I have fairly mixed feelings on the tenure of Omar Minaya, reflecting, I suppose, his fairly mixed record as general manager. But one thing Omar has given us with more regularity than his predecessors had — which tilts the Omar arrow definitively to the good — is general manager access to the Sterling Mets checkbook.

There's a Bernie Madoff joke in there somewhere, but let's take at ownership's word its pledge that the Mets still have money to spend. If we do that, then let's be glad that for all the money we as individuals and as a fan base give them, they spend it.

They spent it on Pedro Martinez and Carlos Beltran and (via Florida) Carlos Delgado and Billy Wagner and (via Minnesota) Johan Santana and Francisco Rodriguez. They also spent it on securing for the long term the services of Jose Reyes and David Wright.

You can argue the dotted i's, the crossed t's, the number of years and the risk of injury where buying up and locking down expensive baseball players is concerned. You can make the case that allotting money is way easier than scouting and trading, and that Omar's regime hasn't scouted brilliantly or traded altogether successfully. You can find a dozen examples of Minaya mania run amok and into the ground. And I'll be the first to suggest that the man should never give another press conference after the way he mishandled the aftermath of the Three A.M. Firing.

But Omar apparently knows how to operate internally. And Omar got Fred Wilpon and Jeff Wilpon to do something they had been reluctant to do before Omar came back to the organization. He got them to pay for talent, a not inconsiderable skill given where the Mets sat before Omar.

Where did we sit before Omar? We sat in the distant precincts of fifth place, fifth place and fourth place consecutively, but more insidiously, we were subject to some of the worst and most unnecessary perceptions a Major League team playing in the largest market in the nation could be. It was perceived that the Mets were a bunch of pikers who just didn't matter. Oh, they mattered to me and they mattered to Jason and I know they mattered to you, gentle reader, but you know what I mean.

A few weeks ago, FAFIF mainstay Kevin from Flushing and I were having a conversation that harked back to the marvelous Subway Series sweep of 2004. I went to the Times archive to dig up a wonderful picture they ran on the cover of Sports Monday after it was over, a very large capture of Ty Wigginton, from the back, rounding first after the second of his two Sunday home runs. The message I inferred from that angle was that the Yankees could kiss Ty's trotting ass.

I could not find the shot, but I did find Tyler Kepner's telling text:

There has not been much joy for the Mets since Bernie Williams dropped to a knee on the Shea Stadium grass, the final out of the 2000 World Series tucked safely in his glove. The Mets have hardly sniffed contention, struggling to stay relevant in George Steinbrenner's New York.

''We probably earned a lot of respect from those guys,'' the Mets' Cliff Floyd said. ''Does it mean anything? Probably not. But it means a lot to us.''

Misty, water-colored memories, to be sure, but does that sound like us anymore? Beating the Yankees is brilliant stuff because, you know, it's beating the Yankees, but is a dizzying weekend all we live for anymore? Is that what we measure ourselves against anymore? Do we feel like outcasts in our very own Metropolitan Area anymore?

I say no. I say 2004 feels a lot longer than almost five years ago now. I say the concept of “trying to stay relevant” in New York is as relevant on the eve of 2009 as any Bush-Cheney or Kerry-Edwards campaign paraphernalia you have lying around from that period. I bring this up because I've already detected the fairly predictable drumbeat of newspaper columns and blogs that suggest the Mets have to keep up with the Yankees by rushing to sign Manny Ramirez.

Signing Manny Ramirez might not be a bad idea. It might be a swell idea. It might be a disaster. I'm not sure. But I am certain that there is no reason for the Mets to sign Manny Ramirez purely as a response to the Yankees signing Mark Teixeira.

There is no reason for the Mets to do anything because the Yankees do something. Maybe…maybe in 2004 there was a market-driven motivation to be divined in keeping up with the Moneybags; maybe it was cause for embarrassment that the Mets planned to announce the signing of ex-Yankee reliever Randy Keisler to a minor league contract the day the Yankees were introducing their new third baseman Alex Rodriguez (it was one of those 'FAN “how sad are the Mets?” contretemps du jour); but do you really think the Mets aren't standing on their own two feet these days? That things haven't changed drastically on our side of town since 2004?

The Mets sold more than 4 million tickets in 2008, on top of more than 3.85 million in 2007 and nearly 3.4 million in 2006. The Mets will sell out their new ballpark — all 42,000-odd seats and few-thousand SRO gym spots — in 2009 and probably 2010. The Mets will continue to gather eyeballs around SNY and sell loads of Mets merchandise and be relevant as hell to a large mass of New Yorkers next year and the year after and, probably, for a while to come.

There's an intriguing book out called First To Worst by Jacob Kanarek. I'm still reading it, thus it wouldn't be fair to fully review it yet, but I can tell you that if you are an intense Mets fan who grew up in the mid-'70s, you'll get a Nino Espinosa's Afro-sized kick out of it. It is the story, told through relentless detailing, of how the Mets went from National League champs to National League doormats in the span of five seasons. It's intriguing, but it's not pretty.

It's also history, just like the Mets who went gun-shy on free agents after the Coleman-Bonilla splurge backfired, or the Mets who crawled back into their cocoon after assuming the contracts of Alomar and Vaughn proved an awful assumption. At least twice since taking partial or full ownership, Wilpon has washed his hands of the whole high payroll thing and thrown in the towel where spending for quality players was concerned. Robbie Alomar and Vince Coleman will do that to a fellow, but it wasn't the mere act of buying high that got under ownership's thin skin; it was what was bought. Early '90s GM Al Harazin made more mistakes than right calls. Early '00s GM Steve Phillips made right calls but obliterated them with huge mistakes.

Omar's still in there swinging with a pretty good on-base percentage to his credit. Alou was an overestimation of an old man's longevity, and the extra year given some chump reliever instead of simply bringing back a proven reliever undermined the bullpen, and there wasn't nearly enough depth to go around at crucial junctures these past few years, but Minaya has shown the requisite skill sets at handling salary, starting with receiving from his employers the permission to pay it to those who lifted the Mets into what has become regular contention.

September nosedives notwithstanding (believe me, they never withstand for long around here), there is much to be said for regular contention. Regular contention, not some hallowed tradition bullspit, is why the last version of Yankee Stadium sold out as a matter of course in its final seasons. Regular contention sells a lot more shirts and caps than does a Final Season or an Inaugural Season patch. You can swap out pregame hosts and air all the cool Classics a Mets network can bring itself to scrape together, but regular contention is the golden key. I feel better about being a Mets fan when we're in contention. Jason feels better about being a Mets fan when the Mets are in contention. You feel better about being a Mets fan when the Mets are in contention. We'd feel much better if they'd follow through at the end, but anybody with a memory of the Mets not being a contender understands what it means to go wanting. And it doesn't matter a whit what the Yankees do or don't do, or who the Yankees sign or don't sign as long as we've got our team in it to win it.

That we have, and that is clearly a result of Omar Minaya's imperfect but ultimately effective stewardship of this franchise. He ain't Santa Claus, but he's somebody to feel good about this holiday season.

Enough back-patting. Go get us a reliable starter and maybe Manny if he makes sense…for us.

P.S. I have received the greatest holiday present I can think of: Stephanie told me she dreamt last night that she was marching in a community parade in which the participants chanted “YANKEES SUCK!” over and over as I cheered on the procession from an open window. I guess everything I've been whispering in her ear while she's slept has finally embedded itself in her subconscious.

Normally this is about the time I start settling into my long winter's baseball nap, kerchief and cap optional: The free-agent shuffling is about done, and it's a long hard slog to pitchers and catchers reporting, after which nothing whatsoever happens anyway. Best to rest up and get done whatever it is you get done when baseball isn't barging into the picture with streaks and slumps and victories that leave you up till 3 a.m. cackling with glee and defeats that leave you up till 3 a.m. brooding in despair. At least that's the advice I generally follow come Tundra Time.

But no, tonight I'm in midseason form. And the emotion I'm feeling is the final one in the sports trifecta, the other one that can leave you awake at 3 a.m. with your synapses blowing like popcorn.

It's hate. Coming in waves, over and over again.

What brought this on? It's that the New York Yankees signed Mark Teixeira to an eight-year, $180 million contract.

I'm a bit surprised I had that reaction too. I mean, it's not that I coveted Mark Teixeira for my team. (Though I did briefly imagine it once.) It's not that I particularly hungered for CC Sabathia, or A.J. Burnett. It's not that I'm dissatisfied with our own body of work: The Mets have done a very good job so far this winter, signing the marquee closer they desperately needed and adding a pretty fine setup guy without giving up much. Sure, there are still holes in the back of the rotation and at second, with question marks in left and catcher, but you can sense Omar out there being patient while Derek Lowe and Oliver Perez and Orlando Hudson squirm.

But what does patience matter when you know the Yankees might suddenly awaken and spend nearly a fifth of a billion dollars on a player nobody thought they had any interest in?

I mean, my God, did Hank and Hal find $90 million in nickels in Old Man Steinbrenner's couch and decide they were halfway home? Did they short the entire S&P 500 in August? Did Hank Paulson look at last year's final standings and decide the Yankees are too big to fail?

Who's to say they're done? With the Red Sox and the Angels acting like there's a recession on and the Cubs caught up in for-sale turmoil and the Dodgers trying to get their heads on straight and the Braves mad at agents and the Nats trying to get agents to return their calls, maybe the Yankees are the only game in town. Who's to stop them from deciding Lowe and Perez might be better at the back of the line than a dog's breakfast of gimpy kids from Scranton Wilkes-Barre? Why shouldn't they pay Manny a dump truck full of $100 bills to play left and ensure they own every back page from now until forever? It's what they're doing so far, isn't it?

I know the Mets aren't exactly baseball's Tom Joads — we're a huge-market team that's about to move into a state-of-the-art park and collect a megacontract worth of rights fees each and every year. I know fans of the Royals and the Pirates and the Marlins think the difference between us and them isn't Manichean black and white but a matter of the faintest different shade of gray. (Seriously, what's it like being the Royals and seeing the Yankees spend about a decade's worth of your payroll for a player nobody figured they cared about?) I know this is a case of the guy with the 75-foot yacht seething about his neighbor with the 100-foot yacht. (And the guy with the 75-foot yacht has gashed two holes in the bow at the end of two straight summers and sank the damn thing, but that's another problem.) I know it's small and ridiculous. I know.

But goddamn. You know who the Yankees are? The Yankees are the rich kid on your block whose parents gave him every toy but love, the one who'd give your friend five dollars to leave your house and go over to his. The Yankees are the guy who parks his SUV across the last two spaces in the rest area, breaks into a faster waddle to beat you onto the McDonald's line even though it's pretty short, barks “Supersize me!” and then leaves the wrappers all over the table when he leaves. The Yankees are the guy in the Lamborghini who smokes your Honda Civic pulling away from the light, then tells his bros what a great driver he is. The Yankees are here there and everywhere, as inescapable as death, taxes and our players being compared to Derek Jeter.

If baseball is a country song, the Yankees are Jolene.

And holy mother of fuck do I hate them.

Greetings All!

Welcome to our Mets Family Holiday Newsletter! Is it possible another year has come and gone? Gosh, it seems like 2008 just started, all full of hope and yet here we are again.

The big news around here is our new house! Yes, even in this market! Let's just say we got a pretty good deal from the city (and the Citi — ha!) before things started to turn. Our new address is at the bottom. We're so excited! We'd love to invite everybody over, but it's kind of smaller than the last one, so do us a favor and call ahead (way ahead — we're gonna be pretty popular this summer!).

Seriously, if you want to come over, you really do need to plan with us in advance. We used to say come on over any time, that we had plenty of room, and we did, but our new home is a lot more intimate than the old one, so even though we really do want you to see it, you'll have to come over in shifts.

Also, you'll need to park where the old house is — I mean was! They're still clearing it away, but it should be all gone by the time we're ready for visitors. If it's not, don't freak out on us! We're right next door!

We're still decorating the new place. We thought we might have a new banner to display in the great room, but we seem to have lost that in September before the move (at least moving gives us an alibi this time!). It was a good year at the Mets anyway, we guess. Oh, we had to make some changes we weren't anticipating, some of them really late at night when everybody was asleep, but you know what they say about things changing and things staying the same.

Things always change with us Mets! And they stay the same!

The kids were adorable this year again, as you can tell from the enclosed photographs. Somebody got a Gold Glove and a Silver Slugger for Christmas! Somebody else got knee surgery, but not because he was a bad boy or anything. He was quite good, actually! We adopted another couple of kids just in time for the holidays. Santa's taking care of them quite nicely. Alas, we had to kick out a couple of their brothers to make room, but you know what they say about omelettes and breaking eggs. We break a lot of eggs here at the Mets!

We'll try to stay out of trouble in the coming year (we seem to have a knack for finding it — ha again!) and we promise to follow through on our New Year's resolution to finish what we start more often. It wouldn't be the New Year if we didn't make that resolution…before we break it! (ha once more!).

Happy Holidays!

The Mets Family

If you've explored the upper reaches of your digital cable or satellite packages, you may have come across the test airing of the MLB Network. It's debuting in earnest New Year's Day, which is excellent counterprogramming against all that inane college football. We know the only bowl game on which to be truly Bullish is the not-at-all embarrassingly named magicJack St. Petersburg Bowl, kicking off this Saturday at 4:30 P.M. on ESPN2. USF is an 11½-point favorite…to beat the traffic from Tampa, presumably. But never mind that right now.

All MLBN has shown to this point as it gives a transponders and whatnot a dry run is the 2004 World Series film (with a generous dose of 2004 ALCS, always delightful viewing); the 2005 World Series film (an underrated affair despite it being a sweep); one long montage of great moments; and a slew of promotional spots wherein the images of players past and present assault you at lightning speed.

There are a couple of Mets in Met uniforms, which is of course uplifting as hell in the third week of December. There are too many shots of Phillies, which is of course dismaying as hell any week in any month. But then there is the final player pictured, throwing a pitch and punctuating emphatically the highlights. He's not wearing a Mets uniform, but he is a Met. He's Francisco Rodriguez.

The guy who ends the spot is a relief pitcher, chosen to represent all relief pitchers…chosen to represent all closers…chosen to represent what it means to wind down a game successfully and definitively. And that relief pitcher, that closer, is a New York Met.

He's dressed as an Angel, but that's a mere technicality. We, the home office of bullpen apoplexy, now model excellence in the field. We have K-Rod. It is exciting to consider. We have J.J., for that matter. I find that exciting as I consider it. I am hoping for a couple more exciting arms in their department so my tentative (if not exactly contemporary) nickname for this presumably rehabilitated crew, Frankie & The Knockouts, can become operational, sweetheart.

The implication is they will be relievers who knock out the opposition, not relief pitchers who are knocked out by the opposition. We tried that formula a lot in the latter stages of 2008. It didn't work.

I've never been enthused in advance about a Mets bullpen. We've had some good ones gel, but those came together by happenstance and sampling. I wasn't sitting and ruminating ten years ago about how I couldn't wait for Dennis Cook and Turk Wendell to hand the ball to Armando Benitez so he could set it up for John Franco even if that turned out to be a darn good pen. Maybe it's because the Mets have, to date, done nothing to improve anything else about their flawed team that I'm anxious to get to the ends of the games and see these stress-tested late-inning guys do their highly compensated thing.

In Mets garb, naturally.

Of course it was Greg who sent me the link, from the awesomer-than-awesome Crane Pool forum: A Met fan's first-ever game, preserved in New York Times prose and baseball cards, a card for each of the men who'd played in it, the whole shebang beautifully framed by this Mets fan. How cool is that?

So cool that my immediate thought, as a father trying to raise his son as a member in good standing of the Church of Baseball, Orange and Blue denomination, was that Joshua needed one of these posthaste, to commemorate his own initiation into the finest art form to ever spring from the mind of man. (And I'm not kidding. I'm sure the Sistine Chapel's great and all, but has it ever moved you to hug total strangers while screaming with joy? In the dead of winter, are you comforted by old DVDs about the Taj Mahal? Didn't think so.)

There was just one small problem with my new plan, as I noted to Emily in my exploratory email: “Joshua's first game was a hideous loss and involved Kris Benson.” Which is what I remembered of it off-hand.

My wife is not the type for a leisurely fly-by when there's a target on the ground that needs obliterating. “How much therapy are you trying to sink your child for?” she shot back. “And do we need to have a card for the wife?” (That threw me for a minute. Then I realized she meant Anna. Remember Anna?)

Just how hideous a loss had August 29, 2004 been, anyway? I tried to remember more dispassionately. Surely there must have been something transformative, some lyrical something or other to stir the soul in all the ways Greg and I like to celebrate here. So I started clicking.

And yes, there was something: Let the record show that in Joshua's first game Robin Ventura, forever beloved in these parts for his dry wit and his Grand Slam Single, hit his 17th career grand slam, putting him ahead of two players named Aaron and Ruth and alongside two players named Williams and Foxx. Ventura, being Ventura, said simply that “it’s nice to even be mentioned in any category whatsoever with those guys.” (He would hit one more — a pinch-hit job, no less — as a capper for a dignified, admirable career.)

So OK, that is nice. There's just one problem: Ventura was a Los Angeles Dodger at the time.

Dodgers 10, Mets 2. It was hot as hell, the Mets made two errors in the fourth to hand the Dodgers three runs, and Benson gave up eight in four innings to fall to 2-3 since he'd arrived from Pittsburgh on the same infamous night that saw Scott Kazmir turn into Victor Zambrano.

Bad enough.

But now go back and look at that box score again.

The Mets' starting lineup was Gerald Williams, Jeff Keppinger, Cliff Floyd, Richard Hidalgo, David Wright, Brian Buchanan, Jason Phillips, Wilson Delgado and Kris Benson, an assemblage so bad that after seeing it on the scoreboard, you would have been forgiven for expecting to see Lorinda de Roulet and Mettle the Mule. The pitchers were Benson, Pedro Feliciano and a rapidly putrefying John Franco. Met cameos were made by Danny Garcia, Eric Valent, Vance Wilson and a nearing-the-end Todd Zeile.

My God.

I subjected an innocent child to 10 at-bats from Gerald Williams, Brian Buchanan and Wilson Delgado, which is 10 more than any sane baseball team would have given them in 2004. Yes, I know — David Wright. Agreed, he's the accidental dab of ointment in this jar of flies. He was also double-switched out in the fifth after going 0 for 2.

Oh, on the Dodgers' side? The winning pitcher was Kaz Ishii, who scattered four hits over six innings and somehow scored a run. And Shawn Green scored two. Perhaps those performances convinced members of the Shea brass that one day those two fine players would put the Mets over the top.

And the home-plate umpire? It was Angel Hernandez.

So while I love the idea of the framed first game in theory, given how it turned out for Joshua, I'm passing. If I want my son to grow up as a Met fan, it's in my interest not to have him stare up at a 10-2 box score, examine baseball cards of Wilson Delgado, Kris Benson and Kaz Ishii, or even know about the existence of Gerald Williams. The other day, during the final minutes of a fairly stirring NFL game with playoff implications, I sighed deeply and told whomever was listening (which was probably nobody) that I'd trade watching this fourth-quarter comeback for a single inning of a meaningless Brewers-Rockies game. And I meant it. But the Met defeat on Aug. 29, 2004? I wouldn't watch that in January with three feet of snow outside. I wouldn't watch that after five baseball-less years in prison.

Emily's much more sensible suggestion was, of course, to frame a record of Joshua's first win. Which was this game. Angel Hernandez called the balls and strikes again, but that was just about the only thing not to like: The Mets rallied for three in the eighth, Billy Wagner collected his 300th career save, and the starting lineup included not only Wright (and the blameless Cliff Floyd) but also Jose Reyes, Carlos Beltran and a very different player named Delgado. Now that's worth having on your wall.

OK, so the starting pitcher was T@m G!avine. You can't have everything.

A more direct look at Chris D'Orso's handiwork right here.