For the Mets, it was the final off-day of the regular season. For me, it was a preview of some enforced downtime.

On Saturday afternoon I'm doing something utterly ridiculous from the perspective of faithful and fearful alike. I'm getting on a plane and going to London. From there, Vienna. And Milan. And Lausanne. And Geneva. (And then home for 50-odd hours before a day and a half in Utah, of all places.) When I'm done traversing these baseball-free cities, it'll be Sept. 29, just four days from the opening of the division series. (Why would I do something so foolish? It's for work. I'm not totally insane.)

I don't have anything against Europe. If the timing were different, I'd be intrigued by all these places, none of which I've ever seen, with the exception of a seven-hour layover in London 15-odd years ago. (I took the tube, cars drove the wrong way, and they tell you which way to look crossing the street so you don't get killed. Seven hours wasn't enough time to make it stop feeling like trying to do something in the mirror.) But my goodness, there's a pennant race going on, and I'm going to miss it.

And I am going to miss it. Seeing how 7:10 starts will turn into 12:10 and 1:10 a.m. affairs, I seriously doubt there are expat bars where satellite dishes pull in Gary and Keith and Ron. (And let's not kid ourselves — if there are such bars, they'll be showing the fucking Yankees. Why should Milan be any different than, say, 14th Street?) So it's MLB.tv to the rescue. Or maybe Gameday Audio. Do European hotels have Internet access by now? Is it free? I suppose I'm about to find out. Even if all's well technologically, can I possibly stay up until 3 a.m. every night?

I've calculated scenarios and tried to figure out if there's some way I might yet see the clincher — perhaps during the Europe/Utah interregnum? But after some fretful attempts at math, I gave up. The important thing is that the champagne get sprayed and the cigars get lit, not whether or not I see it. I can peer at it on the Internet later or try to relive it on TiVo. (And of course there will be 10,000 opportunities to see it as a Met Classic.) In the meantime, I'll be relying on my co-blogger and our wise commentors to paint the word picture. Sigh.

But since this is the Internet and a global audience and all, I'll throw it out there — if any of you know the places I'm going, drop me a line. Any and all wisdom greatly appreciated. Who knows, maybe that mythical overseas Mets bar really does exist.

P.S. Anybody get good news from mets.com? Yours truly was 0-for-2. They throw ungodly breaking shit in the NLDS lottery.

There are dumb quotes…

“Three-and-a-half-game lead and all, the key numbers are these: six games left against Atlanta and 42 against everybody else. The Mets are advised to kick the ever-lovin' spit out of everybody else in those other 42 in order to secure their second consecutive Eastern Division title and another shot at the belt because I have no confidence, none, that they'll handle the Braves in the other six. Not after four series comprised of one win and two losses every time. I thought we buried this bullshit last year. Apparently we have not.”

—Me, August 9, in a Willie Harris-inspired snit

…and there are smart quotes:

“I've run out of things to say. We're not as good as them. They've won every game against us they had to win. That's why they're where they are. We have to find a way to win these close games, and I am talking about next year as well as the next couple of weeks.”

—John Smoltz, September 12, in a Met-inspired snit

Always use smart quotes.

Yeah, I would say I was pretty wrong about these Mets and their ability to pick themselves up, dust themselves off and start all over again following the fourth consecutive Braves series that they lost 2-1. I think I was in that Randy Quaid Major League II (not the good one) mode, where he plays the superloyal Indian fan who drowns out all mounting Tribe criticism with supportive, rationalizing blather until he finally reaches his breaking point and completely turns on his team. I didn't see 2007's Met-Brave dynamic as any more than a faint echo of its Coxian worst until Harris leapt and stole Delgado's ninth-inning, game-tying homer five long weeks ago and unleashed some seething demons of distress. Then and only then was I willing to give in to that old chestnut that we'll never beat the Braves when it counts, woe is us and that whole pile of self-pitying shaving cream Mets fans occasionally like to leap into.

Met-a culpa. I take it back. I take it back with a grin that reaches from here high atop the National League East to however far out Smoltz and his teammates sit and stew in the doughy middle of this division. I don't ever like to statistically dismiss any opponent who has enough games left with us to uncomfortably close a gap on us. The Braves have no games left with us. They're 9-1/2 back, primarily a function of their losing five of the six head-to-head chances they had to gain on us since August 31. I do believe I've washed the shaving cream off my face and my hands of them for another season.

Floss will take care of that delicious plate of crow I just enjoyed.

As we gloat, the Phillies are seven behind the Mets, which isn't just formidable, it's a hoot. Remember that when the Mets were going through one of their modestly competent stretches in their summer of stumbling around, they managed to boost their first-place margin to a surprising seven on August 25. It was almost too soon for this recurrently beleaguered cast of characters to pull away. Indeed, they lost the next night to David Wells and then hit the Turnpike for four more defeats.

Since then? A nicely done 10-2. The Phillies? Who cares? We're seven games in front, for the love of Pete Incaviglia. That means that even by sweeping us four — three of them with the force of a red-hot poker — the Philadelphians have picked up no ground on us. None! While we were ten-and-twoing, they've been five-and-sevening. What a waste of evil.

They have one left with the thunderous Rockies today and then come here for three. I like to run the worst-case scenarios before every series. Phillies win today and then find their inner pokers and brooms, they will sit 3-1/2 back with two weeks to go. That's a pretty unlikely worst-case scenario, but even if it were to come to pass, there would still be the matter of those 3-1/2.

I won't rest until we're not swept this weekend — and maybe with one eye open then — but we're in pretty good shape, according to the Metropolitan Department of Understatement.

Y'know what's been particularly gratifying about the recent spurt of quality New York Mets baseball? The way it's been achieved. The last four victories have been posted by scores of 3-1, 4-1, 3-2 and 4-3. It's just been so gosh darn sturdy, a bullpen hiccup here or LOB there notwithstanding. The starting's been solid. The defense, except for the occasional pop fly to deep short/shallow center, has been airtight. There have been just enough big hits to make these wins seem a lot wider than they appear. Nothing wrong with a sprawling victory (unless you're Keith Hernandez), but these have been so…pleasant to watch.

Beltran Wednesday night in the eighth was a gunning, running clinic along the basepaths. He probably won't receive more than a token MVP point or two, but — due respect to the vitaminwater Kid — Carlos is by his presence the most valuable Met at any given moment. When he does his Beltran best, we win. Shawn Green (L'Shawn-ah Tovah!) is treating September like it followed on the heels of May, like his dreadful post-foot problems didn't happen or at least healed; I do think a little competition for playing time did his soul good. Marlon Anderson is the best second-half spot player this team has picked up since, geez, maybe ever. Alou…Milledge…the revitalized Reyes…the undeniable David…everybody's been doing something helpful at least every couple of days. I'm almost willing to give Mota a pass because he battled Francoeur so gamely, but mostly I'm willing to give Mota a pass to sit in the stands come October.

At Shea. Where else, barring horrific circumstances even I'm having a hard time imagining, would the N.L. East champ be playing its home playoff games?

Billy Wagner was lost.

His momentum carried him across the first-base line, ball in hand. He got himself stopped, and turned, but didn't find the bag he was expecting — somehow it was an extra foot to his right, accessorized by a mildly dumbfounded Shawn Green. Oops! Billy kept turning, and Plan B arrived in the form of Kelly Johnson, who walked into the tag and became the final out of the game. Billy had found his way after all. As had his teammates.

One quality of Willie Randolph's that I admire despite the teeth-gnashing it causes is that he's not afraid to take risks in order to find out something important. It always goes like this: The camera focuses on an unlikely pinch-hitter, an unestablished reliever in an unaccustomed spot or an established pitcher trying to get one more out than you'd expect. Discussion ensues in the booth, followed by a shot of Willie at the dugout rail, looking even more stoic than usual. He's administering a test and wondering if his latest pupil will pass or fail.

So it was in the eighth. Heilman was faltering, teetering on the verge of collapse thanks to another Brave two-out rally. (If the standings were different, these would be terrifying instead of vexing.) In came Feliciano with one out to get. To first base went Brian McCann, whom I am heartily glad not to have to see again until next spring. Exit Feliciano, enter … Mota?

Yes, Guillermo Mota. Guillermo Mota who'd pitched fairly well of late, but only in garbage-time situations. Willie had decided to administer a bullpen pop quiz. I called Emily (attending the game with her dad) and said, “For the last hour I've been envying you being at a wonderful game on a nice night. Now … not so much.” She laughed.

The crowd handled Mota's arrival like New Yorkers often do — they booed the sight of him thoroughly, then grumpily accepted that for better or worse he was the one with the ball and tried to cheer him through his confrontation with Jeff Francoeur. Which he lost after a succession of good changeups and not-so-good changeups and foul tips and finally a clean single through the 5.5 hole. Tie game. Then Mota got Andruw and the crowd, reversing an earlier motif, roared its approval of the strikeout and then booed Mota to the dugout for his earlier misdeed.

No matter — Carlos Beltran promptly restored order with a sharp single, a steal of second off a kid catcher just up from Double-A, a wily theft of third beneath Yunel Escobar's nose, and then walked home courtesy of Green's third hit of the night. How about Shawn Green? He either needed a rest, has been revitalized by a move to first or — most likely — senses the barn after an admirable career. If he stays hot, he could retire with 2,000 hits, not counting whatever he might earn in a final October. That ought to be worthy of a last standing O.

The rest of the game? Crisp and exciting with occasional spots of worry. John Maine is so easily spooked by misfortune (in this case a muffed fly-ball single between Reyes and Beltran) that I'm surprised more teams don't try to rattle him. And Mota failed Mr. Randolph's exam convincingly. And got a win for his troubles.

But no matter. This is the time to find things out, to figure out what needs to be tuned up and what needs to be rethought. And there was plenty to celebrate. Reyes looks revived, Anderson and Milledge proved jolts of excitement, we beat John Smoltz (again), got up after a punch and responded with a knockout blow, and moved closer to Game 163. All in all, not a bad night's work.

The weirdest part about the inevitable recollections a baseball game played between the New York Mets and Atlanta Braves at Shea Stadium on September 11 summons is the obligatory reference to how remarkable it was that when these teams squared off just shy of six years ago in our city's first large “normal” gathering of any kind, their fierce rivalry was put aside.

Think about it. The horrifying circumstances enveloping the city; the tension and uncertainty; the precautions and the prayers; the dimness in our hearts…and the fact that the Mets and Braves didn't hate each other for a night is considered as historically groundbreaking in context as any of it.

It's a different September now and it was a different Tuesday in New York yesterday, no matter the coincidence of the date and the day of the week. The Eastern Division equation has been shaken like a snow globe time and again over the past six years, never mind what's occurred in the world at large. The Mets have tumbled and they have risen. The Braves rode high until they succumbed to a middle path. The statistical reality is the two teams haven't actually finished adjacent to each other since 2000. Yet these are longstanding rivals still. Maybe someday through another round of realignment or another shake of the snow globe, they won't be quite in each other's heads and faces the way they have been for the last decade.

It would be too bad. Sport thrives on rivalry. These two have earned theirs. I used to think it was a little overstated because it was a lot lopsided. The Mets' ascension has altered that aspect of this rivalry for the better. The Braves' refusal to completely go to seed has been good for it as well. We like a good nose-looking-down where they're concerned — and we'd probably be pretty happy if they were about ten back of the Marlins — but in the abstract as well as in this particular September, the arrangement works. Neither combatant should be a hollowed-out version of itself. You have to hate somebody in sport, and your bile has to be worth your while.

Let's not be shy about how we feel about the Atlanta Braves. Hate is not too strong a world given the sordid interaction between these two teams since approximately the conversion of an Olympic stadium created Turner Field. Yet on September 21, 2001, I couldn't imagine hating a baseball team for the crime of trying to beat another baseball team, even my baseball team. Those were just people down there on the field. They were embracing. How could I hate anyone ever again who wasn't literally out to destroy me? Those feelings came back again with the stories that trickled out of the booth Tuesday night, particularly when it was pointed out there's still that cluster of Braves who were there then and are around now.

Everybody points to Piazza's home run and its healing power from the Friday night game. Yeah, I guess. I have to confess I've never quite bought into it, and I was there, standing and applauding like everyone with a pulse. I was happy the Mets had won a baseball game and I was encouraged that they extended their participation in the pennant race a little longer and I was thrilled if anyone who was in need of a serious lift received it from one swing of the bat…but I personally couldn't get past its marginal meaning in the larger scheme of things.

For that, I needed to hate the Braves. I couldn't hate them Friday night. No, it took Sunday afternoon — Brian Jordan and all he wrought (two-run homer in the ninth, game-winner in the eleventh) — to make baseball real again. To make it OK to hate a baseball team for trying to beat another baseball team. For succeeding at beating a baseball team. For ruining the playoff chances of a baseball team. For doing in my baseball team.

Logically, it didn't click any more than Mike launching his shot Friday night did. Not one more person lived instead of died because of a baseball game. But emotion usually has about a six-game lead on logic in our sport, and my prevailing emotion Sunday was hatred for the Atlanta Braves.

Hate. Baseball hate. It was back. It felt so right.

How far have we come as a people? We beat the Braves for the fourth consecutive time, in September, in a finishing kick that this franchise has lacked even in many of its good years, and when it came time to mock the visitors from Atlanta, it wasn't…

“WOH-OH-OH!”

It was more…

“Meh. Meh-eh.”

There was still some pretty good vitriol made available to the Braves lest they think we don't still consider themselves our partners in a special relationship. But in ninth innings past, with a victory nearing the reasonable assurance stage (and there were a few), there'd be the chant and there'd be the chop and there'd be the Chipper…sucks.

Not in 2007. Not at this point of the calendar. Not while the standings are arranged as neatly as they are. Barely a hint of a chant or a chop at Shea Monday night and no sign of Chipper on the field. No Andruw either. When the Joneses aren't dragged from their sick beds to keep up with the Mets, there must be a towel involved.

You know, the kind the Braves have obviously thrown in.

WOH-OH-OH!

Hey, this feels good, huh? Remember when the only reason the Braves wouldn't have wheeled out their big if dinged guns in September was to rest them up for the playoffs? Unless watching the playoffs requires fresh legs (and those trips to the fridge can take it outta ya), it would appear there is no urgency to Bobby Cox's lineup construction these nights.

WOH-OH-OH!

So no chop, no chant — nothing sustained, at least. Laurie and I did have one guy two rows behind us who let the Braves know they can just go ahead and “SWEEP US! WE'VE GOT THE DIVISION! TWO YEARS IN A ROW!” but he lost his momentum when he attempted to shout agate type involving Pythagorean Winning Percentage and such before the intense curmudgeon to Laurie's left turned around and told him to knock it off and he did (why haven't I ever tried that?). The Atlanta Braves haven't suddenly become the Generic Opponent Questionable Nicknames, but let's say smacking them down in another close one has lost the slightest touch of its edge.

I'm pretty sure Jason or I (or both of us) predicted five years ago, when Angels fans were ThunderStixing their way to a world championship, that the annoying inflatable noisemakers would be all the rage at Shea come 2004, just after the novelty of them had completely deflated. We were only off by three years (though we continue to wait on the Rally Monkey.) In the spirit of corporate synergy, Monday night was Citi Night. Free money? No-fee checking? No, just blue ThunderStix with the Citi logo. How's that for team spirit?

There's nothing written on them that had any connection to the Mets, Laurie said.

It will by 2009, I replied.

“WE'RE NOT CLIENTELE!” the yelling guy later added, possibly in response to the assault of Large Financial Institution Is Wonderful announcements that ran on DiamondVision between Kiss and Smile cams. Or maybe he was telling the pretzel man to move along.

Knock it off. You too, Citi.

Monday was my 27th home game of the year, most of them reached by mass transit, leading me to a rather disturbing revelation: Should I ever stumble from the platform onto the tracks and meet my untimely demise at Woodside, I think I know the way Newsday will identify me in the headline of this latest story of how the LIRR gap epidemic is swallowing riders whole. After their reporter talks to a few eyewitnesses, I will be:

Mets Fan Who Directed Others to Trains

Hence the irony.

What is it about my persona that compels total strangers to ask me every conceivable question as regards public transportation between Long Island and Shea Stadium? Aren't there professionals paid to provide answers? Doesn't anybody else appear they know where they're going?

Excuse me, what's the next stop?

Will we have time to make our connection?

Does the Huntington train stop on this platform?

Is this Track A?

Do the doors open here?

Should I get off at Jamaica or stay on?

Would I look good with a mustache?

I don't mind, per se. I like to be helpful, especially to my fellow Metsopotamians. If I didn't know where I was going, I'd want somebody to set me on the right path. But why do they ask me out of everybody around? This isn't 1997 — there are thousands of people who take subways and commuter trains to and from Shea. The MTA has been flogging a campaign encouraging it for two years. I have thus concluded:

a) most Long Islanders are clueless as to how the system works;

b) I emit an aura convincing them to see me as their map, their timetable and their compass rolled into one.

They view me as the Swiss Army Knife of the Long Island Rail Road.

This has been going on as long as I can remember. And it's not a strictly local phenomenon. It happens, probably once per trip, on our out-of-town ballpark sojourns. I don't know how somebody from Milwaukee or St. Louis or Philadelphia is supposed to look, but do I look like I'm from Milwaukee or St. Louis or Philadelphia?

Is there something clueful about the way I stand and stare? Do I seem a better bet than all the signage designed and posted specifically to issue commutation information? Has anybody else ever picked up a branch schedule and kept it just in case they needed to turn around and go home after the game? Or go to another game?

This is probably an NBC series waiting to happen…pitched as Heroes meets Early Edition — something like that. I can hear the promos now: He was just a baseball fan waiting for a train. Until he was…CHOSEN!

Ask the guy over there for directions. Save the world.

Yunel Escobar was the first batter last night. and Oliver Perez looked horrible against him, throwing two balls very wide before getting a gift of a called strike. Fortunately, Yunel Escobar is young. After the strike call, he seemed to get antsy. Oliver struck him out, and that seemed to restore his focus on his mission — namely, to drag the Braves' casket out of their dark lair and into the morning sun. The Braves aren't moving, but you can never be too careful with them, as Armando Benitez and John Franco taught us once upon a time. I now recommend the stake in the heart, the communion wafers in the mouth, and about a gallon of holy water.

Along those lines, last night's game briefly threatened to turn into a horror movie, but in the sixth Oliver showed the grit needed to escape the most frightening action sequence (lineout to third, pickoff at second, strikeout) and Billy Wagner made his way across unholy ground (McCann and Teixeira and Francoeur, oh my!) not only intact but also unmolested. In the end, with Wright (“MVP! MVP!”) and McCann trading two-run shots, the difference was that first-inning run scratched out on a Beltran groundout.

No Oliver Perez start is without a head-scratcher or two, of course. In the Times' game story, Perez said he's been “trying different things” and changing his mechanics. Wha? I hope that was out of context or the language barrier was at work, because otherwise that's puzzling: Why would anyone who'd been sent down by the Pittsburgh Pirates and survived to resurrect his career start playing around with his mechanics? Perhaps the answer is ( as is often the case with foolish tinkering) that Oliver Perez is young, too. At any rate, he did follow that admission with a certain wisdom, noting that he'd succeeded by keeping his arm slot consistent. And he got this bit of public advice from Carlos Beltran: “You need to look at the tape and continue to pitch like this.” From the center fielder's lips to the pitcher's ears, please.

Chipper Jones and Andruw Jones are not young, not anymore. But they were both absent — Chipper with an oblique strain and Andruw with the flu. Huh. Wow. I can only assume Chipper is very hurt and Andruw is very sick, what with their season circling the drain and all. If Jimmy Rollins and Chase Utley want to sit out with a hangnail and a sore throat, I will applaud their caution. But somehow I think they'll show up regardless of what the trainer has to say.

Chipper's oblique was the subject of fascination for the SNY crew, which had the injury (a innocuous batting-practice swing) on tape. Their Zapruder-like analysis of the infamous swing led to yet another 2007 Keith Hernandez moment — a passionate denunciation of sit-ups. “Too much swiveling!” Keith exclaimed with indignation, as Emily and I giggled on the couch and Gary Cohen (who's gotten very good at sneakily turning up the heat once Keith gets rolling) goaded him by asking whether today's players didn't have enough body fat.

Keith is an icon, and so his age is immaterial, but he certainly is getting amusingly cranky — we knew he was off to the races when he groused that “I never did a sit-up.” Keith's get-off-my-lawn moments make me wish he could do postgame spots after a few hours at Elaine's. Sit-ups? We never did sit-ups — did we, Ronnie? Our regimen was shotgunning beers and screwing girls and deep-frying steaks and destroying planes and we won a freaking World Championship doing that — right, Ronnie? All you kids out there, you watch what happened to Chipper. Don't do that! What's that, Gar? Well, I think it's that the game's changed with the steroids and the sit-ups. And the swiveling! Too much swiveling!

Postscript: The Brooklyn Cyclones battled fog and the Staten Island Yankees and defeated both, ending the Junior Yanks' season and advancing to the New York-Penn League Championship Series, a best-of-three affair that begins Thursday. The game ended after midnight, taking it into Sept. 11 and thereby bringing up an old memory: 2001 was the Cyclones' inaugural year, and they won the first game of the Championship Series and could have won the title on 9/11. Instead, the game never happened. Brooklyn and Williamsport were declared co-champs. Given everything that happened on that terrible day, this is at most a footnote to a footnote. But that's not quite the same as nothing. Now, six years later, a win on 9/11 will give the Cyclones a chance at a new title. It's the least of things, but I found some small measure of satisfaction in it.