You know you're going well when your replacement second baseman who wins you the game the night before is replaced by another replacement second baseman and the only thing you are left to replace is the latest win on top of the pile of them. From our heinous roster to Argenis Reyes in a matter of weeks…nice.

You know you're going well when your bullpen, previously sponsored by Much Maligned — I had gotten to thinking the Mets' Much Maligned Bullpen was its official name — is a freestanding entity of valor and accomplishment. At the end of the game yesterday, DiamondVision announced the star of the afternoon was the combined corps of Muniz, Heilman, Schoeneweis and Wagner for their five hitless innings. A cheer went up. Ten minutes ago, Carlos Muniz was the most popular member of that crew and that was only because nobody knew who he was.

You know you're going well when a five-man one-hitter is impressive but only three times more impressive than what you'd grown used to over four straight games. The one hit, delivered by Colorado thorn Brad “Hippity” Hawpe, arrived so early that it dissolved all tension before it could develop, reminding me of my very first win at Shea 34 years earlier, a Jon Matlack one-hitter so matter-of-fact it didn't make the why-why-why? non-no-hitter cut.

You know you're going well when Pedro Martinez leaves with tightness in one or two places, you are told it's precautionary, that it's no big deal and you believe it.

You know you're going well when Jose Reyes hits the Smith on the Citi Smith Barney ad at the base of the scoreboard and Smith doesn't sue.

You know you're going well when Carlos Delgado lollygags as he scores on a Brian Schneider double and it's no cause for criticism and only a little for concern.

You know you're going well when Fernando Tatis is your No. 5 hitter and it's no cause for concern, just jubilation.

You know you're going well when David Wright is all glove even if he is, for a day, no bat.

You know you're going well when you can can't finagle a Build-A-Bear, not being or having a kid, and you really don't mind. It's not like it's something awesome like a foam finger.

You know you're going well when the kid in front of you jumps up and down continuously — not continually, but continuously — for nine innings and you really don't mind that either (though they might want to think about laying in a Ritalin Day next homestand).

You know you're going well when you're introduced to your Shea Goodbye seven-pack seats in Upper Deck, Section 3, Row Q and instead of bitching about the hike, you're impressed with the vista you'll have for the final game. Row Q is covered, even.

You know you're going well when you're reintroduced to the U-Haul sign which had been hiding from everyone below Upper Deck, Row Q since Opening Day and it's like

You know you're going well when your friend Andrea who hasn't joined you for a game in four years or for a win in eight years offers to drive and you guide her to a spot in the Marina and it's a summer festival over there. I don't ever remember the World's Fair Marina being so full of tailgates and football tosses. I remember it being mostly deserted, but that was, literally, in the last century.

You know you're going well when your semi-regular Saturday stop & chat with CharlieH produces from his wallet a 1974 Cleon Jones card, which was highly attractive, though right now I'll take a 2008 Fernando Tatis in left.

You know you're going well when you find Kevin from Flushing standing next to you between Sections 1 and 2 of the Upper Deck, right where you both said you'd be even though it took each of you about a minute to look up and figure out you were who you were supposed to be. Then again, it took the Mets three months to do the same.

You know you're going well when a total stranger recognizes you on the way out from your blog, even though he calls you Jason (which I'll take as a compliment). Thanks for saying hi, Matt.

You know you're going well when you've made it through an entire day at Shea and realized you've not heard one sustained boo.

You know you're going well when you've begun the final page of The Log with a win.

You know you're going well when you remember clearly a pre-All-Star hot streak from 1991 (seven straight, all on the road) and 1996 (four straight before the final Sunday) and the granddaddy of all pre-All Star hot streaks (1990's 26-5), and even though you know those seasons' second halves tailed off, you don't worry 'cause you're enjoying your team and their eight-game winning streak and their sudden half-game distance from first place far, far too much.

You know you're going well. Is there any better feeling?

As I type the Diamondbacks and Phillies are doing battle in the 11th. All tied. Runner on first for the D-Backs; he got there by striking out on a wild pitch. The Mets have won their seventh straight, this one in vaguely perplexing but ultimately electrifying fashion. The night's question is if we can get within a half a game of our September 2007 tormentors, or remain poised 1.5 back.

These are good questions to have, just as hoping for a cherry atop your baseball sundae is an excellent way to spend a lovely July night. It's summer in the city and the Mets — the ragged, confounding, frustrating, enigmatic Mets — have somehow yanked themselves into a pennant race. What more could you ask for? Well, that cherry.

One of these nights, perhaps, Oliver Perez will pitch the Mets' first no-hitter on 140 pitches and eight walks. Wasn't he ridiculous? Wasn't he wonderful? He walked six. He struck out seven. He was Oliver Perez, all whirling feet and elbows and mouth gaping open and dark eyes half-wild. They were seemingly all half-wild, those Met hurlers — if I told you the Mets walked nine and faced four batters with the bases loaded, you would have figured they gave up at least five, right? But they didn't. Aaron Heilman in particular was wonderful — he carved up Willie Taveras and Clint Barmes like one of those legendary Japanese butchers whose knives pass perfectly between bones, using his fastball, slider and very occasional change-up to near-perfection. Pedro Feliciano was a bit lucky, but bore down when he needed to and got Jayson Nix to hit a high, harmless hopper to Delgado. And Billy Wagner offered the dullest and thus happiest rollercoaster ride ever — no curves, no hills, no squealing breaks, and sorry Matt Holliday, but this sign marks the 27th out and you're clearly not going to fit under it.

And then there was Damion Easley, with his lank, weathered face and deceptively sleepy demeanor. Like so many members of the oft-maligned 2008 JV, Easley is rewarding the patience given him. His odometer is fairly near that final number, but he's got more miles left in him than we could have guessed. His eighth-inning blow seemed headed for left-center, but there was Taveras racing over, closing ground disturbingly fast, but now he was slowing, straightening, and looking up helplessly at the crease in the Shea Stadium wall, hoping for a play that would never come. It was gone. And we were on our way.

The Mets did today something they haven't done all year. Well, I suppose they've done a couple of things new to them in 2008 if you take into account a sixth consecutive win, but what's shocking is that they just won their first home weekday afternoon of the season.

That sticks because afternoons at Shea during the week have been horror shows 'til now.

• The Home Continuer: A dispiriting reminder that last year wasn't over.

• The Water Main Break: Pipes weren't working and neither were the Mets against Pittsburgh.

• The Great Impotence: A 1-0 loss to yet another lousy team.

• The Disaster In Stark Relief: Billy Wagner to anything but the rescue.

I was at the first three of those and came home every time in “that was fun but it would have been a lot more fun if we'd won” mode. I watched the fourth afternoon nondelight with only one eye on the telly yet it told me Willie Randolph was no long a winner all his life.

Small sample, but they were four trademark 2008 horrendous games and nothing feels worse, all bad things being equal, than having your day ruined by the Mets and then having all night to think about it. Especially in the middle of the week, especially when the game is at Shea. Those are the games you live for as a fan, even if you can't make it out there, even if you can't devote the entirety of your attention to them. Weekday afternoon games at home are what separates baseball from all the other sports, from everything else in the world. It's so, I don't know…illicit. It's not supposed to be taking place, but it does. It's not supposed to call out to you, but you hear it. It's like whichever horrible SUV commercial from a few years ago where somebody's walking down Wall Street on a Tuesday with a surfboard. Hey, a bystander thinks, people work on Tuesday. There are probably people who surf on Tuesday, but I got it. It's the thrill of the temptation of hooky — except this is hooky that is cablecast, broadcast and Gamecast.

The Mets went to work this Thursday and their labors finally paid dividends. We can all enjoy our supper thanks to Fernando Tatis, Argenis Reyes, Carlos Muniz and maybe even guys you'd given a single thought to the last time the Mets won at Shea on a midweek afternoon (which, for the record was the five-run ninth laid on the Cubs, May 17, 2007 — is there anything that game can't do?). When we win a game in the middle of the week at home, you can say everybody did their job beautifully.

Undercooked opponent, sure. Long-term doubts, no doubt. Alou, of course he's got a seriously torn hammy (get well, Moises; even if we never truly got to know you, I always kind of liked you). But the Mets played at Shea this afternoon, a weekday afternoon, and sent everybody but the small covens of Giants fans home happy.

What else is there to do now except have a pleasant evening?

Baseball makes an ass out of you.

It's a truism of the sport that teams are neither as bad as they look when they're stumbling around and getting beat nor as good as they look when they're rolling. And so it is with fans: When our team's bad, we can't imagine they'll ever be good, and yet a good week leaves us to blissfully forget all that's come before.

So it was that I managed to snooze through the last two innings of the Mets' rather convincing 5-0 defeat of the Giants. Though it should be said that the Giants hadn't given me much reason to fret. What we've been for long stretches since last Memorial Day, and could easily become again, is a mediocre team whose whole is somehow less than the some of its parts. That's frustrating, as we've chronicled in at least 100,000 words or so. But based on the evidence of the last two nights, the Giants would love to have such problems. They're plain bad, in an Is There a Plan Here? way. (You can leave nasty comments for me after they pound us in 12 hours or so.) Yes, Johan Santana was good — heck, he was very good. But the Giants helped by turning in limp at-bat after limp at-bat against Johan and three relievers, never looking like they were particularly interested in the task before them.

It was much discussed last night, but what on earth was Randy Winn doing in the fifth inning? Ray Durham had just worked out a walk despite possibly being in danger of drowning, because he knew it was in the Giants' interest to have the umps call for the tarp before the game was official. Durham probably didn't know that the monsoon pounding Shea was due to roll through in another 20 minutes, so he sensibly figured that if he could just prolong things long enough, the umps would put the fricking tarp on already and maybe the game would be washed away. (And if the umps knew the storm was going to roll through, I'd argue they showed too much deference to Santana. Not that I mind.) So Durham rather gamely watched Santana try to throw strikes (and remember a fastball could easily have slipped and approached his head at high speed in blinding rain) and wound up on first, to the almost-visible annoyance of Gerry Davis. So what does Winn do after watching this display of veteran savvy and baseball selflessness?

He swings at the first pitch.

Was Randy Winn the tying run? No. Is Randy Winn a veteran who should know better? Yes. Does Bruce Bochy need to go to Costco for comically oversized tubs of antacids? I'd imagine.

The Giants have pitching, Lord knows. Jonathan Sanchez made only one bad pitch all night, though why he made it to Ramon Castro with two out and Santana on deck is beyond me. And Tim Lincecum is wonderful to watch even on a bad night: His arms and legs come at the batter like sabres, a motion miraculously left alone by a succession of pitching coaches, and his thunderbolt fastball and CGI curve are even more dazzling considering he looks like the office intern whom everyone suspects disappears to huff printer toner.

But with their offense seemingly eager to ponder the joys of room service and a veteran like Winn making you wonder if he was watching the same game everybody else was, you have to feel for the likes of Sanchez and Lincecum and Matt Cain. By the looks of things, they're going to be fairly calloused up by the time help arrives.

Mike Pelfrey went seven, but details, details…it was a complete game win for the Mets Tuesday night. Honestly, it felt like the first one all season.

The Mets were a complete team for once. They played with complete effectiveness, completely overwhelming the opposition. There've been a few other lopsided scores in their favor this season, but those felt like outliers. This felt like what we were sold and told before the year started.

The 2008 Mets were the undeniably better team on the field last night. They had Carlos Beltran and Carlos Delgado, and instead of that implying inning-killing at-bats, it meant power. Beltran delivered the keynote address with a three-run bomb in the first and Delgado all but sealed the deal in the sixth by launching one “deep into the New York night,” as goofy, unpredictable Wayne Hagin put it (aside: I really like goofy, unpredictable Wayne Hagin). The Carloses, 90 games in, are at last all asset and zero liability.

There were other goodies as well you didn't have to search too hard to find: another Tatis tater; Argenis Reyes' first base hit and first trip around the bases; the continued offensive blossoming of 38-year-old Damion Easley; Jose topping .300; the evisceration of SI cover boy Tim Lincecum; and, the real highlight in an evening of highlights, Mike Pelfrey winning his fifth consecutive decision. Pelfrey, intermittently grumbled at by certain impatient dopes earlier this season, is the Mets' ace in everything but title at the moment. More nights like this one and his reputation will catch up fast.

Two games above .500 doesn't exactly set the heart atwitter, but tied for second and one back in the loss column sure as heck makes the pulse race. Four wins in a row ain't bad either. It's a long way off the “roll” Matt Yallof was touting the Mets as on afterwards, but the Mets are at least on a croissant — the hot and flaky kind.

Those can be delicious.

Ryan Church is back on the DL (Evans returns as Alou gets a rehab start for Binghamton). His MRI came up negative, but I'm beginning to worry a bit over his long-term state, never mind what it means to right field. Migraines don't send you to the Disabled List. Migraines recede inside of fifteen days. Concussions, two in less than three months…who knows?

Get well Ryan.