Our friends at Loge 13 are fielding an interesting request from Andrew of Canada, a reader who's visiting Shea for the first time next week month: “How can I get the best Shea Stadium experience?”

Kingman of Loge 13 offered some great tips, including a hike to Upper Deck, Section 48, Row V to admire the view; homage to the Agee marker if he makes it down alive; and an Italian sausage as a reward. I might add try to explain to an usher on Field Level that you only want to go down to buy the Daruma of Great Neck sushi, not to change your seats…and see if you can finish the conversation civilly or without the exchange of presidential flashcards.

Any ideas on what else to tell Andrew? Like Eminem in 8 Mile, he's only got one shot at Shea. What would you do tell him to do with it so as to properly lose himself in the experience?

What exactly is the point of being a contender if you can't build on an early 4-0 lead over the Pirates? Or can't preserve a 5-1 lead bequeathed you by six innings of Pedro Martinez? Are the Phillies and Marlins both really flawed enough to let this crew of light hitters and heavy downers pass them? Can't anybody who doesn't have a strained left forearm get ninth-inning outs?

There were too many of these games earlier in the season, but that was when the season looked for naught. They've brought us to the edge…no they've brought us over the edge into contention, into believing 2008 could be something else. On days like this (and there have been quite a few), it looks like nothing else but more of what the Mets were doing early on and a little too much of recently. Not tacking on, not shutting doors, not kicking lousy teams who have no reason to beat you but do to the proverbial curb. It is they who kicked, it is we who are curbed.

This was a disgrace. Some games are that plain and that simple.

Yesterday's score was briefly Marlins 8 Mets 1. It was a Sunday. I even managed to wear the same 2006 Division Champs shirt I wore to Shea when that scenario was last in effect. I'm glad the final was 8-2. Well, glad wouldn't be nearly the right word, but I've had enough Marlins 8 Mets 1 Sundays to last me into the next ballpark.

Jane Jarvis was in the house yesterday. Jane Jarvis was out in centerfield for the revealing of the number that indicates how many games are left at Shea. Jane Jarvis is, to date, the best invitee of the season. She may be the best they have all year.

Jane Jarvis was on the Thomas Organ for sixteen seasons, the first sixteen seasons of Shea Stadium. She was the sound of Shea. She and us. That's all you needed. All we knew of Jane was her picture in the yearbook and the Thomas Organ ad, the one we were told was her keyboard of choice. When Shea was the happiest place on earth in the '60s and '70s, it was Jane who set the tone.

You may recall a serious accident at an East Side apartment building this March, one where a crane collapsed and killed several people. Residents needed to be evacuated, among them Ms. Jarvis, 92. It was more than a little disorienting.

“I guess my world fell around me,” she told the Times. “A lot of people get hurt by things like this, and no one even suspects it.”

Between the accident and the final season at Shea, people wondered how she was doing and if she'd be back for one more appearance. It was disheartening that the Lincoln Mercury representatives and other nonentities had been getting the call to take down a number while true icons of Shea were going ignored. No icon of Shea was truer from 1964 to 1979 than Jane Jarvis. In May, she told SNY.tv's Barry Wittenstein that she hoped she could be part of the stadium farewell.

Yesterday she was. She's relocated to New Jersey, she's in a wheelchair, but she's still Jane Jarvis. When that recording of “Meet the Mets” went up on the PA, you were reminded that Jane Jarvis never left Shea Stadium even if she hadn't been organist in residence since 1979. Before, during and after her introduction for her countdown moment at least one fan applauded wildly from wherever he was.

Jane Jarvis, you may have heard, is more than a ballpark organist. She's an accomplished jazz musician. She was an executive with the Muzak corporation. She's recorded a slew of albums. She can still play. I learned that a few years ago.

My wife runs a senior center in midtown. The church that hosts the center invites the community in for midweek, midday jazz concerts. On the bill one Wednesday afternoon in the fall of 2003 was Jane Jarvis. She was the featured attraction, backed up a small combo. Jane Jarvis, then in her late 80s, was playing the piano and playing it with elan. She was playing with style. She was playing with heart.

The only thing she wasn't playing was “Meet the Mets”. This was the other side of Jane Jarvis, the one for whom Shea Stadium and the Thomas Organ was a gig in a lifetime of gigs. She had moved on. I, of course, hadn't. As happy as I was to be feet away from a legend, I was waiting and waiting to hear one of the only two songs I associated with Jane Jarvis.

The show was ending. Stephanie, as emcee of the event, informed the audience that in case you didn't know it, Ms. Jarvis was the organist at Shea Stadium for many years and if we all encourage her, maybe she'd give us a little of her signature tune. This wasn't a crowd of baseball fans (I think her Shea credentials came as news to most of them) but they were up for it. Everybody applauded.

Jane had this look of “I've been a serious musician for 75 years and you want to hear what?” But, pro's pro, she departed from her set list and dove right in to “Meet the Mets”. It was just a few bars, but it was dreamy.

Until she segued into the other song I associate with Jane Jarvis: “The Mexican Hat Dance”. And that was off the charts thrilling. Jane Jarvis' “Mexican Hat Dance” is the ultimate pregame soundtrack in my mind. Always will be. And here it was, a command performance almost.

The audience in the church knew exactly when to clap. Just as I did yesterday.

After that 2003 performance, I brought my giveaway CD from 1996 up to the piano, thanked her for playing those two songs and asked her to autograph the liner notes. She did so, regally. Why not? She's Jane Jarvis, Queen of the Thomas Organ. Her playing will always rule.

Yesterday may have been the dreariest baseball game I've ever attended.

Emily and I were coming back from Philadelphia in a rental car, and with insufficient time to go home and get on the subway, we were stuck driving. We'd been warned about this, but it's true — it's hard parking at Shea when there's a new stadium in the lot. We wound up beyond something called the Aquatic Center, a piece of Queens real estate I'd never heard of. I have now, and I can tell you it's very far from Shea Stadium.

So we finally arrived to find our friends Chris and Peggy, and endured the business end of an ass-kicking, one of those horrid games that leaves you in the duck-and-cover position for half a game. When Carlos Delgado's bid for a cosmetic home run was foiled at the wall, I turned to Joshua and reminded him of the day he and I watched Willie Harris deep-six a Met comeback by snaring a Delgado drive in much the same spot. This is father-son bonding over shared torment — the part of baseball fandom that doesn't come with soft focus and acoustic guitar, but with Limp Bizkit and the two of us turning into the Ligues.

By the time Cody Ross was denying us, it was raining. While I was taking Joshua to the bathroom they announced that the Mets Dash wouldn't be held. By now Joshua's seen more than his share of Dashes lost to rain and ESPN being grabby. He gave me a shocked look, saw it was true, threw back his head and began to wail. Then the Mets finished losing and we trudged back to the now aptly-named Aquatic Center in the rain to sit in traffic on College Point Boulevard. “I am never thinking about this game again,” I said in the car, and with the exception of this blog post I mean it.

It was a day that desperately needed a silver lining, and fortunately there was one — a gathering of bloggers in SNY''s suite, set up through the kind auspices of MetsBlog's Matt Cerrone. (Thanks, Matt!) I couldn't stay for long — had to get back to Emily, our friends and our overtired kid — so wasn't able to meet everyone I wanted to meet or gawk at what life in a luxury suite is like, beyond noting that up there the beer is not only free but served in — ooh la la — glass bottles. But seeing Matt and the MetsBlog folks and Coop and Anthony and Brooklyn Met Fan up there gave me a feeling of honest-to-goodness Blog Brotherhood. In 2005, when Greg and I started Faith and Fear on a spring-training lark, blogs were an afterthought for the Mets and a way of thinking about the team that was reserved for Netheads. Two and a half seasons later, thanks to all those folks' hard work and thoughtful writing, MetsBlog is an integral part of the SNY/Mets ecosystem, and blogs of all stripes are becoming a crucial way for fans get their news, stage their debates and cherish the histories of franchises and fans alike. No, we weren't in the press box — but if I'd wanted to be in the press box, I would have gone that route a long time ago. We were on the same level as those guys, just down the hall, and that struck me as just right.

The other silver lining? As a couple of posts and comments here have noted, I've now entered what is sometimes delicately called a career transition — my 12 1/2 years with the Wall Street Journal Online ended on Friday. Fortunately, the very next business day turns out to have a Met game added to it. Mets-Pirates, 1 p.m., and you'd better believe I'm going. Because of all the summer days I wanted to but couldn't. Because I'm sure as heck not interested in sitting around the house wondering what to do with myself. Because I can.

Yeah, the weather report is iffy. It's OK. That's the difference between silver linings and plain old silver.

Remember when you wanted to turn your back on the 2008 Mets? Now you kind of want to wrap your arms around them. They're so adorable when they're like this.

Like what? Like winning, for one, though the early '08 Mets were that from time to time, but those guys…ah, let's not talk about those Mets. Let's talk about these Mets.

Let's talk about our man Dan. Or Daniel. The various scoreboards and PA were in disagreement Wednesday night about which is correct. Murph will do. The Mets have always done well where Murphs are concerned.

Surely I'm not the only one who noticed that on the night Mrs. Murph, Joye Murphy, pulled down the Lincoln Mercury number, that our latest Murph, Dandy Daniel Murphy, pulled off the first homer of his newborn career. It was an opposite-field pinch-hit job, a two-run clout that made all the difference in a game that threatened to get away but stayed properly put in the Mets' column.

Daniel Murphy has a home run and Brian Stokes has a hit. Presumably he has the ball, the same one Mike Jacobs, who should remember what it's like to commit firsts at Shea Stadium, overtossed into the crowd. If the erstwhile Jakey meant to, he couldn't have aimed it any better at the kid in the box seats who grabbed it on the carom from the dugout roof. Up popped Carlos Delgado to arrange a horsehide swap and avoid the most disappointed child at Shea Stadium since Benny Agbayani forgot how to count outs eight years ago this month. Carlos Delgado may not like coming out of the dugout to bow on his own account, but isn't it neat that he takes care of his teammates? It's worth noting he grinned a big veteran grin of approval when Dandy Daniel was compelled to take his first curtain call.

He took care of Scott Olsen as well with a blast that seemed to disappear beyond the parameters of the home bullpen. I do believe it bounced twice on the parking lot pavement and then onto the Willets Point Manhattan-bound platform where it was ticketed for fare-jumping (but the ball was too fast for the cops; it bounced right onto the local and changed for the E at 74th).

Stokes, when not hitting, managed his other responsibilities pretty well. He was one pitch from leaving with a two-run lead, but if Johan Santana can't be guaranteed wins, why should Brian Stokes? (And why all the fuss over Santana's win count anyway? It's not like he's positioning his stats to negotiate a new contract.) It irked me a bit in advance that Brian was here at all, since it was spelled out by management that they didn't call up younger, more intriguing, lefthanded Jonathon Niese so they wouldn't have to “start the clock” on the kid's service time. Is this MLB's favored cost-cutting method? Why not just charge rookies and erstwhile American League pitchers the cost of their commemorative baseballs? But maybe Omar is just trying to save the next feelgood story for the next homestand.

Speaking of feeling good, how about Good Old Aaron Heilman, the new closer in town? Enter sad man, exit happy Heil. I swear I saw him smile just an eensy bit as he accepted congratulations from teammates whose collective effort he saved again. I also saw him whisper something to Robinson Cancel with his glove over his mouth…after the game was over. Is this how pitchers talk to catchers when nobody's around? Is this how Aaron Heilman talks at home? Psst, honey! Seen my socks? No, I can't speak up. The kids might know what's coming next.

Heilman has a win and two saves in three days. Murph is batting .500. Delgado has reignited. Beltran (3-for-3 with a walk) may have reawakened. Tatis is a veritable Gold Glove outfielder once a night. Stokes is viable. Wright remains ablaze. Jerry Manuel, it was noted in the telecast, is wearing new glasses. Me too. Mine are rose-colored.

“What happened?”

“Mets won 3-0.”

“Who got the win?”

“Perez. Seven solid. Two hits, three walks, eight K's.”

“Bullpen problems?”

“None. Heilman, two-inning save.”

“Really?”

“Yup. Six up, six down.”

“Homers?”

“Wright, two-run job. Delgado, solo.”

“Phillies?”

“Lost in twelve.”

“So we're…?”

“In second, one out.”

“Anybody get hurt?”

“Nope. Church is getting closer, they say.”

“Good news.”

“Sure is.”

“That's it?”

“For now.”

“G'night.”

“G'night.”

It's probably harsh and unfeeling to suggest that for the rest of the year, Johan Santana be given carte blanche to pistol-whip any Met reliever whenever he wishes. (“Coach! Schoeneweis fell down the stairs again! Yeah, just like Heilman!”) But maybe he should at least be allowed to give them a vigorous shaking. What is it about this man that Horflitz and Przyblr must constantly mess up his work? Are Met relievers reluctant to toe the same rubber made holy by the touch of his foot? Do they feel so diminished by his aura that they perform down to their deepest fears of being mere fallible flesh and blood?

At least today's eventual win does damp to embers what otherwise would have been a typical Gotham sports brushfire — His Johanness was clearly Not Pleased to be taken out after a couple of bleeders at the beginning of the 8th, stalking off the mound without adhering to the new Met protocol of waiting for the reliever and plunking himself down on the bench with little exclamation points and cartoon lightning zig-zags visible over his head. (Can you blame him? I was pissed. I'm willing to predict Greg was pissed. Everyone in attendance at the matinee was pissed, including the campers. It was like watching the co-ed in the nightgown go back into the sorority-house basement.)

If my eyes didn't deceive me, Duaner Sanchez then pulled the same immediate stalk-off, but seeing how he turned in one incompetent pitch instead of Johan's 104 mostly masterful ones, he can shut it. The Mets escaped Duaner's disaster on a smart play by Argenis Reyes, a dumb play by Scott Hairston to not go home with the tying run, and a Reyes-to-Reyes-to-Evans double play, with Evans turning in a contortionist save on a wild heave by Jose. In the top of the ninth I got called into an office for a brief chat, came out, and would like to say I was surprised by what awaited me on the TV. Stupid [Insert Name of Reliever Here] — in this case, Schoeneweis.

To dwell on the pen's misdeeds would be justified, but it would also be no fun. Because it would ignore a lot of stuff that made for a pretty enjoyable afternoon. (And after all, it all came out OK.) The Junior Mets' flair and foibles made for a faintly sickening but ultimately entertaining turn on the see-saw. Take Argenis, who popped up with Jose Reyes on third with one out, got tangled up with Fernando Tatis and then nearly with Jose, yet turned a nifty, instinctive 4-4-3 double play in the sixth and then wisely came home for a key out in the eighth. Take potential Met cult hero Daniel Murphy, who made an ill-advised dive to let Hairston take an extra base, but went 2-for-4 and drove in the Mets' first run. Or Evans, who was sprung from left field to play his more-natural position, immediately turned a successful pickoff into a Padre steal, but then drove in the (first) lead run against a tough pitcher in Cla Meredith and, of course, made that amazing, disaster-deferring stretch in the dust. (Does Cla Meredith now lose another letter off his first name, so he's Cl? I would support that.)

And, amazingly, we somehow got to Heath Bell. Bell became a blog cause celebre in the spring of '05 (including bringing our little blog its first boost in traffic based on this post), but then seemed to shut the bloggers up by posting ERAs of 5.59 and 5.11, which got him and Royce Ring sent to San Diego for the useless Ben Johnson and Jon Adkins. After putting on West Kamchatka taupe and blue and camo, he promptly became an extremely valuable member of the pen.

How'd he manage that transformation? Gary and Ron were discussing Bell last night, and noted that he was continuously yo-yo'ed between AAA and the bigs before finally deciding he was a guy who just needed a change of scenery. Thing is (warning: Jace math ahead), Bell didn't need a change of scenery so much as he just needed his luck to even out. His Met career covered 108 innings pitched, during which he struck out 105 guys and walked just 30, which is pretty damn good. Meanwhile, his BABIP (batting average on balls in play, one of the cooler stats out there) was .374 in 2005 and .394 in 2006. This is not pretty damn good — the big-league average is around .300. To call Bell snakebit is like comparing the cowboy who got his ankle nipped by a rattler and limped 10 feet into the apothecary with the cowboy who fell into a nest, became a pincushion amid a crescendo of rattling and never came out. And if you don't think Bell's reputation wasn't hurt by the way he looked — big belly, big thighs, teeny feet — you're not cynical enough about baseball. The guy looked vaguely like a cartoon hippo doing ballet, pitched like Joe Btfsplk, and that was more than enough to get him sent to the other end of the continent.

So in West Kamchatka Bell turned in a lucky BABIP of .260, and hey presto! He was immediately a star. (Look here.) This year, he's up in the .290s again — with a little help from Endy Chavez, David Wright and that cruel mistress, Dame Regression to the Mean.

Maybe it was just the chance to really watch a game after days of personal distractions, but somehow I wasn't that bothered by tonight's loss. Perturbed, sure. But undone? Nope.

I like the Mets' new kiddie corps. I like Daniel Murphy's ability to pull a ball when needed, the way he makes adjustments at the plate and his general air of fearlessness. I like Argenis Reyes's goofy smile and hustle. I like that Nick Evans is a remarkably patient hitter for one so young, even if he does always look like his dog just died. I'm prepared to find something to like about Jon Niese when he gets here. I like that Eddie Kunz is gigantic and induces ground balls.

Well, except when Eddie Kunz is giving up the first home run of his professional career. And that gives the Padres insurance enough to put the Mets in bloop-and-a-blast territory, from which wouldn't emerge alive.

I've always liked the kids — if anything, I'm too ready to shove aside underperforming veterans for youngsters who've yet to fail and so obviously never will. Last year Greg endured many nights of me booing Shawn Green for everything from hesitating just long enough so balls fell in front of him to, oh, standing in a way that I didn't like. Where was Carlos Gomez? I'd demand. At any point between last summer and mid-July I would have thrown Carlos Delgado over in a heartbeat for, say, Mike Carp. (And then where would we be?) I like to collect significant Met debuts, from Bobby Jones's (in Philadelphia) to David Wright's. The kids are, by their nature, new and different — they're change, and I'm usually all for change. Even when it might be change for change's sake.

In my calmer moments, I remember that young players also come with growing pains. They give up dingers that let them know they're not in Oregon anymore. They follow gusherous debuts in Colorado with long dry spells everywhere else. They muff pop-ups and double plays. I'm sure the aforementioned Mr. Murphy will screw something up one day soon. It won't really be his fault — it'll be Rookie's Law.

And even those who have bid kiddom adieu can have nights that remind them of harsh lessons learned in their younger days. When David Wright forgets how many outs there are and then gets eaten alive by a grounder at the worst possible time, you know you're going to be fighting uphill. When Brian Giles's bounder spun its way out into left field, I felt for Pedro, sitting in the dugout after a pretty encouraging outing only to watch an L get hung on him. But not as much as I did for Wright. After his error, David turned and watched Giles's ball for a moment — helplessly, for it may as well have been on the moon for all he could do about it. Then turned back toward home plate. He looked stoic, but his eyes told another story. Giles said later that he'd thought he'd fouled the ball off, that he had no idea he'd somehow hit it with the kind of wicked English that will get you thrown off the pool table if you try it in a bar. Maybe it didn't rip the felt, but David had no chance. And neither did we — youthful energy notwithstanding.

As you've probably heard or read, the Mets and the City of New York are teaming to give you (especially if you're a season-ticket holder) a chance to buy a pair of Shea seats for the low, low bargain price of $869. A portion of the proceeds will be directed to worthy charities, the market will bear what the market will bear and at this point nobody can feign shock that stadium relics carry a high tag. It's galling and insane and all that, but I wasn't expecting those of us who've spent the rough (and I do mean rough) equivalent of 50 full days sitting in such seats to receive a diehard discount. If you've toured what one wag referred to as the FEMA trailer they've set up between the old and new ballparks to sell Final Season merchandise, you've been reminded that you can put a price on sentiment.

I don't know that I'd dig way deep for a pair of Shea seats. My lovely wife, partly being characteristically indulgent and partly as a hedge against the inevitable psychiatric bills I'd run up when it would fully dawn on me that Shea seats were available and I didn't grab two, has encouraged us to go for it (as if we have a go-for-it fund). That's an awfully thoughtful blessing on her part but it's an awfully steep bill. I just don't know.

But I do know of an added embellishment that would make the final Shea seats that come attached to a regular-season ballgame that much more valuable.

Sign Edgardo Alfonzo in September.

We were talking a post ago about Aaron Heilman starting September 28 or Jesse Orosco finishing. Neither seems likely to happen (though if I had to bet, I'd lean toward Jesse). As I mentioned, Mike Flanagan threw the final Oriole pitch at Memorial Stadium and it was a sweet deal. On the occasion of the final Giants home game at the Polo Grounds, manager Bill Rigney fielded a lineup that included recently reacquired Bobby Thomson and Whitey Lockman, 1954 Series pinch-hitting hero Dusty Rhodes, stalwart championship catcher Wes Westrum, Willie Mays (of course) and, to pitch, '54 ace Johnny Antonelli. That, too, was sweet.

What could be sweeter on September 28, 2008 than looking up at the right side of the scoreboard and seeing this notation in the two-hole?

Yes, Edgardo Alfonzo (Billy Wagner, grab a couple of sixes). This isn't in the fanciful realm of “wouldn't it be great if some retired Met icon could be activated for one day?” Fonzie is a Met icon who is not retired. Fonzie is playing for the Long Island Ducks. Fonzie, for that matter, is tearing it up for the Long Island Ducks.

This was in Newsday Monday:

Alfonzo returned to the Ducks for the second half and is hitting .324 with 11 runs, 12 RBIs, two doubles and three home runs. He hit .266 with five home runs and 56 RBIs in 105 games with the Ducks in 2007.

The former Met spent the first few months of 2008 with Quintana Roo of the Mexican League, hitting .280 with 12 doubles and 17 RBIs in 55 games.

This wouldn't be Minnie Minoso. This wouldn't be a gimmick. OK, it would be a gimmick, but not an implausible one. It would be an appropriate one.

Granted, if the Mets are fighting for a playoff spot in Game 162, you might take a different tack (though if Fonzie's batting .324, maybe he should be called in from Islip sooner). But if it's devoid of implications beyond the one implication we've had circled on the schedule for months, then why not? Surely the 40-man roster can stand some juggling for one September day. Surely Luis Castillo will need to keep flexing that hip to make certain it's strong for 2009. Surely the Mets organization for once in their stupid lives can do something beautiful and relatively inexpensive.

I'd make the offer to Mike Piazza, too, except Mike did retire and I can't see Mike going for it. Besides, Mike had his last day in a Mets uniform duly noted. It was beautiful, actually, more beautiful than anticipated because the scoreboard carried this notation in the cleanup slot that Sunday:

That was one of Willie Randolph's best moments, penciling in Mike Piazza to bat fourth on his final day as a Met. Removing Mike Piazza before the game was over was not his shiningest hour, but let's stay positive. If Mike called Jay Horwitz (all Hall of Fame-caliber former Mets catchers call Jay Horwitz when they want something) and said “I've been working out, I'd like to come back,” I'd say sure, make it Mike and Fonzie. I'd throw Brian Schneider, Ramon Castro and Robinson Cancel under the bus so fast, it would make Gary Carter's head spin.

But that's not gonna happen. Mike stopped playing. Fonzie, however, hasn't. Fonzie was hitting .324 through Sunday in a reasonably competitive league. Fonzie was auditioned in Norfolk in 2006 and it was only, if I followed the dots correctly, because Castro went on the DL and the Mets had to sign Kelly Stinnett out of nowhere as a precaution for October, that he didn't get a Lee Mazzilli recall that jubilant September.

Make amends Omar. Make it up to us. Make it up to me, the fan who's spent the rough equivalent of 50 days, about three hours per game over almost 400 games, sitting in a Shea Stadium seat that you're going to sell to someone more well off financially and mentally than me. Give us one fantastic Shea throwback for one fantastic final Shea experience. Give one authentic Shea icon who deserved a legitimate sendoff but never received one a last afternoon in the sun. Give us our Mike Flanagan, our Bobby Thomson.

Give us this one and make some diehards happy.