Tuesday night, the Mets' 162-game gully of godawfulness dried up on a winning note. The oft-cited record from May 30, 2007 forward concluded at 79-83.

Old news. New season from here on out.

The Mets are 1-0 as of Wednesday, May 28. Yeah, officially we have to graft it onto the 24-26 start and we have to make up some serious ground and we have to hustle and scrap and ignore our immediate past and forget the suffocating, invalidated hype and, in best Metlike fashion, hope for the best. But we know how to do that.

We're off to a wonderful start where that's concerned.

Right through the limp loss of Monday night, defeats in progress this season were numbing me, as in, well, that's the way the cookie crumbles, and the Mets' cookie was half-baked anyway. Not tonight. Tonight I would have been very sorry to have seen the Mets lose. More sorry than usual. Actually hurt by it because, gosh darn it, these boys deserved to win this one.

And they did! They did!

Ollie pitched better than three homers allowed would indicate. The bullpen was magnificent, even if Alfredo Amezaga, wearing No. 4, channeled Yadier Molina and eerily silenced Shea in the top of the twelfth. But the Mets, these Version '08.2 Mets, they punch back. Endy punches back with a homer of his own. Duaner never stops punching, whether bunting or pitching. And my main man Fernando Tatis punches most effectively of all, doubling home the tying run, doubling home the winning run. Tell me he's not happy to be here.

Castillo contributed. Reyes contributed. Beltran contributed. They're supposed to contribute, that's their job, but why does it suddenly all look so…contributory now? Why does this feel like a team in a way it hasn't until the very end of May? I don't know. Can't all be Tatis, Easley and Castro. Can't all be the return to Major League status of Schoeneweis and Heilman. Can't all be the 24 hours it took for whatever whoever said to Willie to kick in. Or maybe it could be all that and more.

Will it last? A couple of weeks ago, I skipped giddily from the first Subway Series scattering tales of 1985 and all the momentum that was there for the reaping. None of it was garnered. We'll see. That's all we can do. The Mets, it seems, will play. That's all they can do.

I'll watch. That's what I always do.

I'd be remiss in my own heart if I didn't mention Tuesday was the third anniversary of the passing of my beloved Bernie The Cat. For the fourth consecutive year, we found ourselves playing the Marlins on May 27. For the fourth consecutive year, the Mets beat the Marlins on May 27. For the fourth consecutive year, the Mets took the May 27 series against the Marlins. Never doubt, regardless of whatever Florida's got going on this season, that if it's Bernie versus the Marlins, the Fish don't stand a chance when a hungry cat is prowling about.

Postgame interviews after a Mets loss are the baseball equivalent of snuff films. I don't see how anybody could possibly enjoy watching them. After a win, especially when winning is typical Met behavior, they're white (or Wright) noise. Yes it was good to get a pitch I could handle. Yes it was good to make that play. Yes it was good for the team to play well.

Yes, it would be good to see what's on other channels.

But now that Mets wins have grown as rare as the Kissing Lincolns penny, I find postgame sitdowns and standups a valuable insight into the souls of those I live through. Free of the strain of deciding whether every word they utter will reflect badly on them or their desire to save (or destroy) Willie Randolph's job, they can just talk about baseball. And who doesn't like to talk about baseball?

I caught two of the stars of last night's game in their afterwards utterances last night. First, there was Johan Santana, sitting before the wall of floating logos that befits the thoughts of superstars and barely employed managers, the left side of him wrapped in enough ice to make it appear as if he took a break from donning his Michelin Man get-up for the team costume party (it was enough that the Mets came to the park disguised as competent). Johan gets the press conference treatment because it is assumed there is an overflow audience straining to hear his every thought.

I keep waiting for Johan Santana to say or do something that requires a briefing room. He's affable, all right, as affable as he's been generally effective. On the starting pitcher personality chart, he's well north of Kris Benson (we know who wears the personality in that family) if miles south of Pedro Martinez (but who isn't?). He can be as dull as a drain pipe off the mound as along as he's cool as a cucumber on it. Last night's game required length and gut. He demonstrated both, culminating in the seventh-inning strikeout of Dan Uggla that thwarted the second-to-last best hope of the first-place Fish.

So what did he have to say about his triumph? I have to be honest, I don't remember. It was indeed affable in tone. It came in complete sentences, which athletes don't always dispense with ease. It seemed thoughtful. Johan looked comfortable taking questions and issuing answers. We're at a point when we're grateful that the wealthy young men in our midst don't curse out their interlocutors. Hey, he's a not bad guy AND he pitches for us! I don't think Santana would do that. He was booed a little in his first Shea start and concealed his contempt reasonably well, which was a good sign. Johan Santana seems sane and centered enough not to threaten to show any reporters his condo, languishing nowhere near the level of solipsism it takes to declare that they pay him to play baseball, not to think (even if Johan's batting average is slightly higher than Carlos Delgado's). He might not permit Pat Jordan to drive him to Shea as Tom Seaver once did, but we live in a different era from 1972.

I don't know what $137.5 million dollars is supposed to buy you these days when starting pitching statistics have been devalued so immensely. The suck-it-up three-run, eight-hit, seven-inning start as the moral equivalent of a complete game shutout is unrecognizable to anyone who remembers Tom Terrific completing 13 games in '72 and being gently admonished for not turning in a typically terrific Tom year. Getting on Johan Santana for being basically a pretty good Koosman to date (and Koosman was pretty good) is counterproductive. It's akin to considering the price of gasoline today and placing it in the context of C. Montgomery Burns calculating the purchasing power of a nickel:

A nickel will buy you a steak and kidney pie, a cup of coffee, a slice of cheesecake and you still have enough left over for a newsreel and a trolley ride from the Battery to the Polo Grounds.

That was then. This is 2008. In 2008, Johan Santana's seven innings are worth their weight in J.R. Watkins Apothecary Liniment (it's what Johan uses).

Not getting quite the roadblock coverage his Santanac majesty merits were the postgame thoughts of Fernando Tatis. Tatis was almost as much the reason the Mets ceased to lose last night as Johan was: a two-out RBI single in the first; a two-out RBI single in the fifth. The difference in the game was two runs. You do the math.

Fernando Tatis once walloped two grand slams in the same inning. That's about all I knew of Fernando Tatis when the Mets signed him to an obscure minor league contract in 2007 (he walloped them off Chan Ho Park, which was about all I knew of Chan Ho Park when the Mets signed him to the same type of deal around the same juncture of the same spring). The universal reaction of the snarky fan whose team signs a Fernando Tatis, a veteran who has slipped undetected from the earth's face, is we're screwed if we actually have to depend on him at some point this season. In Metsland, the secondary reaction was they can't keep Fernando Tatis over Brady Clark, they just can't.

They didn't. Brady Clark was here. Now he's gone. He left a hole on the bench to carry on, as has just about everybody who would fill the boots of Rando's Commandoes. Last night Fernando Tatis was boots on the ground and that commodity you love to see: a professional hitter professionally hitting. He's batting .429 and, for now, doing the 17 on his back proud as few in the past two decades have.

I have a spot in my heart the texture of Palmer's Cocoa Butter for wise old hands attached somewhere up the arm to wise old heads. They are not fashionable to embrace, they are not usually productive for long (as witnessed by the pre-hamstring deterioration of Marlon Anderson), they are not what you market a franchise around. But when they're here and they're hitting, they seem like such a good idea, like such good guys. I look forward to hearing what they have to say because they've been around, because they don't seem bothered to be asked.

There was a clutch of microphones and notebooks around Tatis' locker after his 2-for-3 night of filling in. Never having contemplated what Tatis sounded like, I half-expected some unintelligible mumbling. No, actually, Fernando Tatis spoke clearly and forthrightly, like someone who, at 33, has seen enough to have something to articulate and has been down far enough so that he has nothing to lose by speaking it out loud.

Now that I've built him up, I can't tell you exactly what Tatis said without checking for sidebars. Only one paper, the Post, bothered to use his quotes. Brian Lewis' story captures the sense I got during two minutes of listening:

“I'm enjoying every day. It's amazing for me to be here in the big leagues. When you're not winning, you've got to play hard. You've go to show the other team you want to win, that you play this game the right way, that you respect this game.”

Tatis was patient as the questions grew more pointless. There was one about whether he thought the reserves like Easley, Castro and himself should be out there again (sure, he said, in so many words); another about whether the “energy” on the field felt different in a win as opposed to all those losses (sure, he said, in so many words); still another asking whether it was important for the Mets to win (sure, he said, without adding “DUH”).

On SNY's site, Brendan Kuty mixes in a couple of drops of well-traveled wisdom from someone whose first pro year was 1994, whose only remotely big year was 1999, whose most recent 100-game big league year was 2001, whose injury-plagued stat sheet omits 2004 and 2005 altogether, whose 2007 was spent exclusively as a New Orleans Zephyr:

• “I'm feeling pretty good so far. We needed this win tonight, for everyone here.”

• “You need to work every day. You need to be working every day and you need to be focused on the game and you need to be consistent so that you can help this team.”

• “I'm just happy right now.”

The mind ran away, as it's entitled to after that rarest of good nights…

Tatis can hit. Tatis can stay. Tatis can be the extraordinarily capable supersub this team is missing. Tatis can be the wise voice this team is dying for. Tatis can be Ray Knight for a new century, taking the pressure off our stars who are too callow or too reticent or too insolent or too dim to really handle all these reporters who surround you after every game, win or lose. Fernando Tatis is just what we need!

The mind comes back, realizing it just pulled a long thought foul. In the meantime, I'm glad someone associated with the Mets is happy and he knows it and he really wants to show it. I'm glad someone handles the microphones and the notebooks with aplomb. I'm glad someone who speaks with experience lends substance to thoughts that would be easy enough to scoff away as “good Lord willing” clichés. Listening to Fernando Tatis, I heard a guy who's genuinely happy to be here. That's not a bad thing to hear.

Plus, the .429 is great to see.

Hustle. Enthusiasm. Clutch hitting. Add-on runs. Big moments. Smart plays. Range at second base.

It was all there tonight — all those things that went from our delight in 2006 to our supposed birthright in 2007 to our casus belli in 2008. Whether it was Reyes keeping the horse of a Marlin rally from escaping the barn with a quick throw to Wright at third, or Castillo laying in the dirt on a shot up the middle, or the modern-day Bomb Squad of Easley, Tatis and Castro going 5 for 9, the Mets looked as advertised tonight.

Now let's see it for two nights in a row.

This isn't a Just When I Thought I Was Out moment — there's been too much anger, too many false starts and we're too many games back in the NL East for that. Where my partner has achieved the Zen of Shea Surrender, I'm still mired in alternating anger and despair about what will, barring some unlikely resurrection, go down as the most disappointing season I can remember as a Met fan.

Seriously. There have been Met teams that I knew would be bad or mediocre, and only a fantasist could have been mad at them — your Torborg and Howe teams fit the bill. There have been Met teams that succumbed to tragedy but still left happy memories for a lifetime — the '85, '99 and '06 teams will always be riding down my personal Canyon of Heroes, whatever the record books say. There have been Met teams I disliked anyway, and whose failures left little lasting harm — such as the ones constructed around the flawed centerpiece of Gregg Jefferies. But a team of players I loved two years ago (and so was grudgingly prepared to forgive for '07) playing way, way below their abilities? That's a new one on me, one that leaves me scrabbling around in the dark woods without a map.

Beating the Marlins for one night won't change that or solve anything. But it did offer Baseball Without Rage, and for the next 18 hours or so that'll do.

Johan Santana still looks mortal? Nick Evans looks overmatched? When you're a good team, you pick those nits. The Mets aren't that yet, not by any means, but at least for one night they're winners.

Remember mediocrity is not a mortal sin.

—Frank Loesser, “Brotherhood of Man,” How To Succeed in Business Without Really Trying

Nobody's been fired, but an entire team was recently spotted quitting.

The New York Mets have tendered their resignation from the competitive rigors of the baseball season. They gave their notice in Atlanta last week. I accepted it last night.

They've agreed to stay on indefinitely in a caretaker role.

When a less vested Keith Hernandez (then of MSG, then not so solidly re-established as icon-in-residence) wrote of the Mets in 2002 that they had quit, he was forced to issue an immediate mea culpa and pretend they hadn't. Mike Piazza uncharacteristically arched his back and hissed that an ex-player just shouldn't use the q-word and Keith, cornered, caved (ironically quitting on his own honest assessment). The 2002 Mets had indeed acquitted themselves like quitters for 5-1/2 months to that point. The ensuing legend-on-legend kerfuffle was but one more disturbing sideshow in a circus of seasonlong embarrassment for one of the worst teams money ever bought.

The 2002 Mets of the misguided arrivals of Alomar and Vaughn and the ill-advised second comings of Cedeño and Burnitz and the 12-game losing streak and the winless home August and Bobby V demonstrating for the assembled multitudes of the press why toking would cut down on your bat speed…the 2002 Mets were all grit and all heart compared to these 2008 Mets.

Thus, I accept their resignation. In fact, I applaud them for getting the paperwork filed so early, thereby giving us ample time to conduct a thorough search for candidates who can more ably fill their positions.

Funny thing is I don't hate these Mets, not like I did the 2002 version or some other aggravating aggregations of players whose presence in the uniforms I hold dear discomfited me. There isn't a single 2008 Met who truly gets under my skin, whom I secretly or vocally wish to fail just once more in the clutch so management will see he's a fraud and he'll be shown the door. They're likable enough as people from what I can tell. None of them, no matter their continuing ineptitude, is hateable. I don't by any means care for their performance as individuals or as a unit, but I don't have it in personally for even one in 25 of them.

Besides, what are the odds anybody here is ever going to be shown a door?

Willie Randolph has made a strong statistical case to move into the slot of erstwhile manager of the New York Mets. As of this morning, he has not been offered the spot. His musing out loud as to why he's not universally embraced gets him called in for a talk. His team sucking out loud doesn't seem to nudge the powers that be toward any kind of action.

There was nothing new at Shea last night in terms of peerless leadership or inspired play — Let's Win None For Willie! — but the landscape was noticeably altered beyond the left field fence. The Keyspan sign is no more, as Keyspan is no more. It's been replaced by a sign advertising its successor utility, National Grid. NG's slogan, visible on the Picnic Area light tower, is “The Power Of Action”.

Such an empty consultant-driven tagline conveys absolutely nothing to the consumer (if the gas company doesn't advertise its name enough, will people make their own gas at home?) just as the 2008 Mets appear destined to do almost as little for their patrons. They have done next to nothing since this season began. If they can maintain their present pace, I suspect they will have lived up to their potential.

They're really ungood. This is not an illusion, this is not a rough patch, this is not one of those potholes a team has to steer around in the course of the schedule. This is an abyss and the Mets are not equipped to rise above it.

They're not. So why bother kidding myself that they are?

As of Monday, as of the traditional Memorial Night singleheader, I've changed my approach to viewing the 2008 Mets. I no longer expect them to turn it around. I no longer wait on that hot streak that will lift their record and their fortunes. I no longer feel let down by their stubborn inertia. I no longer, I think, anger at the prospect of a losing season.

Somewhere in the course of last evening, a soft spring night in Loge alongside my friend and host Gene (the razor-sharp and terribly gracious fellow you'll recognize as albertsonmets), I could hear myself quitting on the idea that my team is any good. It wasn't Reyes' reincarnation as Frank Taveras; it wasn't Pelfrey's living tribute to Rick Ownbey; it wasn't that the 2-hitter singled, the 3-hitter singled, the cleanup hitter bunt-singled, the 5-hitter sac-flied, the 6-hitter grounded to first and the 7-hitter flied out and from a bases-loaded/none-out situation following a leadoff homer exactly one run was scored; it wasn't necessarily that the average Met batter from the fifth through the ninth spent less time working the Marlin pitcher than security spent looking through my bag.

It wasn't any of that specifically yet it was all of that together. It was this season up to last night, how in their wins they're wan, how in their losses they're lame. It was last September and last summer. It was whoever up top who decided, yet again, that it's better to keep up appearances and maintain a veneer of stability by retaining a progressively less successful manager than it is to act and grab a season that's not one-third done by the throat and to try to make something of it before it's too late, before it gets even later than it already is. I really wasn't rooting for Willie Randolph to be fired but I realized, after he wasn't, how badly I was rooting for something to happen.

Nothing happened. Nothing ever does. Not on the field, certainly. Not behind the scenes, apparently. Omar and Willie give a press conference in which they act as if 2006 will be right back after this call to the bullpen. The break's been underway for a calendar year. We haven't come back from it.

The silliest sentiment uttered by Minaya was in response to the umpteenth question about why this team has been so bad. Hey, Omar said in so many words, you guys — the media — picked us to win. Oddly enough, the Mets made some noise on their own that they might do that, but we should have realized it was just inaccurate reporting. We shouldn't have bought the hype that the Mets might do something. Nothing is what they do.

They remain ungood. Their players are continually revealed as ungood. Well-compensated, but mostly not worth it. No point in equating payroll to potential any longer. No point in syncing past performance to immediate expectations. There are players here who earned starry reputations in other cities in other seasons. They're not translating. The 2008 Mets who have been successful Mets in the past, even the recent past, shouldn't be held to those perceived standards, apparently. One or two of 'em might put up some impressive numbers along the way, but they're not that good, no matter how much I imagine they are really trying. The best you can say for any of 'em is that occasionally they're not prohibitively ungood.

Yet I sat there last night in good company in good weather having a good time. I keep coming back to how much I enjoy these nights and days at Shea Stadium, no matter what unfortunate results I am compelled to Log. Last night's lifeless loss came with only the smallest side order of angst. The Mets were typically ungood. I was surprisingly not overwhelmingly unhappy.

To clarify, I wasn't happy; I was just not unhappy. The Mets have dipped below what we'll call the Mientkiewicz Line, the barrier that separates a team from being no worse than passably decent. For three-plus years, since we've been doing Faith and Fear, the Mets have mostly been better than that. When they threatened to seep through the floor, it was distressing. Now that they have, it's not — no overly familiar reference intended — devastating. If they're not gonna be good, if the best they can manage is ungood, then that's what they are.

I'll take it because it's all they're giving me. If I understand that or at least process it that way, then I won't be unhappy. I'll look at my team (and it's way too late to extricate myself from them) and accept that they're only capable of so much. I will do what I did in flashes last night in Loge. I will look out at the players in Mets uniforms and consider them the underdogs, the overmatched, the outmanned more nights than not. I didn't think we'd be back here so soon after 2005, 2006 and even 2007, but that's where I judge us to be. It may as well have been any night in most any year in Shea's distant past last night, not including one of the really great years. This year has nothing to do with being really great anymore.

My hope, then, is this team can somehow ease its southward drift from the Mientkiewicz Line and begin to ascend again. It may not happen right away; if it could, I wouldn't be improvising this rationalization. But if the Mets can do what I always wished they could do when they were definitively acknowledged as not good, what they once in a while did when they were unburdened by expectation, it would make Shea's farewell a lot fonder than it's shaping up to be.

Give me Nick Evans. Give me more Nick Evanses. I don't have to have the Nick Evans of our collective dreams, just a sprinkling of young players to give me some hope that 2009 will be better than 2008. That's how I got by in the lousy years of yore. Let me see Ty Wigginton as in 2002 and Jason Phillips as in 2003 and Jeromy Burnitz as in 1993 and Butch Huskey as in 1995. Give me a taste of some kid who wants to play, some kid who I want to watch. One of them may be David Wright circa 2004 or Mookie Wilson circa 1980. A bunch of them may not. I have no illusions that we have a stocked farm system and that immediate answers lie in the weeds of New Orleans, Binghamton and St. Lucie. But so what at this point. Give me a reason to look forward to next year, not another excuse to dredge up last year.

That's what I used to see at Mets games when I didn't see a team that was competing to win right now. It's great to be at Shea when it's 1986 or 1999 or 2006. When it's not a year like that — and it sure as hell isn't now — it's all right to be at Shea when at least somebody is making you believe that there will someday again be a 1986 or a 1999 or a 2006, even if you only believe it for a few innings on any given night, even if you can't prove it yet, even if hindsight will betray your optimism as folly.

I'm already certain this team as presently constituted is as dead as it can possibly be. I'm willing to take a chance on being fooled that a revised edition might stop seeming, if not being, so incredibly ungood.

Willie Randolph's Record Since Last Memorial Day: 77-83

Days Until Contract of Luis Castillo (Key Strikeout, Otherwise an Acceptable Night in a Punchless Way) Expires: 1,222

Days Until Willie Randolph Is Fired: ?

Days Until I Give Up on This Listless, Unwatchable, Eminently Booable Team: -6

Yeah, I'm writing this early. If I wind up with egg on my face, I'll be thrilled. If only.

Let me see….

A lot of vaguely tough talk from Met ownership … on a day in which they did nothing to arrest the freefall of their $137 million team, destined to be routinely booed in a beautiful new ballpark.

Two long balls from Jose Reyes that will look nice on the highlights — and another horrible error that opened the door for an opponent. Jose's electricity/stupidity ratio was even for the day. Congratulations, Jose!

Given an excuse, Mike Pelfrey once again lowered himself to the occasion, demonstrating that he needs some more time in New Orleans. Faced with the possibility of New Orleans, Aaron Heilman didn't screw up. That's progress these days.

The Mets fought back from a 2-0 deficit, briefly took the lead, fell behind and, as is their wont, went to sleep. These days they're dead ringers for one of those minor-conference champions that get their tickets stamped to March Madness. They hang around for a bit, then fall behind by three or so in the first quarter. Then five, then eight, then double digits and you know it's over.

Did that cover it? Of course it did — we're talking about the 2008 New York Mets. Goodnight, sweet underachieving princes….

The big meeting took place. Willie Randolph is still the manager. Omar Minaya says he will be until he's not, more or less.

Jose Reyes has been on base in each of his past 25 games. Carlos Delgado has hit three home runs since Thursday. A Nationals loss this afternoon extended the Mets' fourth-place lead to three lengths, five in the all-important loss column.

Things are looking up, eh?

Heading out there now to tell them what a good job they've been doing. I'll try not to cause undue harm to small animals along the way.

6: Tuesday, September 23 vs Cubs

Shea Stadium, ladies and gentlemen, has been known as many things through its 45-year life, but one of the most accurate descriptions attached to it is “pitcher’s park,” in deference to its fair dimensions, its symmetry and probably its pitchers in residence. Every Mets pitcher who has succeeded here would be quick to tell you the park was made that much better for pitching by defense.

Pitching and defense…the key ingredients to so many magical Mets moments at Shea Stadium. Though Shea is rightly celebrated for some of the finest pitchers to have toed a rubber anywhere since 1964, tonight we tip our cap to the other part of the equation: to defense, particularly the most memorable defensive plays to unfold right here at Shea.

It is easy enough to be blinded by offense, but defense can mean the difference between winning and losing championships. Consider the great catches that have ensured titles, like the one Willie Mays made at the first home of the Mets, the Polo Grounds, in 1954 when he tracked down one of the longest fly balls imaginable. And consider as well the infamous plays, like the one that took place in the Polo Grounds exactly 100 years ago today.

On September 23, 1908, it was the Chicago Cubs visiting New York, just as it is on September 23, 2008. Then the home team was the Giants. Then leadership for the National League pennant was on the line. Then the winning run seemed to have scored on a two-out, Giant base hit in the ninth — except a young player named Fred Merkle didn’t advance from first to second on the single, a common enough practice at the time. The Cubs’ Johnny Evers got hold of a baseball, stepped on second and convinced the umpires that the game should not be ruled over. Unfathomable controversy ensued with the upshot being the game having to be replayed at the end of the season. The Cubs would beat the Giants for the flag and the legend of Merkle’s Boner — an unfortunate sobriquet — was born.

We digress…perhaps. Let us get on with honoring Shea’s most memorable defensive plays as prelude to removing number 6 as an essential component of the Countdown Like It Oughta Be.

We start in left field with a ball that was surely leaving the ballpark…and with it, most likely, the Mets’ hopes of winning the East. Fate and some airtight execution, however, had something else to say about it. It was September 20, 1973. The batter was Dave Augustine of the first-place Pirates. Richie Zisk was the runner on first. The score was tied at three in the top of the thirteenth inning. Bob Murphy will describe what happened when Augustine swung:

The two-one pitch…hit in the air to left field, it’s deep…back goes Jones, by the fence…it’s hits the TOP of the fence, comes back in play, Jones GRABS it…the relay throw to the plate, THEY MAY GET HIM…HE’S OUT! HE’S OUT AT THE PLATE.

The famous Ball Off The Wall play indeed ended at home when the catcher, a rookie who had started the season at Double-A Memphis, blocked Zisk from scoring and tagged him for the third out. For good measure, that very same rookie catcher came up in the bottom of the thirteenth and drove in the winning run to propel the Mets toward their You Gotta Believe finish in 1973. From that night on, this dependable backstop was a Shea Stadium fixture clear through to 1984. Score it 7-5-2 and welcome back Ron Hodges.

We return to left field for our next play. It is yet another night with everything on the line. The inning is the sixth. The score is tied at one. The runner on first for the St. Louis Cardinals is Jim Edmonds. The batter is Scott Rolen. The setting is the National League Championship Series, the seventh and deciding game. Gary Cohen tells us what happened next:

Perez deals. Fastball hit in the air to left field, that’s deep. Back goes Chavez, back near the wall…leaping…and…HE MADE THE CATCH! HE TOOK A HOME RUN AWAY FROM ROLEN! Trying to get back to first Edmonds…HE’S DOUBLED OFF! AND THE INNING IS OVER! ENDY CHAVEZ SAVED THE DAY! He reached high over the left field wall, right in front of the visitors’ bullpen and pulled back a two-run homer. He went to the apex of his leap and caught it in the webbing of his glove with his elbow up above the fence, a MIRACULOUS play by Endy Chavez, and then Edmonds is doubled off first and Oliver Perez escapes the sixth inning. The play of the year, the play, maybe, of the franchise history for Endy Chavez, the inning is over.

It was as sensational a catch as it was a call and it will live on as long as anyone remembers Shea Stadium. Score it 7-4-2 and say hi to the left fielder who leapt as no one had leapt before, Endy Chavez.

From left we move to centerfield, another postseason, an ultimately happier ending. Let’s listen to Curt Gowdy and Lindsey Nelson describe the indelible highlights of the third game of the 1969 World Series. First with Elrod Hendricks up and two Oriole runners on in the fourth inning:

The count is no balls, two strikes. There’s a drive into deep left-center…racing hard is Agee…WHAT A GRAB! TOM AGEE saves two runs!

Tommie Agee going all the way to track, look at the backhand stab of the glove, and now he’ll have to brake himself with the bare hand on the wall, a lot of white showing, look at that ball!

Boy he just had that one, Lindsey. Standing ovation for Agee as he comes in.

Next with Paul Blair batting and the bases full of Birds in the seventh:

The count is oh and two. And it is a fly ball, it’ll be tough to get to, and Agee is going and Agee…makes a diving catch, he’s out!

This man has possibly saved five runs in this game. Watch it in slow motion. The wind is blowing out now, and Agee twice has clutched this ball in the webbing of his glove, once against Hendricks with two on and two out, this time with the bases loaded and two out, a skidding sprawl and another standing ovation for him when he came in.

Let’s move one day forward and over to right field as long as we’re in 1969. It’s Game Four, the ninth inning of the tensest of World Series thrillers. Tom Seaver is on the mound leading 1-0. Orioles are on first and third, Frank Robinson the lead runner. Brooks Robinson at bat. Hall of Famers are everywhere, when somebody else enters the picture:

And there’s a drive to right-center. Swoboda…comes up with it. The tag at third, here comes Frank Robinson, the game is tied. Ron SWOBODA making another sensational catch for the Mets; Frank Robinson, the old veteran…they’re going to appeal at third that Robinson left too quickly. But Frank Robinson…here is that grab, look at that, Lindsey!

Beautiful catch by Ron Swoboda…

Beautiful catches all around, beautiful month to be a Mets fan, thanks in no small part to two outfielders whose legends were firmly established in that World Series. Score it 8, score it 8 again and score it 9. Tommie Agee indeed saved five runs on two spectacular grabs in the third game and Ron Swoboda dove across the right field wall and held the Orioles in check to allow Seaver to finish the ninth with the game tied at one. It would be won in the tenth and the Series would be secured by the Mets the next afternoon.

To commemorate those three immortal catches from the most Amazin’ week Shea Stadium ever saw, please welcome the wife of the late Tommie Agee, Maxcine Agee and, escorting her to join Ron Hodges and Endy Chavez as they march toward number 6 around in right, Ron Swoboda.

But they will have company.

No retelling of the great plays in Mets history would be complete without this one. We give you Bob Murphy and Gary Thorne, the tenth inning of the sixth game of the 1986 World Series, Mookie Wilson swinging:

And the pitch by Stanley…and a ground ball, trickling…it is a fair ball…GETS BY BUCKNER! Rounding third Knight! The Mets will win the ballgame! The Mets win! They win!

Unbelievable, the Red Sox in stunned disbelief!

Yes, stunned disbelief…everybody was immersed in it in the early hours of October 26, 1986. The Mets were one out — one strike — from elimination, but a never-say-die rally, capped by a play that would be scored E-6 E-3 and go down in unforgettable baseball history with Merkle’s Boner, forestalled elimination, and by Monday night the Mets would be world champions once more.

One man was at the center of the action in Game Six. His moment in the first base spotlight overshadowed an absolutely brilliant career that deserves to be remembered for 2,715 hits, a batting title, an All-Star berth and a track record of hustle that allowed him to persevere as a Major Leaguer from 1969 until 1990, making him one of the few to ever play in four different decades. It is testament to the kind of man he is that he graces us with his presence tonight, aware as he is of the historical significance of what we’re doing as we close Shea Stadium.

Ladies and gentlemen, heading to right from the most memorable defensive play ever in this or maybe any ballpark, number 6 on the 1986 Boston Red Sox himself, Bill Buckner.

Number 7 was revealed here.

Number 5 will be counted down next Monday, June 2.

Adam Rubin of the News wasn't exactly presenting it as a scoop on the FAN tonight, but he did sound rather resigned in conversation with Lori Rubinson to Willie Randolph being dismissed, quite possibly Monday. I trust Rubin's reporting as much as I do that of any of those who cover the Mets daily.

Watching the Mets change managers, even if very much merited — even if it means a manager you don't care for will be out of your life — is never fun. It is an explicit admission that something has gone terribly awry for our team, which isn't why we turn to sports. It generally means either our season has gone down the tubes (Westrum, Torre, Harrelson, Green, Valentine, Howe) or it's been definitively judged headed that way (Berra, Frazier, Bamberger, Johnson, Torborg). In the four instances when it's happened around this time of year (Yogi was offed in early August), it's meant little in the way of changing fortunes. Only Buddy taking over for Davey in 1990 seemed to meaningfully spark the Mets for the balance of the season. No Mets team that has changed managers in-season (or even the next season) has ever made the playoffs.

I've held off from weighing in with a Fire Willie or Keep Willie proclamation this year because I couldn't conjure a convincing argument one way or the other to myself. Last September I was ready to replicate the final Saturday Night Live sketch of the tepid 1985-86 season. It was supposed to be a cliffhanger à la “Who Shot J.R.?” In that case an inferno threatened to engulf the entire cast, and producer Lorne Michaels appeared in the scene to direct only Jon Lovitz (then very hot with his pathological liar character) to safety.

Me, I might have airlifted David Wright out of the carnage of Shea on September 30 and turned my back on everybody else.

Cooler thinking prevailed, but that notion of firing 'em all and letting the Wilpons sort 'em out has never completely left my thought process. It really is everybody's fault. Nobody with the exception of a guy with a concussion has done his job exquisitely in 2008. That includes Wright. That includes Reyes. That includes Beltran. That includes Wagner. That includes Maine. That includes Santana. That includes the guy who traded for Santana, counted on Alou and gave four years to Castillo and that sure as hell includes the man who has managed Ryan Church and 24 underachievers/clockpunchers into a solid fourth place, at least until the Nationals heat up.

You've read it in varying measurements. Let me give it to you exactly and accurately.

• Starting May 30, 2007, one night after that fantastic game when Delgado blasted that walkoff homer off Benitez moments after Benitez balked home Reyes, the Mets have won 78 games and lost 82 games. 78-82 over 160 games. That's virtually an entire season's worth of sub-.500 ball under the stewardship of Willie Randolph.

• Starting September 14, 2007, when the Mets entered play with a 6-1/2 game lead as the second-place Phillies arrived at Shea, the Mets have won 28 games and lost 37 games. 28-37 over 65 games. That spans the stretch run of one season when the Mets surrendered a seemingly impregnable division lead and nearly a third of the year conceived as the season that would put the collapse behind them. All of it has been under the stewardship of Willie Randolph.

• Starting April 20, 2008, following a five-game winning streak that had vaulted the Mets into first place, the Mets have won 13 games and lost 19 games. 13-19 over 32 games. That is twice the length of this season's reasonably promising 10-6 start. This, too, has occurred under the stewardship of Willie Randolph.

• On May 25, 2008, Willie Randolph's Mets sit 23-25, 5-1/2 games out of first place.

With all that, I can't knee-jerk tell you Willie Must Go, even as I can't find too many reasons to tell you Willie Must Stay. Jerry Manuel or Ken Oberkfell or Wally Backman or Jose Valentin or whoever you like will have the same roster at his disposal, a roster filled with players who have lost 19 of 32, 37 of 65, 82 of 160. I have no idea what practical magic Willie Randolph could have stirred to have materially altered those trends. I still remember Willie Randolph leading the most exciting Mets team in 20 years to an easy division title and to within one out of a World Series only two years ago.

But trends are trends. And Willie Randolph doesn't seem to be reversing them any more than Wright, Reyes, Beltran, Wagner, Maine, Santana and the concussed Church are. If Willie Randolph doesn't get the chance, I will be genuinely sorry, both for a guy whom I've liked more than I've disliked and for my own selfish interests as a Met fan — because when the manager of my team requires replacement, it's rarely only the manager that needs to be changed.