Face it, folks. It's not just in a parallel universe where the Marlins are the National League East's team of tradition. Consider the senior circuit's ballpark seniority rankings in the wake of the intertwined events of September 28, 2008 and April 13, 2009:

1) Wrigley Field, built 1914, home of the Cubs since 1916

2) Dodger Stadium, built 1962

3) Shea Stadium, built 1964

3) Dolphin Stadium, built 1987, home of the Marlins since 1993

Look Who's No. 3! Joe Robbie Pro Player Whatever It's Called This Week Stadium (and I should probably go easy on the name-calling since I wouldn't necessarily bank on Citi Field being Citi Field forever). While everybody else but the Cubs and Dodgers have bullrushed the modern, the Marlins stay with the staid, try only the tried and remain acquiescent to their aqua playpen, at least until their new place is ready in a few years. Everywhere else we go on a regular basis, including the steakhouse Lonn Trost built come June, is relatively brand spanking new and emits a certain degree of unsettledness to the home viewer.

Not the Traditional Three. You know you're gonna get that ivy at Wrigley, those mountains backdropping Chavez Ravine and revolving home plate signage that stays with you from the Fish tank. Perhaps because South Florida, even in reasonably flush times, doesn't turn out many sponsors for its ballclub, you tend to see the same advertisements over and over in the course of a game. For years, there was a Publix ad I couldn't get out of my head (there was always a deal on Tropicana). More recently there's one for a hospital that uses a pineapple in its logo. How it got to Miami from Honolulu, or why a pineapple denotes sound Floridian medical care, I'm not sure, but it sure says Marlins to me.

Dolphin Stadium is the only ballpark I've seen with ads for the Spanish-language Univision network, which is understandable given the area's Latin-American demographics, yet a little mystifying since from what I can tell Univision doesn't broadcast any Marlins games. In fact, no over-the-air outlet broadcasts any Marlins games if I've read the team's Web site correctly; a whole bunch of their games are not even cablecast in South Florida (yet we grow a tad cranky if we have to go forty minutes relying solely on evidence of things not seen, a.k.a. Howie and Wayne).

Univision has two billboards that rotate through Marlins games. One is for the Miami affiliate, Channel 23, which was English-language and showed hour upon hour of cartoons when I was a kid and my family would hightail it to a Collins Avenue motel for Christmas week every year. My mother would remind me “we're not paying good money for you to sit in the room and watch TV, go out and get some sun!” but I was steadfastly fascinated that Channel 23 had the bizarre Brutus brand of Popeye while we in New York received the Bluto or “normal” version, so I stayed inside and pale. Channel 23's current accent is emphasized in its Dolphin Stadium billboard: NOTICIAS 23. As we steered toward a potential whitewashing of the men in teal, I kept thinking…

NOTICIAS 23

Marlins 0

…though Mets 8 Marlins 4 will do just fine.

The other Univision advertisement seems designed to sell advertising to local businesses asking themselves about “A solution for growth today?” The answer provided: “It's right here in plain Spanish.”

Univision's message may be intended for the Greater Miami-Fort Lauderdale commerce community, but it describes pretty well how the Mets solved their challenges Saturday night. Simply, it was Livàn Hernandez, the Cuban pitcher you weren't necessarily expecting on the roster two months ago, and Luis Castillo, the Dominican second baseman you probably wanted no part of two seconds before he collected his fourth hit of the game. You might require a down payment of 400 hits before accepting you're saddled with Castillo, as unpopular as any regular in recent memory or any language, but he was nothing but a solution Saturday.

I watched Luis interviewed by Kevin Burkhardt after it was all over, following his reaching base five times, and I felt very good for he who has been despised and dismissed and probably will be again. He may not be much good in the long run, but he couldn't possibly be as bad as he's been almost every game he's played since becoming a Met in August 2007. He seems like a genuinely nice fellow lost in a horribly deep forest. His inner peace is not my responsibility, but I hope he gets a few more hits for his own good this afternoon so he can be greeted by nothing more virulent than silence Monday night. Boo the Padres, boo the prices, but don't boo Castillo on Citi Field's very first night of official existence. Wait 'til Wednesday, at any rate.

Hernandez, meanwhile, gave us the upside of Livàn. Like Luis, he's been around forever and is not a mystery. His jersey blouses out toward the belt, his pitches max out somewhere south of fast and he generally puts in a respectable night's work regardless of results. There will be Livàn starts when it seems possible the opposition might put up a tally in the low UHFs, but last night wasn't one of those nights, as he kept the Marlins on mute clear into the seventh. The bullpen could do with some tightening (it looked looser than Livàn's uniform top), but that's why big leads — thank you Jose, gracias Ryan — are such buenas noticias.

Ain't that good news? Hombre, ain't that news?

Available now, in English only for the time being: 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.

In a parallel universe, I am a Marlins fan.

In a parallel universe, I moved back to Florida after graduating from college and grew detached from the Mets.

In a parallel universe, I was elated when we got an expansion franchise.

In a parallel universe, I fell in love with the Marlins in their very first year of existence, as soon as Charlie Hough threw our first pitch.

In a parallel universe, I took great pride in our finishing ahead of the Mets in our inaugural season of 1993.

In a parallel universe, I experienced conflicted feelings in 1997 when my old team, the Mets, put up a good fight for the Wild Card against my new team, the Marlins, but ultimately I was overjoyed when my Marlins went to the playoffs instead of the Mets.

In a parallel universe, one of the happiest moments of my life came October 26, 1997 when Edgar Renteria drove home Craig Counsell with the winning run in the seventh game of the World Series, making my Marlins champions of the world.

In a parallel universe, Bobby Bonilla maintains my undying gratitude for putting us on the board in the seventh inning of that seventh game versus the Indians.

In a parallel universe, I developed a love-hate feeling for Al Leiter and Dennis Cook, guys who helped my Marlins win that first championship after they moved on and thrived with my old team as our owner conducted an insidious fire sale.

In a parallel universe, I came to resent the Mets' whining about being overshadowed by the Yankees considering they still had a pretty immense payroll and my Marlins were always being stripped for parts.

In a parallel universe, I couldn't root for the Braves to beat the Mets in the '99 NLCS, but I couldn't quite get behind the Mets either because it annoyed me how many of their fans routinely showed up in our stadium for our games.

In a parallel universe, I never liked Mike Piazza because he could have insisted on staying a Marlin but left us cold.

In a parallel universe, I didn't watch the 2000 Subway Series because I always hated the Yankees but found it impossible to root for the Mets, lest their stupid ex-New Yorker fans be even more of a pain in the ass to me at Pro Player Stadium than they already were.

In a parallel universe, I love our stadium, even though I see its limitations.

In a parallel universe, I'm thrilled that with the demise of Shea Stadium, we have the only orange seats left in baseball.

In a parallel universe, I think teal is beautiful.

In a parallel universe, I see those sacks of Soilmaster in the dugout that the camera picks up on TV and find them kind of a charming throwback to simpler days when fans were allowed to stand behind a rope in the outfield.

In a parallel universe, I'm relieved we got the new downtown ballpark approved because it means my team won't be going anywhere, but I have to admit I've grown attached to where we were born.

In a parallel universe, I had a great big laugh at the Mets' expense when we clinched our Wild Card spot against them the last weekend of 2003.

In a parallel universe, I felt kind of bad that Moises Alou couldn't catch that foul pop in Wrigley Field during the '03 playoffs, since he was such a big part of our '97 championship, but otherwise I enjoyed the Bartman play almost as much I enjoyed the Buckner play, back when I was still a Mets fan.

In a parallel universe, Josh Beckett shutting out the Yankees to seal the 2003 World Series is as big a thrill as any I've experienced as a baseball fan.

In a parallel universe, I tell Mets fans I know that we had no problem winning in the Bronx in October when we had our shot — and that losing to my Marlins seems to have kept the Yankees out of any World Series since.

In a parallel universe, I'm not shy about mentioning that our two world championships — in the face of horrible ownership — in a span of seven seasons is as impressive as anything the Mets ever did.

In a parallel universe, I cackled when Carlos Delgado chose us over the Mets in 2005.

In a parallel universe, I loathed Delgado for being traded to the Mets in 2006.

In a parallel universe, I remember 2006 fondly for our confounding expectations and competing for a playoff spot well into summer.

In a parallel universe, I'm still convinced Joe Girardi got a raw deal.

In a parallel universe, I can't tell you what a big kick I got out of the way we eliminated the Mets on the final day of 2007.

In a parallel universe, I can't tell you what a second big kick I got out of the way we eliminated the Mets on the final day of 2008…as they closed Shea Stadium, no less.

In a parallel universe, I seethe that Hanley Ramirez and Dan Uggla don't get nearly the attention they deserve — and insist that they deserve a lot more than the overrated Jose Reyes and David Wright get.

In a parallel universe, I can't help but point out over and over that even with Johan Santana being paid more than any fistful of Marlins, we still have better starting pitching.

In a parallel universe, I'll take Fredi Gonzalez over Jerry Manuel.

In a parallel universe, I have mixed emotions watching the Mets with Luis Castillo, Gary Sheffield and now Livàn Hernandez, players who helped win me World Series in '97 and '03.

In a parallel universe, I eventually resent the way guys like those and Leiter and Cook and Bonilla and Alou and Mr. Marlin Jeff Conine all become Mets.

In a parallel universe, I root for whoever winds up in a Marlins uniform and against whoever the Marlins play, including the Mets, even if I grew up with the Mets.

In a parallel universe, I am a Marlins fan, no matter what anybody says about my type and my team.

In this universe, however, I am a Mets fan. And I can't fucking stand the Florida Marlins.

We play at least two of these every year, the template as familiar as those sacks of fertilizer in the dugout:

1a. Up by a couple early, Marlins yank us back come the middle innings.

1b. Down by a couple early, yank Marlins back come the middle innings.

2. Long slow grind, possibly interrupted by a rain delay.

2b. Bad feeling breaks out. (Optional.)

3. Miscellaneous tomfoolery/strangeness puts one team or the other ahead.

4. Heroics make things even once again.

5. Extra innings loom, or begin in apparent innocence.

6. A seemingly unlikely Marlin rally results in them dogpiling while dispirited Mets leave field and I say terrible things.

Two different new Met relievers got rough initiations into the primal suck that is Soilmaster Stadium and the Florida Marlins, favorite team of around 8,000 souls provided the weather is perfect, which it never is. Both Bobby Parnell and Darren O'Day looked stunned; I was not. No, I was numb, waiting with the dull, sour expectation I imagine (though this is unconfirmable) is shared by veteran skydivers when the reserve chute doesn't open either. A two-out bunt, a bloop and a sharp single that went against the defense for starters; an infield single, walk and another sharp single for enders. Utterly and hideously familiar.

When Hanley Ramirez hit the home run for the early Marlin lead, I was possessed by a terrible thought and scooted over to the fridge to look at the schedule, where I exhaled in relief to find we finish up the 2009 regular season against our expansion brethren, the Houston Astros. But then I thought better of that: Like there isn't some way Hanley Ramirez will engineer a trade to the Stros for the final week, even if it means asking for his release and paying his own salary, or disguising himself as a Round Rock Expressman. And with our luck he'll bring Jorge Cantu with him — the oddly smash-faced Marlin first baseman was all that stood between Matt Lindstrom and ruin in the top of the ninth, as Cantu speared a Carlos Delgado ball that nearly went through him and smothered Alex Cora's bid for the go-ahead RBI. And then, of course, he finished us in the bottom of the frame.

John Maine had an encouraging start and Jeremy Reed a heroic moment consigned to a lower-case h by the outcome, but I can barely remember that now, because I'm seeing teal.

I'm normally an advocate of cities doing whatever shady deals are required for new baseball stadiums, in part because I assume governments will otherwise do something even stupider with all those civic dimes. But I was rooting hard against the Marlins ever getting a new park, for the exceedingly simple reason that I loathe the Marlins' very existence, from their ghastly colors to their claiming the state name for their own despite sharing that territory with another team to their succession of wretched owners to their vapid, no-show fans. (And they gave Jeff Torborg money to do something other than disappear.)

For years I've devoutly hoped that this hideous franchise would soon be forced to leave this awful city and its apathetic residents in their natural, thoroughly deserved state of baseball-lessness. Now, it looks like it's not to be, and oh how it steams me to think the Mets will now never escape. They'll forever be slogging down to a Miami stadium whose seats will be sprinkled with 15,000 fans, 7,000 of them New York expats who don't realize that they're putting their hand back on what we all know will wind up being a very hot stove.

It's not that I think we'd never have soul-killing displays of futility against the San Antonio Last Stand or the Portland Yoga or whatever the Marlins might have pulled up stakes to become. But somehow I always imagined those would bother me far less — if only because maybe they'd have a room somewhere reserved for the bags of fertilizer.

Closers blow saves.

It's what they do, all of them. (Even you, Lidge — regression to the mean is going to be a bitch.) They have bad games, bad luck, miserable stretches in which they lose their feel for their pitches and get pounded for the equivalent of a start or two, only for the closer “a start or two” means three or four wins gagged up over an agonizing week to 10 days. This information ought to be affixed to the closer's picture on the Diamondvision, like the label on a pack of cigarettes: WARNING THE SURGEON GENERAL HAS DETERMINED THAT WATCHING CLOSERS LEADS TO PERIODIC DISAPPOINTMENT AND DESPAIR AND HAS BEEN SHOWN TO CAUSE SECONDHAND DISAPPOINTMENT AND DESPAIR IN CHILDREN.

Everything came out all right, thank goodness, despite Frankie Rodriguez throwing ball after ball and slipping on the mound and repeatedly going to the curve on 2-0 and doing something to antagonize Bill Welke, who wasn't wrong but was sure awful picky, particularly since Brandon Phillips was doing the kind of assheaded thing that doesn't usually inspire umpires to check for dotted i's and crossed t's in the rulebook. (When baseball is played this stupidly this consistently by a team, you just know you'll find Dusty Baker somewhere on the premises.)

Stupid or not, it was all terrifying, down to Laynce Nix's cloudscraper (add the stray “y” for “yikes”) turning Ryan Church around and sending Carlos Beltran drifting slowly back to and then into the warning track, you weren't sure whether in confidence or dismay. Don't say I didn't warn you when one of those doesn't stay in, and K-Rod is ridden by the ghosts of Billy Wagner and Braden Looper and Armando Benitez and John Franco and everyone else initiated into the Brotherhood of Boo at one point or another, which is to say all of them.

Though perhaps there were other ghosts afoot. Certainly the mound was haunted. Mike Pelfrey was awful, Edinson Volquez wasn't much better, Mike Lincoln and Pedro Feliciano took aim at their own feet in a rather pathetic shootout at the Oy Vey Corral, J.J. Putz got cuffed about a bit, and then it was time for Frankie's drama. (Arthur Rhodes, of course, was serenely untouchable as usual. Please keep him out of the NL East come summertime.)

Yes, once upon a time this looked like a thoroughly encouraging Met performance, Pelfrey aside, what with Red fielders crumpling in the vague vicinity of balls, Luis Castillo and Brian Schneider saving Big Pelf's bacon with an awfully nice play by two generally derided players and Carlos Delgado launching a ball that might actually have landed in Kentucky. But by the time the four-hour mark loomed, this was one to close your eyes and endure, like the banshee shrieks of the Lady Fan from Hell. (Thanks for pointing her out, Keith — once you did that I would tense up every five seconds waiting for her to do it again.) Would it be a wipe-your-brow game that you could excuse as a win with some extra dramatic tension? Would it be a killer loss to cast an early-season pall over 2009? Turned out to be the former, but we all know in a lot of alternate universes it was the latter.

Why is this night different from all other nights? Well, for the first time in a while, I won't pass over mention of five worthy baseball books that have come to my attention while I've been busy reminding you about my own.

Given that Passover begins at sundown, it's imperative to present the perfect complement to your Seder experience in The Baseball Talmud by Howard Megadal. Howard, whose byline you see in the Observer and a lot of places, wrote the book I always thought would be neat to read: all about Jewish ballplayers. And it is neat, so there ya go. A lot of research and a lot of heart (if not a lot of schmaltz) went into this examination of these not quite 160 people chosen for the majors by managers to take the field. For every Hank Greenberg, there are quite a few Greg Goossens, but you could say the same for any baseball people you choose to examine in-depth.

Goossen is one of nine Jewish Mets to date (Ginsberg, Sherry, Shamsky, Maddox, Roberts, Schoeneweis, Newhan and Green are the others), best known as the secular target of one of Casey Stengel's final active barbs, one of my all-time favorite lines about anything anywhere. Though it is as oft-told as the story of Passover itself, I will repeat the essence of it in the spirit of the season in which Moses led his people toward the Promised Land (or in the case of our ballclub, the Mets leading their fans this season to a promised land just east of what was built at the behest of Robert Moses).

Ed Kranepool was twenty years old in 1965, and Casey said in ten years Ed had a chance to be a star. Greg Goossen was (not quite) twenty years old in 1965, and Casey said in ten years Greg had a chance to be (not quite) thirty.

Ten years later, Goossen fulfilled Stengel's prophecy, reaching the age projected with no sign of baseball stardom. But he did eventually become a stand-in for a star, going to Hollywood and working on a lot of Gene Hackman movies. Howard Megdal, with the wisdom of Solomon, offers up not just Greg's .597 slugging percentage as a Seattle Pilot, but a list of the five best Gene Hackman movies with Greg Goossen and the five best without him. You can decide whether either fork of his career path ranks him as the seventh-best Jewish first baseman ever as Megdal rates him.

This book is statistically fortified, but it never stops being fun. If you're going to offer a reward for finding the afikomen, you could do worse than The Baseball Talmud.

But we're not done covering the bases, of which there are four, counting the plate (on which there need be no charoset tonight at Great American). So let's ask four questions and find four answers.

What about a baseball book for kids?

Not having kids and never having been particularly childlike until I was too old for my own good, I'd still recommend James Preller's Six Innings, a riveting account of a fictional youth league championship game, made ever more tense by the author's blending in details of two very special half-innings from Mets history as part of the climax: the top of the ninth and the bottom of the sixteenth from Game Six of the 1986 NLCS. Kids who read it won't get the reference points, but they will transport some parents back to a great day turned evening. It won't surprise you Preller is a Mets fan.

What about something in verse?

You may not have been looking for the Mets Poet, but when you find him, you're better off for it. I had the pleasure of sharing the Varsity Letters stage last week with Frank Messina, who renders an authentic Mets vibe in a way I've never heard or read. Full Count: The Book of Mets Poetry is a revelation on every page. Regarding 1986: Reagan was president/and Keith Hernandez was God. Jesse Orosco: Autumn joy explodes. His and our own obsession: Where the poet sees beauty, others see shame. Context is everything, and when you read these lines in the context of their poems, they mean even more. I tip my cap to the Mets Poet.

What about something with the big picture?

Long Islanders who go back some with Newsday's sports section will instantly recall the puckishness of Stan Isaacs on games, players and TV (he was Mushnick, Raissman and Best before there were Mushnick, Raissman and Best). He also covered the hell out of some mighty big events from the '50s to the '80s, and ten of them get the Full Isaacs in Ten Moments That Shook the Sports World, a book that came out last year but I'm just getting around to reading and appreciating now. The '69 Mets are in there, as is The Shot Heard 'Round the World (Isaacs grew up a Giants fan, Bobby Thomson be praised). He brings a lot of lost details to light from all fields, leading up to a chilling recollection of Munich 1972. If you're looking for Mets and more, these Ten Moments are for you. (And if you're looking for contemporary Isaacs, he's right here.)

What about something that's Miraculous?

As if parting the Red Sea isn't enough for Passover, you can never go wrong with 1969. The company that published my (and Isaac's) book has, at the same time, reissued an absolute classic, A Magic Summer by Stanley Cohen. Cohen traveled about in the late '80s catching up with the Miracle Mets of two decades earlier and told the story of '69 through the events then and their perspective now (the now of 1988, that is). What's always stayed with me is how he explained the Mets fan, and how the fan stays with the team and in many ways transcends the players who make up the team in a given year, even a great year like that Magic one. The fortieth-anniversary reissue has a new introduction, some great pictures and an improved cover, but its Amazin' insight? Same as it ever was.

These are not times when there's a lot of spare change sitting around for discretionary purchases, so I'll reiterate the sentiment from when I first announced my own book to you. I wouldn't be recommending these titles if they weren't potentially worth your time. I think, once you've purchased and read Faith and Fear in Flushing: An Intense Personal History of the New York Mets (and given a few copies as Passover, Easter and other-occasion gifts), those I've mentioned above might be worth an investment of your time and resources.

FAFIF: AIPHOTNYM, I can't help but mention, is available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble or a bookstore near you. Keep in touch and join the discussion on Facebook. Also, Mark from Mets Walk-Offs takes me deep — or at least to our new hard-to-reach warning track — here. Finally, thanks to Adam Rubin and the Daily News for giving away five signed copies in a contest that moved so fast yesterday that I never had a chance to let you in on it. Mets fans are quick to answer five questions, let alone four.

Queens and Long Island readers, if so inclined, can pick up the Daily News today for a brief story by Nicholas Hirshon on Faith and Fear in Flushing: An Intense Personal History of the New York Mets, including author comments and photo in the Queens News insert, part of a spread covering the coming of the new ballpark (Stanley Cohen, whose wonderful A Magic Summer has been reissued for the fortieth anniversary of the '69 Mets, is also interviewed). Would love to direct you to a link, but alas it's not online. Link here.

FAFIF: AIPHOTNYM is available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble or a bookstore near you. Keep in touch and join the discussion on Facebook.