw, but the same could be said of what he did particularly well to merit staying on, at least since the several times the Mets played bocce with his noggin. Ryan, his propensity for misfortune and his recurring bewildered expression would have fit in well on the Wes Westrum Mets, which is pretty much what the Jerry Manuel Mets have become, save for the insertion of inappropriate managerial cackling where “ohmigod, wasn't that awful?” used to go.

Wanna keep Ryan Church? Would have been fine with me. Wanna trade Ryan Church? Fine with me, too. His place in Mets history was secured when he took the last swing ever taken at Shea Stadium. It was for an out, which is what Ryan Church is now. Given the pair of mishandled concussions to his coconut, I wouldn't wish the door hit him on the way out, but I do wonder whether he remembered to touch third.

Jeff Francoeur? I tend to be automatically impressed when we get a guy I've heard of for doing something other than sucking out loud his entire career, provided he's measurably younger than Moises Alou. My first-blush image of Francoeur is frozen from 2005, the last of the Brave division winners. Francoeur came bursting off the assembly line with Brian McCann and seemingly a dozen homegrown Atlantans, making our lives miserable for the first and presumably not final time. I'm still surprised Ryan Langerhans and Pete Orr aren't superstars.

I needed to be reminded that in the pantheon of Braves rightfielders Jeff Francoeur wasn't the second coming of Henry Aaron, that he hasn't been burning it up these past couple of seasons, that he was briefly demoted to the minors in 2008, that he had been playing his way out of his hometown for a while — and even I was cognizant that he will swing at anything.

That said, what the hell? This team was spiraling downward with Ryan Church, so it can attempt to alter its trajectory with Jeff Francoeur. He's here because the Mets didn't want their guy and the Braves didn't want theirs; because Jeff's only 25; and because he doesn't carry an onerous price tag (the Braves threw in a few bucks to make the contracts even…when was the last time a team had to send the Mets money?). Once Francoeur is offed, which seems inevitable given the Mets' perpetually revolving right field door, one suspects he won't be missed. I've watched Victor Diaz come and Lastings Milledge go amid the heightened hopes that enshrouded them both. I've heard Omar Minaya hail the potential longevity of Xavier Nady and the upside of Ryan Church. Who can take this position or, for that matter, this general manager seriously anymore?

This is Kevin Bass in 1992, Richard Hidalgo in 2004. This is a Mets team with limited to diminishing upside taking a flyer on a guy who's fallen from favor elsewhere. This is what it's come to. In the context of where 2009 now sits — a 12-24 record since June 1 — acquiring Jeff Francoeur, also known as “doing something, anything,” is as encouraging a development as anything else the Mets have produced lately.

Which in itself is pretty discouraging.

Trade sitting home on July 21 for joining us on July 21 for the first of Three AMAZIN' TUESDAYS at Two Boots Tavern, a Mets night devoted to reading, rooting and Roy McMillan. Get all the details here. And get your copy of Faith and Fear in Flushing: An Intense Personal History of the New York Mets from Amazon, Barnes & Noble or a bookstore near you. Keep in touch and join the discussion on Facebook.

You read it here first on February 24: Ryan Church would not last the season as the Mets' primary starting rightfielder because nobody lasts the season as the Mets' primary starting rightfielder two seasons running. Well, maybe Jeff Francoeur will. The ex-Brave with the great arm arrives in exchange for Ryan, who hopefully leaves with his head intact. Francoeur, unlike Church, has a track record of playing practically every day. I wonder how long it will take for him to contract a rare tropical disease or crash into Angel Pagan.