A loss to the Phillies in September. The knowledge that they're hot on our heels and just got a little closer. Bah. I'm not scared.

These are not the 2007 Mets, Willie Randolph's Mets, the Mets who admitted that sometimes they got bored out there. Nobody gets bored on Jerry Manuel's watch. To be sure, this difference is no guarantee of a postseason spot, or anything at all … well, actually that's not quite true. It's as close as you're going to get to a guarantee that these Mets will go down biting and clawing, if defeat is to be their destiny. (And it might not be. You never know.)

Friday night's showdown was a tense, sweaty mess — in October's cooler weather it might have been described as taut and gripping, but a blanket of sticky summer heat made it more leaden and aggravating, with the weather compounding the frustration for the Mets and all of us as inning after inning slipped by with Brett Myers still out there untouched.

Yet this game was deathly close. Yes, Myers was absolutely terrific, but Mike Pelfrey was awfully good too. Take out uncharacteristically sterling defense by Ryan Howard, a shoddy play by Jose Reyes on Shane Victorino's first-inning stolen base, and raise Ryan Church's glove half an inch and this one could have been 0-0 after nine. And even that 3-0 lead was built on sand: Brad Lidge spent the entire ninth on the edge of disaster, recording his outs on rockets by Daniel Murphy (with an at-bat that was superb even by his precocious standards) and Ryan Church, sandwiched around a Beltran blooper that almost eluded Eric Bruntlett.

It wasn't to be, of course: Myers was better and the Phillies got all the breaks, which is perfectly fair even if it wasn't much fun. But it wasn't the kind of loss to leave us shaking in our shoes. They drew first blood, which isn't ideal. But we'll get our chance, when the weather allows, and you get the feeling things will be different. And both the standings and our Met-fan souls should be a reminder that we'd rather be us than them.

If my ducks are in the row I believe them to be, then I can say something I've never been able to say before. From here on out, the Mets' record at Shea Stadium and my record at Shea Stadium will require no delineation. They will be one and the same for as long as scheduled regular-season games will be played there.

Fifteen games remain. I am going to all fifteen — eight this homestand, seven the next. Like the Mets in this pennant race, I'm all in.

Forward my calls, would ya?

Hung up on The Log as I am, I set out toward what I considered a longshot goal entering 2007: Get to 400 games at Shea lifetime. From 1973 though 2006, my attendance was 336. As mentioned last week, I hit 400: 387 regular-season, 13 postseason. Sure as shootin', those numbers are true and the accomplishment, if I can call it that, is legitimate. But the construct bothered me just a little bit. I wouldn't trade my 13 postseason games at Shea for anything (though I wouldn't mind a few more in a few weeks), but “my record” has always been expressed in regular-season terms. That's how baseball individually and collectively works, with the singular exception of the 1998 Yankees who were lauded for going 125-50 in the only 175-game season ever recorded. It would be more in the spirit of “my record” to hit 400 before taking into account the mostly glorious afternoons and evenings attached to the 1999, 2000 and 2006 NLDS and NLCS rounds.

Once the inclusive 400 became a reality, the regular-season version didn't seem altogether out of reach. Having cobbled together a collection of tickets for 11 of the final 15 games already, I dared myself to ratchet it up. Somebody had an extra for the Nats. That would give me 41 for the year, more than half of the home schedule. Somebody else could make available the Friday Phillies game. That would make it 42 in 2008, 400 forever. That would accomplish the mission.

But what if there were a freaky postponement and no makeup? Not likely given the crowds expected and the competitive contours of the campaign, but who knows? Besides, 13 of 15 is so close to 15 of 15. There were two Saturday games unclaimed. So I went to StubHub and claimed them.

There are exactly 13 lines left on the last regular-season page of The Log. I guess I'll have to write small to fit everything in. When I do, the regular-season Shea Stadium total will be 402 and holding. A number like 410, the deepest part of the park, would have really been a blast, but this is plenty. This is more than plenty. In any season that wasn't Shea's last, this would be borderline excessive.

This is 44 regular-season games in one stadium in one year. This smashes the 2001 standard of 38 that was built on a Tuesday/Friday package and grim resolve. I never thought I'd approach 38 again, but I fanned up the last week of last season and got to 35. After the way that went down (way down), I'd be excused by the arbiters of sanity if I Shea'd goodbye right then and there. Instead, I used my head as a battering ram and charged full speed through Gate E 29 more times in the first five months of 2008.

Now it is my intention to up that hefty total by more than half in one month, as if 29 isn't enough.

The only series I didn't show up for this season was the Arizona set when this franchise and its supporters were sharing in a nervous breakdown (I showed up for Texas but the lightning kept the Rangers from The Log). Just about every milestone I marked a must for the Final Season — final Opening Day, final Subway Series, once more against each division rival past and present, once more with many of those who accompanied me here way and not so way back when, once more (or for once) sitting everywhere where one can sit — I reached. The tickets for the final game were long ago secured. Everything else is gravy.

But gravy is good. And so are the Mets. I don't know if I could commit to this improvised pennant pack if there were no pennant chase, if this were 2003 redux. I imagine I could bring myself to Shea goodbye in far more abbreviated fashion if the Mets had already checked out for the year.

They haven't: no way, no how, no surrender. They have earned the right to be cheered up close and personal by as many voices and as many times as humanly possible.

They are making these Final Fifteen, along with the seven that lie ahead on the road, count like crazy. Twenty-two games from now we will know what it amounts to. We will know if we've fallen for the biggest tease since the close of business on September 12, 2007 or we will know that one year is nothing — nothing — like the last. We will know if we let our hearts go too fast or if we should be ashamed of ourselves for ever doubting our one true love. We will know whether we are first or second; whether Shea lives on for at least a couple more glorious afternoons and evenings; whether finality has come to Flushing for certain.

I will know Shea Stadium about as well as I can know it, as if I don't it by now. I will know it under the lights, I will know it in the rain, I will know it in the shadows, I will know it — if the weather and baseball gods have any sense of decency — in the sun. I will know the four primary levels of Shea Stadium before they are obliterated and their renamed, truncated and unpopularly priced successors are entrenched. I will know those cramped concourses and those winding ramps and that serene exit system. I will know where the concessions are and where the restrooms are and where everything I need to enjoy or endure a Mets game is until I have to learn it all over again somewhere else.

I will know, should my plans proceed as best-laid, the only magic numbers there is any chance in hell you will catch me tracking here: 15, 44, 402, 415. I will know The Log has been completed, save for a little white space on one page reserved for additional postseason action should it come to that, though I presume to know nothing about that.

Just as I presume to know nothing in advance about how this final September at Shea Stadium will feel once I am immersed in it.

In the spirit of the bipartisanship that is so often talked about every four years, I cross party lines to share some thoughts on my New York Baseball Giants fetish at the excellent Bronx Banter. Master Banterer Alex Belth is hosting a veritable Giantspalooza over there today, and has a sweet article on the New York Baseball Giants Nostalgia Society up on the SNY site as well.

Top of the first. After Reyes pops out, Murphy's on first, Wright's up. Howie says Wright has lashed one down the right field line.

ALL RIGHT! GO MURPH! SCORE!

Murph winds up on third, Wright's on first.

WHY DIDN'T MURPHY SCORE? WHY IS WRIGHT ONLY ON FIRST? HOWIE MADE IT SOUND LIKE A DOUBLE!

Delgado up.

TOTAL DOUBLE PLAY COMING UP. I CAN'T BELIEVE WE HAD FIRST AND THIRD, ONE OUT AND WE WON'T SCORE.

Delgado singles, scoring Murphy, Wright going to third. Beltran up.

BELTRAN'S BEEN ON FIRE…WHICH MEANS I'M EXPECTING TOO MUCH FROM HIM HERE. HE'LL STRIKE OUT. AND I'LL BET DELGADO LOAFED TO FIRST.

Beltran walks to load the bases for Church.

CAN WE STOP WITH THE CHURCH REHAB PROGRAM? HE'S SUCKED SINCE HE CAME BACK. WHERE'S TATIS? GEEZ JERRY!

Church launches a grand slam.

YEAH! YEAH! ALL RIGHT RYAN! YEAH! NOW OF COURSE HE'S GOING TO GO BACK TO SLUMPING BECAUSE A HOME RUN DOESN'T MEAN ANYTHING FOR THE LONG TERM, IT'S JUST A LUCKY SWING.

Castillo grounds out. Schneider up.

GOD IT WOULD HAVE BEEN NICE TO HAVE KEPT A RALLY GOING. THAT'S THE PROBLEM WITH HOME RUNS. THEY STOP EVERYTHING DEAD. OLLIE'S NOT GOING TO BE ABLE TO PITCH WITH A LEAD. SCHNEIDER SUCKS. WE ARE SO SCREWED.

Schneider homers.

ALL RIGHT! GUESS IT WOULD BE TOO MUCH TO ASK PEREZ NOT TO MAKE AN OUT, BUT THAT WOULD ONLY BRING UP REYES AND HE NEVER DOES ANYTHING WITH TWO OUT AND RUNNERS ON.

Perez flies out.

SIX-NOTHING…NOT BAD. WHAT A SHAME WE'RE NOT GOING TO SCORE ANY MORE AND AFTER SUCH AN UPLIFTING WIN LAST NIGHT WE'RE GOING TO HEAD INTO THE PHILLY SERIES WITH SUCH AN AWFUL LOSS. THE BULLPEN IS SO DUE TO IMPLODE.

Not quite three hours later, the Mets complete a smooth 9-2 victory over the Brewers.

SWEEP! FANTASTIC! WOO-HOO! BUT I HOPE OUR TACKING ON LATE RUNS DOESN'T FIRE UP THE BREWERS FOR OCTOBER IF WE SEE THEM AGAIN. IT COULD BE AN '88 DODGERS SITUATION COMING BACK TO BITE US. AND WHAT'S WRONG WITH ME FOR EVEN THINKING ABOUT OCTOBER? I HOPE WE DON'T LOSE TOO BADLY TO THE PHILLIES THIS WEEKEND.

One of the unfortunate side effects of being a Met blogger is no matter how hard you try to keep yourself from doing it, you rehearse posts in your head as the game nears its climax. Thinking about Daniel Murphy and Jose Reyes, about Endy Chavez at the plate and in the field, about David Wright in the field though not currently at the plate, about Nelson Figueroa and Duaner Sanchez and Brian Stokes and Pedro Feliciano and Joe Smith and finally Luis Ayala, I kept falling back on “valiant,” which they'd surely been. One problem with “valiant” is that it's pretty shopworn; another is that it generally implies defeat. But that's where we seemed to be in the 10th, with Ayala pitching on essentially one leg, barely able to follow through and increasingly unable to hit the strike zone. There was Brad Nelson (whose physique is classically Brewer) nearly hitting one out for the tie, and the accursed Gabe Kapler working a walk, and then Rickie Weeks almost ending the game with a screamer down the line. There's no “W” in “valiant,” I thought gloomily, and you can't spell it without the “L.” I realized there was a title for a blog post in there somewhere, and was prepared for the grim task of finding it.

Except Ayala somehow wiggled free, managing to bait an overeager Weeks into swinging at a final pitch in the Miller Park dirt. Just another heart-in-the-throat New York Met win.

Early in the game, I told Emily I hoped Jonathan Niese didn't read the papers, because then he might not know that the Met brass were divided on whether the lefty-devouring Brewers were really the best matchup for him. They weren't: At first Niese's biggest enemy was a self-inflicted case of nerves, and he briefly got his Bannister on in tiptoeing out of trouble in the second and third, but that fourth inning was concentrated essence of ugly, a tattooing that he won't soon forget. One start isn't a career, of course, but against the Brewers Niese was more Brett Hinchliffe than Nelson Figueroa. Speaking of Mr. Figueroa, there he came riding to the rescue out of a bullpen whose members have somehow morphed from untouchables to untouchable. Figgy would have even held Niese's unlikely lead under intense pressure if the Brewers hadn't dropped their second parachute of the game into the Bermuda Triangle between short, left and center. (Fortunately, they balanced that with two horrible slides that led to key outs and amusing rants from an increasingly agitated Keith Hernandez.)

I mean, seriously: If you pegged our bullpen to begin this series with zero earned and six hits over 10 innings against that Brewer team, please tell me you're reading this after buying your Million for Life ticket. And if you did buy that Million for Life ticket (which costs $30 — isn't that too much for the suspension of disbelief required to play the lottery?), use the proceeds to buy some beers for some Mets, will ya? Like every member of that bullpen. Like Carlos Beltran, who ought to plow into the home-plate ump every night. Like Endy, delivering sac flies and rifle throws when one of each were required. Like Daniel Murphy, who increasingly deserves one just for being Daniel Murphy. Like Jerry Manuel, who left Nick Evans in when the situation seemed to call for Murphy, preserving him for later. And, of course, like Ayala, everybody's favorite one-legged temporary closer. Which, finally, brings us back to this post's odd title. Hey, if Luis Ayala can coax three strikes out of a busted groin and a vanished release point, I'm sure he can contort “valiant” until it's got the right consonant.

The latest indignity to be visited upon the ghosts of Shea past is being unleashed by the ghosts themselves if the Daily News' überdependable Adam Rubin is to be trusted. Rubin reported Sunday that Davey Johnson and Mookie Wilson turned down invites for the September 28 closing ceremonies at Shea. Our winningest manager and our longtime centerfielder, both crucial actors in the drama of 1986, are said to hold grudges against the Mets.

Rubin didn't specify their complaints. Things have always been a little prickly for Davey Johnson since he was fired as skipper in 1990, but he was warmly received on Old Timers Night in 1992 and was on hand when the Mets honored Gary Carter's Hall of Fame induction in 2003. He skipped the 1986 reunion two years ago but Mookie Wilson was front and center that night, despite having been let go as a coach following the 2002 season. Davey was recently busy with the Olympics and Mookie was last seen wearing a Cardinals ski cap during the '06 World Series as he rooted on stepson Preston. I have no idea if there are clues to be divined from any of this. I also don't much care.

I loved and love Mookie Wilson. I adored and adore Davey Johnson. But y'know what? If this is as simple as stubbornness on their part, feh on both of them. Not for all time, not for their track records as Mets, not for the past, but for this. If there's some greater issue pending, some kind of litigation between them and the team, then settle it now or briefly put it aside. It it's just bitterness or resentment or a slight that continues to rankle, get the fudge over it and get yourselves to Shea Stadium on September 28.

There comes a time when it's not about the Mets. There comes a time when it's about the Mets fans. Mookie, Davey, Nolan Ryan and Doc Gooden (also pegged an unlikely attendee, though I will continue to hold out hope until they pry the seat from my cold dead ass) are in the wrong here if indeed the Mets sent them an invitation to partake in the farewell of all farewells and they declined. Short of true human tragedy blocking their attendance, they have no business declining.

Instead of simply making like Riff Raff from Underdog — grabbing us by our ankles to shake the spare change from our pockets per usual — management has been uncharacteristically doing the right thing in advance of Closing Day. They've been reaching out to the individual Mets who made Shea Stadium what it's been for 45 seasons. They screwed up their official countdown horribly for too many of its first 55 dates, but they're fast compensating judging by the last homestand (20 to 16 revealed by Maxcine Agee, Bobby Ojeda, Darryl Strawberry, Keith Hernandez and Lee Mazzilli). Now they're trying to bring it all the way home. They're trying to make September 28 about more than nonrefundable deposits for 2009. They're trying to pay homage to the Mets from 1964 on.

So how dare any of those Mets not oblige? How dare Mets like Mookie Wilson and Davey Johnson not overlook their presumably petty complaints and not show up at Shea? They're not sticking it to the Wilpons if they don't come. They're sticking it to us, those who made them what they are. Without us, they'd still have been talented and accomplished. With us, they are larger-than-life and widely beloved. If that doesn't matter to them, too bad. You can wake up the morning of September 29 and go back to being steamed at whomever you're sore. But don't take it out on us. Don't rob us of our closure. Don't detract from our delusions that you ever cared about us except for the vague sense that we had something to do with your paychecks. Don't make us feel silly for the pedestals we erected and maintain on your behalf and how you apparently can't be bothered to stand tall on them for a couple of moments of cap-doffing and bow-taking.

Whatever beef you've got with the Mets should be transcended by the allegiance you've always gotten from Mets fans.

This goes for any Met who sits it out on September 28, the day the roster ideally expands to hundreds. It's wrong for Nolan Ryan to send his regrets. It's wrong for Doc Gooden to not strike out his demons for a day. It's wrong for Mookie Wilson and it's wrong for Davey Johnson. You don't belong to us, but your exploits did and our memories of you do. There will be one day when the stage where we cherished you has its curtain pulled down. That day is around the corner. It should be a day for celebration, not recrimination.

The ball struck by Carlos Delgado on an 0-2 pitch from Eric Gagne in the eighth kind of floated out to right-center. It wasn't one of those tracers that vanishes at a sharp angle suggesting it was hit by a 20-foot-tall man, as the Other Carlos's shot did off Kevin Gregg a couple of nights ago. No, this one drifted. And drifted. And kept on drifting, until Corey Hart surrendered and watched it settle into the seats: Mets 3, Brewers 2, just like that.

The Brewers' hitters are scary — but so's their bullpen, a blueprint we know all too well. This one looked like trouble early, with a triple bouncing off Daniel Murphy's glove, after which he fell down. That led to a 1-0 lead against Johan Santana, who then gathered himself in the second and was flawless until the sixth, when he somehow balked in a run. I was amazed. So, by the expression on his face, was Johan.

Part of that amazement had to be that the Mets seemed stuck in another offensive brownout, doing absolutely nothing against Ben Sheets. (David Wright looked particularly lost — it was painful watching him get eaten alive by Carlos Villanueva and Gagne.) But Sheets was betrayed, first by his groin and then by his relievers. Murphy continued to build his legend with a pair of cool, steely-eyed at-bats, singling off Villanueva on a full count to move Jose Reyes to third in the sixth, then taking Gagne to 3-2 before doubling to lead off the eighth. Carlos Beltran had himself a pretty good day, aside from taking out home-plate umpire Ed Rapuano, who kicked him in the knee. And Ryan Church rifled an opposite-field double for a key insurance run and a hopeful September sign.

With Santana excused after sixth, though, there was the small matter of our bullpen and its continuing misadventures — slapstick Johan has seen all too much of this year. But none of that was in evidence this time. First old friend Nelson Figueroa led the 10-strong corps of New Orleans recallees (is this an official holiday for Mets by the Numbers?), pitching in with a scoreless inning that gave him a W. Then Pedro Feliciano crushed Prince Fielder (whom I'd like to see in a sumo ring with Robinson Cancel) with sliders, and then Joe Smith turned in what might have been his most impressive performance of the year, carving up Hart with sliders and then outguessing Mike Cameron, a sequence that ended with Cancel catching Smith's final fastball and pumping his fist, his weight shifting toward the dugout before Rapuano even punched Cameron out. And closer-for-the-moment Luis Ayala was spotless in wrapping up a very satisfying Labor Day victory.

But this was Delgado's game, as so many have been recently. Taking the field against the Yankees on June 27th, Delgado was hitting .229 with 11 HR and 35 RBI, and we all wanted Marlon Anderson or Xavier Nady or Mike Carp or Anybody Not Named Carlos Delgado to report to first base ASAP. Since then, Delgado has 20 home runs and 60 RBI. Forget good and great — that's otherworldly.

It would be easy to turn this into a moral that we shouldn't be so hasty in counting out a proud player with a history of impressive numbers — easy, but not terribly accurate. Because if the Carlos Delgado of June 26th wasn't done, he was sure offering an excellent imitation of a baseball player who was. We all could see it: His bat had slowed, he was naked before any pitch on the outer half of the plate, and his defense, while never terrific, had decayed to embarrassing levels. It was terrible to watch a fiercely intelligent man baffled by evidence that he'd gotten old a couple of years ahead of schedule — hardly a unique tragedy in baseball, but deeply sad nonetheless, and a huge blow to the Mets' chances in 2008.

What's happened since then? Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe Delgado's workaday explanation is right, and it really did take all that time for him to make adjustments and eliminate some bad habits. Maybe he really did hate Willie Randolph that much, and Jerry Manuel's combination of pats on the back and challenges (remember the dig about Delgado getting his uniform dirty?) helped him find a higher gear. Given our times, I'm surprised more-cynical hypotheses haven't made the rounds — I'll take it as testament to Delgado's sterling reputation that they haven't.

Whatever the answer is, the results have been extraordinary. Delgado has gone from a guy with about as much chance of playing for the 2009 Mets as I do to the presumptive starter and a $12 million bargain. Not so long ago, he was a black hole in the lineup. Now, he's the New York Met — not Reyes or Wright or Beltran — whose spot you pray will come back around. Because you know there's a real chance he'll rescue us yet again.

On our last morning on LBI, we had a final breakfast, for which we were joined by longtime Faith and Fear commentor Charlie Hangley and his wife Sarah, who were arriving as we were departing.

Outside the pancake house, a Yankee fan had scoped out Charlie and me and our Met shirts and decided we must know whether the Yankees had won or lost the previous night. As it happens I did know, but I sent a text message to Google via my phone so the Yankee fan would have to wait for ill tidings. (Yes, I'm a bad person.) And then, having told him that the Yankees lost, I jauntily volunteered to find the Red Sox and Rays scores for him as well. (Which I also already knew. OK, so I'm a really bad person.) This took a little while; settled at our table, Charlie and I chatted briefly and fairly amiably with the Yankee fan, who didn't seem like such a bad sort. (Did I feel bad then? Yes. A little.) He was realistic about his own team's bleak forecast, but seemed oddly confident in ours: The Mets, he said with no-big-whoop certainty, were going to the playoffs.

Charlie and I immediately fell over ourselves appending qualifiers and hypotheticals to that, and apparently we did so with the kind of well-rehearsed ceremony generally seen in religious rituals — because a day later Emily was still chuckling about the scene. This show of backpedaling and poor-mouthing amused her, but it must have confused the hell out of the Yankee fan, because Yankee fans don't bother with qualifiers — they chest-thump and bray about their inevitable postseason triumph until silenced by mathematics. (And then they blink for a second and start woofing about rings, baby. This is why I only felt a little bad.)

But while Charlie and I did everything but throw salt over our shoulders at the prediction of a September to remember, at least for me the ceremony was largely unconscious. I'm strangely serene, given that Labor Day has arrived with us holding a lead of a wafer-thin single game.

I'm sure part of it is that last year we were up seven with 17 to play (will that combination of numbers ever not rattle around in our brains?), so I know even more than I normally would that a one-game lead can portend any number of reversals before the final judgment. But still — how am I not gripped by panic? Or at least more worried?

I think it's that this strangest of baseball campaigns has turned weirdly sweet. The first half was one of the more maddening stretches I've ever endured as a baseball fan, a continuation of 2007's lethargic mediocrity which was inexcusable coming as it did after the Collapse. But then Willie got axed (awkwardly but deservedly) and Jerry arrived, and he blew away the gloom and doubt that had hovered over the Mets for a year. And with that change in the metaphysical weather, strange things started happening. The left-field wormhole that swallowed Moises Alou and Brady Clark and Angel Pagan and Marlon Anderson and Trot Nixon and Chris Aguila inexplicably spat out Daniel Murphy and Nick Evans, Double-A roommates who have formed the best platoon of out-of-position rookies one could possibly imagine. Ryan Church endured a second concussion, strange medical advice and forced inactivity, but that allowed the unlikely resurrection of Fernando Tatis, living a “Blues Brothers” plot come to life. (Seriously. Like Jake and Elwood, he's on a mission from God.) El Duque never came off the shelf, but Mike Pelfrey reclaimed his curve ball and found himself. Luis Castillo hit the DL with his bad knees and unfathomably stupid contract for company, but up stepped a revived Damion Easley and Cleveland castoff Argenis Reyes, who shared not just a last name but also a boyhood friendship with his double-play partner. And of course Carlos Delgado, proclaimed by most any judge of horseflesh as ready for the glue factory, turned out to have some thoroughbred left in him.

Put all these unlikely events together and you got a team that not only won again but was fun to watch doing so — in a gleefully improvised, by turns terrifying and thrilling hell-for-leather way. Given how many times the 2008 Mets have already cheated the hangman, why start in now with worrying about John Maine's shoulder, or Billy Wagner's elbow, or the entire bullpen's hideousness, or that sliver of a lead? It feels like we'll think of something — and if that something doesn't work, well, who'd have dreamed we'd get this far? It's Labor Day and our stack is just a single chip higher than what the Phillies have brought to the table, but we're playing with house money. So what the heck — let's double down and see what happens.