Sometimes in the winter I'll be doing some household chore and I'll realize that for the last five or 10 minutes I've been brooding about a moment from the Mets' past, turning it over and over in my mind and wondering how everything could have gone so wrong. Sometimes I even catch myself muttering imprecations, with whatever I've been doing sidetracked by sour anger and regret.

It's a list that won't surprise you.

Rogers throwing ball four. Pendleton hitting it over the fence. Carter giving Hershiser a despairing glance as he packs his catching gear. Armando walking Paul O'Neill. Payton trying to take third. Luis Sojo's ball trickling up the middle. Glavine hitting Dontrelle Willis. Piazza's drive dying in the air. Brian Jordan taking Benitez deep. Brian Jordan taking Franco deep. Timo celebrating when he should be running. Beltran looking at strike three.

Should the Mets not survive to see October baseball, as looks increasingly likely, I'll have one more for the roster.

Murphy at third. None out. The Phillies have lost.

I was out for a farewell get-together with friends and former colleagues from the Online Journal. But, to the surprise of absolutely no one, I had my radio. For most of the night I'd just check in now and again: 1-0 Cubs on a DeRosa home run. 5-1 Mets, even though they only have two hits! Uh-oh, it's 5-3. Oh no, it's 5-5.

I didn't hear Murphy's triple, but my old Daily Fix partner Carl told me what had happened as I put a headphone in one ear. He stared at pitch locations on his Blackberry while I stood at the head of our table, listening to the game and acting out what I heard. It was a rather grim pantomime: Strike three on Wright. Four wide on purpose to each of the Carloses. Little bouncer by Church, Murphy out at home. Strike three on Castro. A sequence that may wind up seared into my brain for a long, long time.

“I can't believe we lost that game,” was the last thing I said to Emily before falling asleep.

“I can't believe we lost that game,” was the first thing I said to Emily when I woke up.

She noticed. But she hadn't heard all the times I muttered it to myself in the middle of the night, waking up to realize it was still true. And should the Mets fail, she won't hear many of the times I'll mutter it to myself in winters to come.

Murphy at third. None out. The Phillies have lost. I can't believe we lost that game.

Another summer at Perry’s. I can’t. I swear.
—Stacy Hamilton, Ridgemont High School, 1982

I will not tell you how dreadful Wednesday night’s loss to the Cubs was. You can infer that for yourself; you probably already have. I will not dwell on the eerie fact that at the exact same juncture in 2007 — the 158th game, a Wednesday — the Mets also scored five early runs and also lost 9-6. I won’t even try to sell you on the notion that you can have a spectacularly great time in Shea Stadium’s Picnic Area with some incredibly wonderful people up to if not including the moment Daniel Murphy is stranded on third base in a tie game in the ninth inning after having arrived there with nobody out. I did have a great time until I had a horrible time Wednesday. Since you presumably only had a horrible time watching the Mets disintegrate, I won’t bother you with what I managed to enjoy before all manner of my anatomy was tasered by failure.

Instead, I have something more cheerful for everybody.

***

Forget everything you know about the 45 years that followed April 17, 1964.

Forget how the bright and broad hopes of a toddler franchise and its newborn ballpark fell away into something dreary and dismal as the ballpark was condemned and the franchise operated in farce.

Forget that Shea Stadium was home to the worst collapse in baseball history one year and a paler yet somehow sharper sequel the next (Janeane Garafolo once recommended never going to see a movie whose trailer features the line “how the could the same thing happen to the same guy TWICE?”).

Forget that 1986 was 22 years ago.

Forget that the same people who have been begging you to indulge in a Final Season celebration will effortlessly shift gears any moment now to emphasize there’s nothing like Inaugural Season merchandise to make your life complete.

Forget how mad you are at the Mets this morning, or how sullen they’ve made you or how upset you were when Wright lunged to swing at ball four and Church tapped out and Castro waved at a pitch in his eyes and Ayala couldn’t hold off the Cubs forever and Oliver Perez couldn’t have come up smaller and there’s still no bullpen and now there’s no righthanded bench and the Phillies lost and we couldn’t take advantage and the Brewers won and they’ve probably bottomed out and the Mets and only the Mets would find a way to ruin the last day ever in their ballpark by getting themselves knocked out of playoff contention in incredibly embarrassing fashion for a second consecutive year, two epic episodes of exacerbation which occurred/are occurring on the heels of a heartbreaking National League Championship Series defeat that — by comparison to what’s happened since — can be referred to with a straight face as the good old days.

Forget that.

Remember what Shea was like when it opened and how happy we were to see it. I mean we as a people since not so many of us were around and watching on April 17, 1964. If you want to feel the love, go not to Bermuda, but to Bob Murphy. Our Murph called the first half-inning in Shea Stadium history 44 years, five months and a week or so ago. My friend Joe Dubin gave me a copy of the broadcast a while back and I’ve listened to it several times. It’s a marvel. As a Shea farewell gift to all of us, I have transcribed that first half-inning.

Thus, you can do what was impossible to do when Wednesday night ended…

Enjoy.

***

From beautiful Shea Stadium in Flushing, New York, the New York Mets are on the air.

Well, hi everybody, this is Bob Murphy with Lindsey Nelson and Ralph Kiner, all set to detail every exciting moment of the historic opening of Shea Stadium as the New York Mets meet the Pittsburgh Pirates. Today’s game is brought to you by Rheingold Extra Dry and Viceroy Cigarettes.

Well, we hope you have plenty of Rheingold Extra Dry on hand. You’ll enjoy today’s game even more wherever you’re listening along the Rheingold beat. Rheingold is as good to your taste as it is to your thirst, Rheingold after Rheingold. Smoother, crisper, livelier.

Bob kicks it to Lindsey who, as on-field emcee, promises “the proper traditional sendoff” to the home season: the singing of the national anthem by “that star-spangled baritone of the Metropolitan Opera,” Robert Merrill, backed by the City of New York Department of Sanitation band. It’s the “one song dear to the hearts of all of us.” After a break, Bob is back.

Casey, near home plate, his ball club on the first base line; Danny Murtaugh and the Pittsburgh Pirates on the third base line.

This game might very well be a complete sellout. Right now, there appears to be still some seats available in the Upper Deck, but on this beautiful, almost unbelievably good day, it is going to be very close to a capacity crowd of fifty-five thousand three-hundred.

Ninety-six percent of the seats are within the foul lines, you’ve gotta see this stadium. Every seat is a beautifully painted individual seat, the stadium, which is five-tiered in a horseshoe form, is open on the centerfield end. The giant Rheingold scoreboard is over in right-centerfield. The green batter’s eye, straight away, out behind the low fence, four hundred and ten feet away. The only thing to be seen in left-centerfield, other than the cars across the way in the parking lot, are giant light standards.

There are only two light standards, they are both in the outfield, one in left center and the other in right center. The rest of the lighting, and it is almost unbelievable, it is almost as bright as day if not brighter, comes from the cantilevered lighting under the very top of Shea Stadium.

We then hear the anthem. Then Murph.

Well, just about everything has been taken care of, Bill Mazeroski, Pirate captain, with the lineup slip, Casey Stengel there along with Mazeroski. The umpires today, Tom Gorman behind the plate, he’s the crew chief of this fine umpiring team, Billy Williams will be at first base, Vinnie Smith umpiring at second and Chris Pelekoudas will be the umpire at third.

Jack Fisher throwing in his final warmup tosses on the mound. Setting up the Mets defensively, the first baseman is Tim Harkness, Larry Burright at second, Sammy Samuel at short and Ron Hunt will be at third.

In the outfield, Frank Thomas in left, Jim Hickman in center, around in right field George Altman. Jack Fisher on the mound and behind the plate, Jesse Gonder.

On the coaching lines, Mickey Vernon, former Washington manager, coaching at first base for Danny Murtaugh, and Frank Oceak will be on the coaching lines at third.

And the leadoff batter in the ballgame is Dick Schofield, switch-hitting shortstop of the Pirates, and ladies and gentlemen, we’re ready to go.

You can imagine there must be a lump in the throat of twenty-five year-old Jack Fisher, the Frostburg, Maryland native as he looks in the for the first sign ever taken in the twenty-five million dollar ballpark named Shea Stadium.

This is it.

Jack Fisher is into his windup and here’s the first pitch ever…a strike on the outside corner.

The roar comes up as the first pitch ever thrown in this beautiful baseball palace is over. Perhaps the tension now is broken, and the game is underway.

Jesse Gonder walking slowly, back toward the mound. Out in the outfield, the outfielders are checking their sunglasses; the breeze not really too much of a factor in the game, kind of blowing diagonally from right across toward left.

Three hundred and forty one feet down the foul lines to the wall. The ballpark is symmetrical. Three fifty-eight in left center and right center.

Here’s the pitch on the way, a curve inside and low, one ball and one strike.

The dimensions of the ballpark as the fence swings out, three fifty-eight in straight left, three seventy-one in left center, out near center three ninety-six and four hundred and ten feet in straightaway centerfield.

Next pitch thrown, and he pops the ball up to short center field, running back is Larry Burright, Burright getting to it, makes the catch.

One away and nobody on, we’re in the top half of inning number one, just underway on a historic day. Now the hitter is Bill Virdon, the centerfielder.

Bill, veteran outfielder, one of the outstanding ballhawks in the major leagues, has two hits in eleven times at bat in the first two Pirate games.

Now Ron Hunt shortens up at third against Virdon, a lefthand hitter, to guard against the possibility of the bunt. Here’s the pitch on the way, strike called, a fastball on the inside corner.

Sammy Samuel, the shortstop, shaded toward second against Bill Virdon, the right side of the infield back deep.

Now the windup, pitch by Jack, a curve, foul, back into the crowd and there’s the first souvenir. Kind of a soft foul ball, wafted back into the field boxes, and the gentleman who gets the coveted souvenir is also given a hand.

He can say “I caught the first foul ball ever caught by a fan in Shea Stadium.”

Now a two-strike count on Bill Virdon. Now the windup, and the pitch by Fisher…slow ground ball to third, charging in is Ron Hunt, barehanded pickup, the peg…he got him!

Good fielding by Ron Hunt, that was one of those topped slow rollers. Hunt had to come in at full-speed, pick the ball up with his bare hand, fire all in that same motion and he got him.

Now two outs and nobody on, one of the top hitters in the National League, Roberto Clemente. And Roberto off to a fast start with four-for-eleven in two games, hitting at three sixty-four.

Clemente a righthand hitter, real good bad-ball hitter and he has a lot of power to the opposite field.

Curve is over at the knees, strike one.

Last year, Roberto hit three-twenty. Had seventy-six runs batted in. Without a doubt, one of the best ballplayers ever acquired in the baseball draft.

A little under the knees, one ball and one strike.

Well, this is certainly some kind of a day. We’re sorry you couldn’t be with us, the excitement almost unbelievable. Tremendous crowd, I think by the time everybody settles down, it’ll be very close to a capacity.

Now Fisher out of his windup, the pitch to Clemente, lined hard, but it will be foul deep down the leftfield line.

In Shea Stadium, not too much room in foul territory. The distance from home plate to the backstop not nearly as large as in some major league ballparks, a fact that will not please the pitchers, but will please the catcher.

One ball and two strikes to Roberto Clemente, two outs and nobody on. In comes the pitch.

Reached for and fouled toward the Upper Deck and it’ll be out of play. And that one goes all the way to the Upper Deck!

You gotta hit a ball pretty high to spin it all the way to that upper tier.

And ringing around beautiful Shea Stadium, the five-tiered, twenty-five million dollar ballpark, we see many of the familiar “Let’s Go Mets” banners.

I have a feeling that a lot of the airplanes in the area are taking a purposeful trip over the stadium today to give the people a chance to see it. And you can’t blame ’em.

Now one and two the count on Roberto Clemente. Now Jack Fisher over the head, down comes the pitch, in the dirt, scooped out by Jesse Gonder, and the count even, two balls and two strikes.

Gonder did an outstanding defensive job behind the plate catching Tracy Stallard in the Wednesday night game in Philadelphia. Stallard pitched out of one tremendous jam when he had a runner on third and only one man out. He was trying…going for the strikeout and Gonder, not once but upon three occasions, came up with that curveball down in the dirt.

Now Fisher winds for the two-two delivery…a swing and a miss, he struck him out!

No runs, no hits, no errors, none left on. And the score in the middle of the first inning, the Pittsburgh Pirates nothing and the New York Mets coming to bat.

Well, this is the big one, no doubt about it. This is the one we’ve been talking about, dreaming about, waiting for. Opening Day at Shea Stadium!

For the third consecutive year, the brewers of Rheingold Extra Dry are delighted to bring the Mets games to all of you, wherever you are along the Rheingold beat.

And there’s no better way to follow the Mets than with a refreshing Rheingold Extra Dry right close by. Rheingold is as good to your taste as it is to your thirst because it’s brewed extra dry: smoother, crisper, livelier. Completely thirst-quenching.

You know, it’s no wonder all along the Rheingold beat people who like beer best like Rheingold best of all.

So when you’re out here at Shea Stadium, at Rheingold’s Little Old New York at the World’s Fair, or anywhere along the Rheingold beat, enjoy the beer that’s as good to your taste as it is to your thirst, Rheingold after Rheingold.

***

So it went on that Opening Day of Opening Days (and can’t you just feel April when you read that and put it to Murph’s voice?). We’d learn in the bottom of the first that official scorer Dick Young is one of the most talented sportswriters in the country; that the 9,000 field boxes sit on tracks so they can be rolled around for Jets games and become 50-yard-line seats; that there are some problems with the big message board in right-center and it will no doubt take two or three games to work out the kinks. The only thing missing from Bob’s, Lindsey’s and Ralph’s broadcast of the Pirates’ 4-3 win that day was a two-word phrase: Polo Grounds. Not once did they mention where the Mets had played in 1962 and 1963. They were not selling the past. They were selling the future, a time when 96% of seats were between the foul lines…a share that must have dipped a tad with the eventual erection and subsequent expansion of the Picnic Area, which is where I saw the hope seep out of the 2008 season Wednesday night. I suppose it’s understandable that all the emphasis on April 17, 1964 would be not on what was lost, but what was found, namely an unbelievable ballpark.

And in four days, this place that made its debut 473 days after I did is scheduled to be no more. That stark reality, above and beyond the breathtaking futility of these past two Septembers even, is as unbelievable as anything I know about Shea Stadium.

God bless Johan Santana.

In the beginning he didn't look particularly on his game — the Cubs were getting pretty fair swings against him, and I was more than a little sick to my stomach thinking of finding Johan on the wrong end of a 3-1 or 4-2 score, the recipient of stoic attaboys and brave shrugs. Even Seaver couldn't shut the other guy down every night. Can't kill the guy for losing once every three months. But Santana seemed to gather himself in the fifth, disarming the pointy part of the Cubs order with just six pitches. And then the nuttiness began. After Sean Marshall erased Ryan Church on three pitches, Nick Evans got hit by a riding fastball and Santana launched a little roller and half of a baseball bat in the general direction of Mark DeRosa. The bat overtook the ball and tapped it once again, shades of Mike Sharperson scoring Stan Javier a million years ago for the Dodgers against the Giants, and all hands were safe. (If you click through that link, don't miss the stated reason for Tommy Lasorda's ejection. I love Retrosheet.) Marshall spread his arms in disbelief and dismay, and a wild hope sprang into being in orange-and-blue hearts everywhere. Jose Reyes struck out, but Luis Castillo managed a walk (I still blame him for everything, so don't even start) and up came David Wright. David Wright who, for all his heroics and all our adoration, tends to squeeze bats into sawdust with the bases loaded, feeling it's his solemn duty to hit five-run homers. Not this time — Wright shortened up his swing and poked one over the infield to get us even.

Santana survived his personal Tommy Hutton, the otherwise-not-particularly-immortal Reed Johnson (now 12 for 22 against His Johanness), and next inning the Mets jumped all over Chad Gaudin, with Jose Jose Jose Jose's 200th hit the triple-in-the-corner exclamation point, complete with Jose all but turning a celebratory cartwheel at third. If Miguel Oliva felt a twinge of annoyance somewhere, fuck him — that was one of those baseball moments where all the accumulated disappointment and doubt of a team's struggles explode and dissipate in a second of release, transmuting agony into joy. (I'll always think of John Olerud blasting a grand slam off Greg Maddux after the Mets' near-death experience back in 1999 — I have the vertical jump of a box turtle, but that night I leapt into the air as the ball sizzled over the infielders' heads and I didn't come down until an inning later.)

Santana, Wright and Reyes. Not a bad blueprint.

The rest? Well, I'm now on a first-name basis with Phil Cuzzi, whose strike zone was apparently determined by some permutation of the Zodiac, a mood ring and whatever he divined from pawing through the entrails of a spring lamb. (“PHIL!” I bayed at Cuzzi in the eighth, after his determined refusal to ring up Mark DeRosa ran Johan's pitch count higher and higher. Mild to the point of invisibility for me, but I was too frightened for a decent show of profanity.) Pedro Feliciano provided the usual Met-reliever nausea, but Luis Ayala looked better than he has in some time (possibly helped, it must be admitted, by Lou Piniella sticking with the JV) and we were home.

The Phillies have lost. While I've been writing this, the Pirates have given up a lead against the Brewers, taken it back (against Guillermo Mota, no less), and allowed the Brewers to tie. Final score to be determined. Whatever happens there, even Santana's arm can't be reloaded until this weekend at the earliest — Carlos Zambrano and Rich Harden await against the enigmatic Oliver Perez and the faded Pedro Martinez. So be it. We'll worry about tomorrow when it becomes today. Even when the news is the happiest, there's only so much a Met fan's heart can take.

P.S. Happy Yankee Elimination Day, everybody!

“I have tickets for the Mets tonight. Great seats for probably a terrible game. I'll be by at five.”

—Ken Cosgrove, Sterling Cooper, 1962

Yeah, it was pretty terrible at Shea Monday night. Lifetime game 409, regular and postseason combined, might have a hard time cracking my personal top 400 had August 2002 never occurred. Enduring Marquis' grand slam, the festival of futile relievers, wave upon wave of Cubbiephile inanity, the standing/sitting/standing/sitting Mets fan in front of me who bumped his head into mine as I bent down to retrieve my radio to monitor Beltran's well-being (ouch for all of us) and, yes, the Amazin' Luis Castillo — he's actually batting .249, or 249 points higher than I would have guessed — mixed to make the remainder of my planned septupleheader at Shea look about as sure a thing resultswise as AIG.

Speaking of which, Endy's fence has changed for the last week, and I don't think it was voluntary. Since October 19, 2006, we've all recognized the AIG slogan as iconic even if many of us didn't know anything else about the company until last week. Well, given that they needed a government bailout to avoid utter calamity, I suppose it wasn't surprising that when I peeked at left field as the first inning began, I noticed an alteration to the adscape. There are now two AIG logos where there was only one. The second one replaced the previously emblazoned, now inoperative motto:

THE STRENGTH TO BE THERE

One supposes that with all their other problems, AIG didn't need to be brought up on charges of untruth in advertising. (I wonder if the Feds will repossess our Endy bobbleheads.)

The Mets are still running first for the Wild Card. Do they have the strength to be there? Only because they are one length ahead of the Brewers, you'd have to say technically, yeah. You'd also have to ponder if the Brewers could possibly be any worse than they've already been of late, because we are going to need them to drown in their own suds if Monday's and Sunday's and Saturday's games are leading indicators of the Mets' abilities to avoid choking on their own final six-pack.

The National League has been mostly about streaks in 2008. There was a time when the Diamondbacks looked unbeatable. There was a time when the Dodgers looked as if they'd buried the Diamondbacks. Suddenly Arizona trails Los Angeles by only two games. The Phillies were 3½ behind us less than two weeks ago. We're 2½ behind them now. Neither the Mets nor Phillies figured as Wild Card possibilities in late August because there was no way Milwaukee could be caught. Now Milwaukee is trying to catch us. The Cubs have been the only block of granite in the N.L. this year — and, hey, what a great time to invite them over for a four-game set.

This could all be very bad news for the Mets or it could all be slightly less terrible than it looks now…which is about as optimistic as I'm willing to get after Monday night. Beltran lived, Johan's going and New York owes Chicago one where the date 9/23/08 is concerned. Clearly, signing Luis Castillo to a four-year deal should go down as Minaya's Boner, but we need to get past that. Just as the jobbed Giants hung in there a hundred years ago, the Mets will keep playing and all of us who bought tickets to every inch of Shea Stadium's final week will find, somehow, the strength to be there.

I've had the good fortune to be on hand for a remarkable run of classic games at Shea Stadium — I was in green or red seats for the Grand Slam single, for the 10-run inning, for Agbayani's home run, for Bobby Jones's one-hitter, for the NLCS clincher in '00, for the first home game after 9/11, for Pratt hitting one over the fence.

I've also been to some horrible, gut-wrenching nightmares at Shea. I saw Brian Jordan kill our unlikely 2001 pennant drive, saw Glavine beat Leiter by a 1-0 score in the playoffs, and I've seen Yankee fans woofing and displaying the Vertical Swastika more times than I care to count. Heck, just eight days ago I watched Greg Norton take Luis Ayala deep. But considering the circumstances, I may not ever have seen a game more grindingly awful than the opener of this, the last-ever regular-season Shea homestand. (And the jury's out on whether we'll need that second qualifier.)

First of all, every Cub fan in the New York area was apparently in attendance. That's fine. In fact, good for them: Tonight's game was a decent mathematical bet to be their clincher, and while the Cub faithful missed that, they had a chance to cheer on their victorious team and dream about what might come in October. But not blaming them isn't the same as wanting them there. And they were everywhere, on all sides of me and Greg, whooping for each Cub and waving at each other and taking celebratory pictures and yammering about Northwestern and the Illini while we downtrodden Met fans struggled to breathe with September cinderblocks on our chests. It was seriously just a few notches below a Subway Series game in terms of the percentage of enemy fans.

Oh yeah, and then there was the game, with Jon Niese unfortunately unable to locate his pitches and Luis Castillo unfortunately able to locate his bat. Niese's youth gets him a pass, but why does Jerry Manuel continue to let Castillo near a baseball field? He may actually be the worst position player in the major leagues — a player so stupendously useless that he deserves a plaque in some kind of Anti-Hall of Fame, a Bizarro World Cooperstown in which embarrassed baseball officials pay you to numbly view exhibits about how a beautiful sport can be played so lifelessly. Castillo has little speed left and subpar range, but his skills in the field and on the basepaths shine compared to what he can do at the plate. This is a man closing in on 6,000 major-league at-bats and 20 sacrifice flies, and tonight was a showcase for his unique talents: In the third, with a runner on third and one out, he only escaped grounding into a double play because he tapped the ball so feebly. In the sixth, with runners on first and second and none out, he put enough wood behind a grounder to earn his GIDP, short-circuiting a Met rally. And he really shone in the ninth as the Mets' last hope, looking at two strikes from Kerry Wood and then offering the vaguest of waves at strike three, like a hospice patient shooing a fly. I'd already shredded my throat booing Luis, but I managed to croak in agony at Manuel in the ninth, pleading brokenly for him to send anybody else up to the plate. And I do mean anybody: The list of people I'd rather have seen begins with Argenis Reyes (who isn't any better and might actually be worse, but at least creates outs with some enthusiasm), includes all the Met pitchers, then expands to include Greg, myself, and the option of picking a member of the Pepsi Party Patrol at random and sending him or her up to the plate blindfolded with a rolled-up t-shirt for a bat.

Best of all? Luis Castillo is Met property for 1,102 more days. Thank you, Omar Minaya.

For much of the middle innings Greg and I could barely speak — we sat slumped in our chairs, watching terrible things happen on the field and the scoreboard. Wow, Aramis Ramirez almost hit one out. Look, the Braves are lifting their skirts for the Phillies again. Jeez, can't the Red Sox at least eliminate the Yankees? Nope, we couldn't even seek refuge in Schadenfreude. I would occasionally grunt or mutter a curse; now and then Greg would mumble unhappily or emit a low moan of vague torment.

There are six games left at Shea, and the Mets somehow still are in the lead for a playoff spot. But my goodness, it feels like there are 60 to go and the team's so hopelessly out of it that it's already held the fire sale. Despite what the papers tell you, this isn't a collapse, just a desperately flawed team trying to limp across the finish line with a suspect rotation and a truly ghastly bullpen. (After he was taken out, Luis Ayala trudged off the mound not to boos but to the ambient noise of utter indifference.) There's no shame in this September swoon — the Mets redeemed a dreadful year that looked lost with a summer revival. But that was a while ago now. I can imagine them bellyflopping into the playoffs ahead of the equally suspect, just as psychologically shot Brewers. (And then who knows?) But I find it easier — a lot easier — to imagine them coming up short again.

It won't hurt like last year did — with any luck, nothing in Met fandom will hurt quite like that for years and years. But it sure won't be much fun.

If you'd like to emulate a ball hit by Carlos Delgado and land over the fence at Shea Stadium, Matt Silverman's got your final chance. The co-author of Mets By The Numbers and author of 100 Things Mets Fans Should Know & Do Before They Die has organized a get-together of Mets fans in the Picnic Area for this Wednesday's evening's game against the Cubs. Its one final chance to see a game from where relatively few ever get to see one. Buffet and nonalcoholic beverages are included. A handful of tickets remain for this unique vantage point to one of the last games in Shea Stadium history, to say nothing of one of this season's most crucial. Plus I'll be there, but don't let that stop you. Ticket price is $70, which covers the game, all you can eat, all you can drink (beer is extra), the Picnic Area experience (heartily endorsed here) and a serious helping of committed, devoted Mets fans.

For more information, check out Met Silverman and, like the Mets this week, act now. E-mail Matt with any and all questions.

As late afternoon became early evening Sunday, I was bucking myself up for the challenge ahead, both the Mets' and mine. Theirs is the one that matters, winning enough games without losing so that they return to the playoffs and try to win a world championship. Mine is simply to show up and try not to be an impediment to their success.

Wow was it familiar. It's just about what I was doing at this time a year ago. A year ago there was some slight relief (pun not intended, though it should have been) with the Mets winning three straight in Miami. It didn't fool many of us who were fast gaining our degrees in collapsology. Trouble was surely lurking and it hopped right out from behind the bushes the second the Mets' charter landed at LaGuardia for their final seven games. Me, I rendezvoused with the team for the final five, four of which were abysmal and we know how that ended.

So here I am and here we are and, a few key differentiating details aside, it's basically the same thing all over again. Sunday was fifty-one weeks since the worst day in the history of Shea Stadium settled in our hair and rushed up our nostrils. We went through all of that anguish and all of that angst and all of our recovery efforts and all the rationalization we could muster just so we could get right back where we started from: trying to make the playoffs, trying to not miss the playoffs, trying our darndest to be there as much and as best we can.

What's that saying about doing the same thing, expecting different results and the definition of insanity? Never mind that now. It's too late. It's been too late as long as I can remember. If I could just slip the bonds of fanhood without a second thought, don't you think I would have long ago? No, this is the life I, like you, have chosen. I have chosen a life that inflicted upon me insane amounts of unhappiness fifty-one weeks ago and I've gone through every motion possible just to arrive back at potentially the exact same precipice.

Except this time I'm determined to go the final seven games of the year, not just five (having already been to the previous eight which, virally speaking, literally sickened me). And if things go as wrong as they possibly can, it will turn a sweet-sorrow parting into the most bitter ballpark funeral I can imagine.

Hence, I'd appreciate it from my friends in Mets uniforms if they could build leads and hold them this week, if they could find a way to win far more than they lose and for their counterparts in management to not make me sorry I've been looking so forward for so long to so much.

Is it really so much to ask for?

As for the ancillary issues connected to the final seven regular-season lines of The Log:

1 win in the next 4 games clinches a winning record against the Cubs. (Current: 10-7)

2 wins in the final 3 games clinch a winning record against the Marlins. (Current: 16-16)

3 wins over the Marlins would make them the second-most oft-beaten opponent in Log history. (Braves: 20)

2 losses to the Marlins (shudder) would mean a losing record against every current divisional opponent. (Braves: 20-23; Phillies: 18-21; Nationals: 6-8)

4 wins are needed for the most in one season. (2001: 23)

6 wins in the final 7 games would put the final Log record at 40 above .500. (Currently: +35; Highest previously: +38 on 6/21/02 and 7/26/02)

2 Santana starts and 1 Pelfrey start would put 10 in The Log for 2008 for each of them, tying for the most by any one starter in any one year. (Leiter in 2001)

2 more games attended will bring the 2008 total to an all-time high of 39. (2001: 38)

4 more games attended will mean I've attended a majority of the home schedule in 2008.

5 more games attended will bring The Log's regular season total to 400 lifetime.

4 games attended against the Cubs will signify the only complete four-game series ever attended.

2 wins will clinch a .500 season. The Mets need more than that for their own survival, but if I were to finish 22-22, it would be quite familiar. My record was .500 in '83, '84, '86, '91, '92, '94, '95, '96, '03 and '04.

A win Friday would snap a Friday losing streak of five consecutive games dating back to 9/14/07, the first night of The Collapse. Friday is the only day of the week without a win recorded in The Log in 2008.

If I don't focus on the minutiae, the big picture might strangle me alive.

It occurs to me that with the last two losses in Atlanta, our record fell to 86-69, which was either intentional so as to inspire great championship luck or a subliminal way to sell remaining $869 seat inventory.

It's that time of year when baseball moves to the head of the line, shoving aside personal commitments and anything job-related that isn't truly extraordinary. (I've got one of those next week, which is hard to do when you don't actually have a job.) Eight games to go, every one of them freighted with potentially enormous significance. Are we in first place? Second? Is the margin small enough that the one could become the other again tonight? Did Coolstandings just add or subtract 30-odd percent to or from our postseason chances? What did the Brewers do? Are the Marlins close enough to worry about yet? What's our magic number, anyway? What's our other magic number? OK, what's their magic number?

Last night was the final regular-season Saturday-night game to come at the same time as our regular Saturday-night babysitter, so Emily and I didn't even discuss what the plan was — we didn't need to. We decided to walk over the bridge and go to Mark Joseph Steakhouse, where back in July we'd found good eats, bar seats right by the TV and a companionable bartender whose public loyalties were whatever his customers espoused (only sensible) but whose semi-private loyalties were orange and blue. Second verse, same as the first — we even got our same seats, and Jared remembered us and tended to our food-and-drink needs and our worries over Pedro, the bullpen and the lineup with equal aplomb.

The only problem? Well, as with last time, it was that pesky score. 3-0 when we arrived a bit late, prompting a round of Pedro-related angst. Greg's covered the gist of that, and at Mark Joseph we traced much the same trajectory, from melancholy declarations that it's Jon Niese's turn (and discussions of whether Brandon Knight would be a better choice) to stubborn urging to slow hope to jubilation over Pedro's Mister Koo-like double to grumbling over the blown call at second. The saving grace was that it was largely a private war — a White Sox fan would stop by for updates on his own postseason quest, but other than that the bar was Mets country. The ultimate proof of that? In the middle innings the inevitable Yankee fan made an unasked-for appearance, woofing his support for the Braves. That ruffled not a feather on any of the rest of us — if anything, it brought mild, amused disbelief. You're a Yankee fan rooting against the Mets in enemy-of-my-enemy fashion? Has your season really dwindled to notions of such little consequence? Oh, that's right — it has. The unwelcome noise went quiet and then went away entirely, as the Yankees themselves soon will.

The Mets are trying to avoid the same fate, and so what they did against the Braves mattered quite a bit, and ended poorly, with Nick Evans striking out as we crossed the Brooklyn Bridge. Before that, seeing our bartender friend and the dour score, Emily joked that we'd been a bit worried about coming, given what happened last time. Which prompted Jared to smile but also to raise an eyebrow — perhaps thinking that his record is pretty damn good, except when these two idiots from Brooklyn plop down at his bar.

“You should come when Santana's pitching,” he said.

Addendum: A friend of Faith and Fear is looking to sell tickets for Tuesday's and Thursday's games. Two for each game, field boxes (117F), $59 each. Can be fetched in Brooklyn or Times Square. If you're interested, drop us a line and we'll broker a meeting. First come first served and all that.