Once upon a time the Mets changed the way Jose Reyes ran, afflicting him with a limping gait like a horse afraid of stepping in a hole. In theory it seemed like a good idea, a way to cure the chronic hamstring woes that threatened to derail an electric but raw career. In practice it just made Jose look uncertain and vaguely embarrassed. He quickly ended the experiment and returned to who he was — a lightning-fast player who'd make your heart race by bouncing around the bases like a superball liberated from a shopping-center gumball machine, and one who'd occasionally make your heart sink by grabbing at a hamstring on a cold night.

Once upon a somewhat more-recent time Jose Reyes changed the way Jose Reyes played, shelving the little twisty-foot dance moves and the octuple-degree-of-difficulty handshakes. In theory it seemed like a good idea, seeing how the dancing and the greeting occasionally made opposing teams want to take a bat to Jose's boombox. In practice, our most-exciting player seemed muted and weighed down both in the dugout and on the field. The joy had leaked out of his game.

Some small mean part of us didn't entirely mind this for a while — Jose had sulked and slumped and needlessly kicked the Marlins awake, and as a 2007 Met he had earned a cold shoulder for some to-be-determined portion of forever. But a couple of weeks into the new season, we've seen what baseball is like when you're angry at a team and looking for excuses to let them know it. And it's no fun.

Despite New York chest-beating, I don't believe booing a team has much effect on them — most of them are too focused and too good at what they do (and, in some cases, too rich and dumb) to give a rat's ass what the civilians in the seats think. But the effect on us is easier to see — that anger bounces off its targets and winds up back on us, eroding the joy of watching a beautiful game played on green grass under spring skies. I'm not opposed to booing the home team when they've earned it — I once booed Braden Looper so hard that something tore in my throat and I couldn't talk above a whisper for 36 hours — but Jesus Christ, too many of us booed Johan Santana after his first home start. If you'd like to see where this bad road leads, take I-95 south for a bit. On the whole, I'd rather not be a Philadelphia.

The alternative? It's to do the hardest thing of all: Let go.

That's what the Mets themselves seem determined to do. Yesterday afternoon, as Ben Shpigel reports in the Times, Carlos Beltran told Reyes it was time to “be the Reyes you’ve always been. Forget what people say, what they write about you, what people think. Just be you.” A couple of hours after that, Reyes had four hits and the Mets finally looked alive again. Tonight he rocketed a home run and greeted Beltran, returned to the dugout after his own decisive home run, with a Reyesian handshake. Beltran, meanwhile, continued to be the Beltran he's never been: “We’re happy he’s doing it again. We don’t care if other teams get offended.”

Whether this is wise or unwise is something we'll find out. But I know this much — it's better than playing lead-britches baseball while waiting for the booing to start again. And there's where we have our part to play. Given last September, the decision makers remain under scrutiny, as does the clubhouse. (About what, Mr. Delgado? Your apparent boredom in the face of failure, for openers.) But surely we don't have to referee these things on a pitch-by-pitch basis. If Jose can let go and offer Mister Fantastic handshakes, if Carlos can let go and let Nats and Marlins and Phils and Braves take offense, maybe we can let go and wait for something good to happen.

The Comeback Player of the Year ballots were due early this year. Had to have 'em in, like taxes (or extensions), by April 15. Fortunately plenty of candidates nominated themselves Tuesday night — and just in time.

Here in no particular order are who and what I filled in on my ballot:

• Fun. Yes, fun. Unalloyed fun. The kind of fun I complained or at least observed had been missing from Mets baseball in 2008. This was a good game for seasons when you're 20 games up or 20 games back or only 12 games in. It doesn't need to indicate a turning point or anything. It was just a good night to be better than the visiting team.

• Reyes. The hammy got a workout and it looked pretty healthy, having spent quality time at every base against the Nationals. The leadoff spot is whole again. The lineup might not be so ordinary.

• Pelfrey. Back from maybe to definitely as in definitely the fourth starter in this rotation, definitely capable in the present, definitely less of a question mark for the future.

• Sanchez. Who's the goggled stranger wearing No. 42 and materializing from the bullpen to pitch the ninth? Call that man some room service and give him anything he wants. It's on us.

• Wright. Back from Letterman. Back over the fence. Back on fire. No contempt here.

• Milledge. It was silly that he got booed on his return to Shea, but in a Nats uniform, he's not my problem. His first-inning double was predictable. So was his “eat my dust, Willie, Omar, Billy, whoever” attempt to steal third that was cut down by his trade booty Brian Schneider (who's got a gun for an arm if a doggie door for blocking balls in the dirt).

• Field Level. It's been so long since I watched an entire win from the orange seats that I couldn't tell you exactly when the last one was without a late-night tour of The Log, but there I was — part of a pretty formidable foursome (your two bloggers and these two authors) — closer to grass than I've been in almost a year and etching my first W of '08 in yon trusty Steno Notebook. Now if everybody could sit down so we could see the batter…

• Jack Heidemann. A utility infielder for the Mets in 1975 and 1976. A crackerjack realtor now. His name came up at some length in conversation. Of course it did. When Faith and Fear in Flushing meets Mets By The Numbers not too many rows from David Wright, would you expect anything less? Anything more?

• Daruma. Great Neck's greatest export, a field level mainstay for a decade, a delicacy readily accessible when some thoughtful person arranges for orange seats. I got to Shea way early just to suckle a salmon roll in pregame bliss.

• Auxiliary Clubhouse Store. I arrived so early I had time — with no line — to check out the commerce hut just west of Citi Field. Lots of stuff, lots of cost, but lots of courtesy. “Have an Amazin' day,” I was told as I left. OK, it was a night game, but points for trying.

• Rachel Robinson. As perilously close to OD'd as I am on the Mets' cloaking themselves in the hand-me-downs of the Dodgers, kudos and then some for their support of the Jackie Robinson Foundation, for serving as home office for this happiest of April 15 commemorations (beats Tax Day), for making room for Mrs. Robinson every year. She is a remarkable woman, the 42s all around were a remarkable gesture and — gasp! — the Mets made a remarkable choice in tabbing Ed Charles, who grew up in segregated Florida and was literally inspired by Jackie, to reveal their countdown number du jour.

• David Patterson. Here is the politician who is the exception to my rule that politicians should stick to their jobs and not bother us with first balls and such. If you saw the governor interviewed on Opening Day, you saw a lifelong Mets fan who knows his Mets and his Shea from jump street. He replaced a Yankees fan who replaced another Yankees fan who replaced another Yankees fan who was once a Pirate farmhand. After a quarter-century of Cuomo, Pataki and Spitzer doing no more than patronizing us, there's hope from Albany yet.

• The Super Express. The 7 that zooms from Shea to Woodside to Queensboro Plaza to Grand Central to Times Square actually works. It works so well that I stayed on all the way into the city just because the ride was so smooth. Besides, on an Amazin' night like this, who was in a rush to get home?

19: Friday, August 22 vs Astros

When telling the story of Shea Stadium, ladies and gentlemen, the chapter that drips the most magic from its pages is the one we know as 1969. No other ballpark has ever known a year like it.

There is much to remember 1969 by and it would probably take a full season to do it justice. For our Countdown Like It Oughta Be purposes, we are devoting this weekend to a dozen of the men who played with distinction as Mets in that magic summer and are asking them to do the honors in removing the numbers from the right field wall indicating how many handfuls of games remain in the life of Shea Stadium.

Our first quartet:

He came to Shea from Lost Nation, Iowa and found a home here in Flushing. A starter and reliever who persevered no matter how few runs he may have received on any given day, please welcome back Jim McAndrew.

A second baseman who grew into a record-setting defender, this Texan sparked the Mets toward the 1969 pennant with two homers and five ribbies against the Braves in the first-ever National League Championship Series. Say hi to Ken Boswell.

Another star of that inaugural NLCS, he batted and slugged a cool .538 against the Braves as the Mets swept into the World Series. An outfielder and professional hitter, give a warm Shea Stadium greeting to Art Shamsky.

And leading our first foursome from 1969 to take down number 19, he was one of the premiere backstops in all of baseball, a two-time All-Star and a clutch enough hitter to have touched off the winning rally that put the Mets up three games to one in the World Series. As friendly now as he was competitive then, welcome the starting catcher on the world champion New York Mets of nearly four decades ago, Jerry Grote.

18: Saturday, August 23 vs Astros

It's another evening to honor four members of the 1969 World Champion New York Mets, ladies and gentlemen, so let's get to it.

On the cusp of the era of the closer, this reliever was Gil Hodges' go-to guy when he needed a righthander to slam the door on opposing batters. He saved 13 games for the '69 Mets and has come to the aid of his fellow man more than a few times in his post-baseball life as a physician. The distinguished team doctor from the Toronto Blue Jays, please give a big hand to Ron Taylor.

The 1969 Mets' signature was strong, young pitching. Nobody fit that description any better than the Arizona State graduate who burst into Gil Hodges' rotation as a rookie and won 13 regular-season games. He topped off his freshman year by winning the first-ever World Series game played at Shea Stadium, even doubling and driving in a pair of runs off future Hall of Famer Jim Palmer in the process. Welcome home Gary Gentry.

His stay as a mainstay of the Mets began in earnest on Opening Day in 1969 when as a pinch-hitter, he socked a three-run, ninth-inning home run versus the brand new Montreal Expos. New to the big leagues himself, he helped catch Rube Walker's staff of flamethrowers in '69 all the way through 1974. A real fan favorite, say hello to Duffy Dyer.

Every team has tough decisions to make when forming a postseason roster, and the '69 Mets were no exception. Gil Hodges could take 25 players, meaning somebody was bound to be the 26th and ultimately omitted. To remove number 18 from the right field wall, we try to do a little justice to someone who simply fell victim to baseball's version of musical chairs. In 1969, he didn't get to the World Series although, interestingly enough, his glove did. The Secret Service borrowed it to protect Pat Nixon, the first lady of the United States, in Baltimore. But by the time the Mets were back in New York and finishing off the Orioles, he was as recognized as anyone who carried the title of World Champion.

Ladies and gentlemen, the splendid utilityman from the 1969 Mets, Bobby Pfeil.

17: Sunday, August 24 vs Astros

Today, ladies and gentlemen, we continue our tribute to the 1969 Mets with four more members of that unforgettable club.

Leading off, he came to the Shea Stadium from Franklin Square, Long Island by way of the Chicago White Sox. And he came to Met immortality by choosing the fifth and deciding game of the 1969 World Series as the occasion for the first and only Shea Stadium home run of his big league career. A .455 hitter in the Fall Classic, New York will never forget Al Weis.

He laid down the most famous bunt in Mets history, made all the more glorious by his trek to first base. Was he running inside the foul line? Was his wrist where it was supposed to be? In the end, did any of it matter? J.C. Martin's at-bat resulted in the winning run of Game Four of the 1969 World Series and that is what counted. We are delighted to welcome him back.

Really now, you can't invoke that famous bunt and errant throw that struck J.C. on the wrist without mentioning who it brought home. An outfielder by trade, he gained lasting fame as a pinch-runner who never stopped hustling until that fourth game was won. We're glad he hustled back to Queens today, ladies and gentlemen, his name is Rod Gaspar.

Finally, folks, we have the elder statesmen from a team of wide-eyed kids, a veteran of the buses and bushes who got his big break in the majors far later than he deserved, but Mets fans couldn't be happier that his moment in the spotlight came in the final season of his career, 1969. The lasting image of the man who will remove number 17 is him rushing the mound from third base in the seconds after the World Series was won. The Glider…the Poet Laureate…in so many ways the heart and soul of the Miracle Mets — Ed Charles.

16: Monday, August 25 vs Astros

All weekend long, ladies and gentlemen, the Mets were honored to bring back members of their 1969 world championship club. We are certain no two Mets fans were happier to see those familiar faces than the duo that will remove number 16 from the right field wall.

They have jobs today that keep them from being fans first and foremost, but make no mistake that their professions in 2008 are very much tied to what they were doing at Shea Stadium in the summers of '69 and the years directly before and after it, knowing and loving their favorite baseball team in a way that only true fans can. They took the knowledge they gathered and the passion they oozed and parlayed it into a life's work sharing the Mets gospel with everyone within the sound of their voices. When you listen to what each of these men has to tell you about the New York Mets, you know what you're hearing is drenched in the experience of fandom. That's why you've come to trust them, that's why you're happy to have spent countless hours with them.

It is the Mets' great pleasure to present, as a tandem once more, this generation's voices of New York Mets baseball, Gary Cohen and Howie Rose.

Numbers 22-20 were revealed here.

Wow did I ever have a weird dream this morning.

I'd gone back to sleep for a little bit, but it was a couple of hours until game time, and that must have been weighing on my mind, because I dreamt a whole baseball game in my head. And not a good one.

You know how lots of dreams begin with some kind of real-world event that you're still wrestling with? That's how this one started: It was Oliver Perez and Jeff Suppan, just like Game 7 of the NLCS, only this time Suppan was on some other team and it wasn't for the all the marbles, it was just a game like any other. And Suppan pitched terribly, but Oliver pitched even worse — one of those classic O.P. messes where you wind up looking through your fingers while Willie steams in the dugout. And then when they finally took him out, no one else could pitch either. Not Sosa and not Joe Smith — and get this, they both got pounded by Gabe Kapler. Yeah, Gabe Kapler. I knew I was dreaming because Gabe Kapler's retired and managing in Single-A for the Red Sox somewhere, but in my dream he was bashing Met pitchers like he was Pat the Bat.

And the Mets couldn't hit at all. Well, they could but it kept not mattering. I started keeping track because it got so crazy — in my dream, they got the leadoff man on in the second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh and eighth — and hit into double plays in the fourth, fifth, sixth and seventh. I know, insane, right? And then in the eighth, I dreamed Guillermo Mota came in to pitch for the other team, and he was overthrowing and stalking around the mound and being Guillermo Mota, and it was clear the Mets were about to pound him and take the lead again, and I briefly thought this was turning into a good dream, only Luis Castillo grounded out to first and Brady Clark tried to go home for some reason and was out and then Mota walked two guys and Delgado came up with the bases loaded and flied out and we got nothing. Oh, it was infuriating. I had to remind myself it was just a dream, the way you can do sometimes without waking up. (Yeah, Luis Castillo. I keep dreaming about him — remember the dream I had this winter that we resigned him to a four-year deal even though he's a terrible hitter with no range and one working leg? Man, I'd take a dozen bad dreams like this morning's instead of having that one be true.)

Oh, and David Wright got a Gold Glove and then looked horrible even on routine throws. I know, ironic right?

Anyway, finally I woke up and it took me a minute to realize it really was all a dream, and there was no game today, just this inexplicable two-day break before we play the Nats. Which I'd been thinking was weird ever since the schedule came out, but thank goodness. Because if a game like this really happened, I think it would frustrate me to the point of insanity.

22: Tuesday, August 19 vs Braves

While it is fairly common knowledge, ladies and gentlemen, that Shea Stadium has hosted many a megastar concert in its 45 years, those who are Mets fans above all else probably have a slightly different ear for the music they've heard at Shea, particularly since 1980 when our audio/video crew began picking out just the right selections for just the right moments, either to celebrate victory or inspire one. All through this series, the Shea Stadium Final Season Countdown Like It Oughta Be is going to salute the musical acts who provided the soundtrack to some of Shea Stadium's most memorable seasons.

First up, to remove number 22 from the right field wall, we have an internationally renowned group whose career leapt up and howled for success with the release of what some would call a novelty hit at the turn of the century. Call it what you will, it sounded pretty good emanating from Shea's loudspeakers as the 2000 Mets won dramatic game after dramatic en route to the National League pennant that October.

Please let out your loudest woofs for Isaiah Taylor, Rick Carey, Marvin Prosper, Omerit Heild and Herschel Small. They asked the musical question, “Who Let The Dogs Out?” The answer was the Baha Men.

21: Wednesday, August 20 vs Braves

Why, ladies and gentlemen, do some songs resonate in the public imagination when others, no matter how hyped by the powers that be, simply fall flat? It's a great mystery of the music business and the same could be said of the tunes that get teams and their fans going.

No song ever seemed to have the positive effect on the goings on at Shea Stadium like the one we honor tonight. Its lyrics and accompanying video have nothing to do with baseball, not even remotely. Yet from a DiamondVision diversion came a rallying point for two of the best clubs in Mets history, the diehard Mets of 1985 and their world champion successors of 1986.

It was just a novelty hit built around some public domain clips. But given the frenzy it touched off here in its day, the novelty never wore off where “The Curly Shuffle” was concerned. To remove number 21 from the right field wall, we have invited to Shea, for the first time, those masterminds whose homage to “comedy classics on late night TV” made the Mets a prime time smash in the mid-1980s. Please welcome nobody's stooges: Peter Quinn, T.C. Furlong, Barney Schwartz, Tom “Shoes” Trinka, Rich Gorley and Vincent Dee, better known as the Jump 'N' The Saddle Band.

20: Thursday, August 21 vs Braves

Baseball is fun, ladies and gentlemen, but it is also business. We don't refer to the deals made in the executive suites and offices of Major League organizations, but rather to the transactions that count the most in the only bottom line to which any fan pays serious attention. We're talking, quite simply, wins and losses. The best business to be in, of course, is winning.

In their division championship season of 2006, the Mets took care of business quite effectively for six going on seven months. And when they got their business done, there was no better soundtrack by which to celebrate a job completed to satisfaction than that first recorded by a group of Canadian rockers in the 1970s. It fit the vibe of the Mets to a tee as they took the National League by storm two years ago and we play it to this day after just about every win.

We refer, of course, to “Takin' Care of Business” by Bachman-Turner Overdrive. And to put our countdown in overdrive as we have every day this year, we welcome the members of BTO so they can remove number 20 from the right field wall on this day: Randy Bachman, Fred Turner, Randy Murray and Blair Thornton. Gentlemen, if you would…take care of some Shea Stadium business.

Numbers 25-23 were revealed here.

There were gophers, there were weasels, there was one oversized gadfly…oh wait, that was me.

The final fifth game of a season in the history of Shea Stadium: from it I will remember almost nothing fondly. It was just one of those days, even if it was a Saturday, even if it was the home debut of Santana the Savior, even if it didn’t rain and instead cried out for shedding one’s layers of caution against the elements in the upper deck. There may have been pieces of April to recommend you spend this April afternoon at Shea, yet there have been far better Saturdays in the park.

How come?

• Johan: Sometimes home runs are just fly balls that carry. Those weren’t what the Brewers hit. The three Santana gave up could have been cancelled by American Airlines. Maybe it’s the jetstreams, though those seem to stop acting up the moment a Met comes up with runners on base. We heard he has a tendency to give up homers, especially having pitched half his life in the Homerdome. When he wasn’t introducing the friendly skies to Bill Hall and Rickie Weeks, he was aces up. By the time he got to Gabe Kapler, he was huffin’ to the finish line, a destination he never quite made. Santana himself said afterwards he didn’t pitch well. Four earned runs in 6-2/3 attest to that evaluation. Still, he did have his moments (7 K) and he sure looked good in the pinstripes. I’m not worried.

• Johanmania: The Mets have made back a significant portion of Santana’s salary in jersey sales (I’m always surprised when people dig deep for a new guy, even this new guy), but the atmosphere that surrounded him was lacking. I guess I expected Pedro II. The debut of Mr. Martinez the Met in 2005 was electric enough to put the Keyspan sign to shame. That was special. This was the turn in the rotation between Figueroa and Perez. When Johan entered, he got nice applause. When he was pulled in the seventh, he got a little less. He will have his days, but it’s interesting to me that he didn’t get one right away the way Martinez did. Some guys just light up a room.

• Slopfest ’08: I’m past comparing this season to last season. The current edition has yet to put together an early stretch of dominance even close to what the Mets of 2007 racked up. Ten games in, they are, in the argot of the chronically inarticulate, what they are. They are a .500 ballclub, good some days and nights, less so on others. Saturday they were lame everywhere: in the field (Easley’s no shortstop, Wright’s only occasionally a Gold Glove third baseman, Schneider’s reputation as a catcher exceeds him); at bat (Sheets is good, but he shouldn’t have manhandled our lineup so easily); and on the bench (untighten at once, I command thee, Jose’s hammy!). The Brewers wore their hitting shoes. The Mets barely laced up.

• Amnesia: You know how Scott Schoeneweis won the respect of the crowd the other night by rescuing his teammates in that extra-inning thriller versus the Phillies? It’s been forgotten. He was announced, he was booed. That’ll show him! I do believe I heard the slightest smattering of disapproval for Johan’s performance when he left. One would like to believe there was some distorted sense of irony at work there, though given that the most clever thing I heard all day (amid a thousand references to Prince Fielder’s weight, welcoming back Gape Kapler and “Sunglasses At Night” for Corey Hart even though “Never Surrender” actually topped it on the charts) was “THROW THE FUCKING BALL SHEETS!” I’m guessing no.

• Wrong Angle: From section 13 upstairs, I studied how the rotunda sticks out of Citi Field, almost too tumescent for its own good. Oh well, I thought, I shouldn’t judge it until it’s done. Next year when I’m sitting in the upper deck at Shea, I’ll have a better idea of how Citi Field really looks.

• Commerce: It was Citi Field Cap Day. I arrived early enough to get one, displayed enough impact-free high dudgeon not to wear it. Besides, I didn’t want to be badgered for a free pizza half an hour after not delivering one. The Citigroup vice president of nothing in particular not only got to throw out the first ball but he unveiled number 77 in the parallel universe Shea countdown. “Now to represent the destruction of Shea Stadium…” After classing it up beyond belief with the Shea family on Tuesday, the Mets have reverted to form, handing the counting-down honors to, in order, their mascot; the countdown’s sponsors; a tie-in to their kids’ fan club; and the sponsors of the giveaway cap and the building next door. C’mon, Mets — I’ll bet Ron Hunt would fly coach if you asked him nicely. How pervasive is the Citi-Mets relationship? David Wright’s ineffectual but well-intentioned solo shot in the eighth — Let’s Get It Done! — was implicitly brought to us by our naming rights providers, according to DiamondVision. And leave it to the Mets A/V squad and their corporate weasel puppetmasters to make me the last person on Earth to consider “We Built This City” by Starship somehow less than wonderful when the “y” becomes an “i”.

• The Sounds of Silence: Rick Astley can relax. Neil Diamond is now less popular than he is in Queens. The fehcockteh singalong voting is nothing if not cathartic. After harmonizing happily with Neil through the climax of ’06 and the bulk of ’07, the Mets crowd turned on “Sweet Caroline” Saturday with the vengeance of the manipulated and fed up. I hadn’t seen an overbearing New England mainstay’s fortunes turn so quickly and harshly for the bad since corrupt Warden Samuel Norton stuck that pistol in his mouth once the authorities were on to him in The Shawshank Redemption. Allow me to be the umpteen-millionth Mets fan to publicly wish they’d can this whole thing and let us chat amiably among ourselves between half-innings. If they really need a tune to distract us — and since this promotion is sponsored by the Carpenters union — how about “We’ve Only Just Pagan” for our favorite temporary leadoff hitter?

• Serene Exit System: The whole torpid affair Saturday looked like it would have a silver lining in that at around 3:42, the bottom of the ninth approached and the Mets could do one of two things to help my own cause. They could rally for real, and that would be appreciated; or they could get it over with posthaste and let me catch the 4:24 out of Woodside. You know which one they chose. As long as The Log was going to be disgraced, fine. I did my best Mo Carthon impression, opening up holes in the crowd across the upper deck concourse and then down the thousand ramps that would lead me out Gate E (people do not know how to walk down ramps). The new staircase actually kind of works and the 7 turnstile wasn’t at all a mess. Plus I’d been sent this cheery press release by the MTA so bloggers like us could tell fans like you that “The first ever weekend express service (day or evening game) from Shea will follow ‘Post Game Express’ service plan.” The game sucked, the day blew, but at least the trains would fly. But they didn’t. There were no weekend express trains — and what locals there were sat like Raul Casanova and crawled like Brian Schneider. The 4:24 went from sure thing to dicey proposition, and it was only the deluge of LIRR customers crowding Woodside and a rare personal sprint that kept it from leaving without me. No seats to be had, no escape from the feeling of frustration that pervaded the entire afternoon.

Perversely nice to be reminded why winning so kicks losing’s ass.