Whew. Wow. Gasp.

Come in off the ledge. Come down from the bridge. We’re not out of the woods, but there’s some sunlight coming down through the trees.

In the box score this looked like a laugher, but we know better. John Maine’s sixth inning was a passion play. Up 4-0 and with Hudson out of the game, Maine looked like he was going to let it all come crashing in on him, as he’s tended to do recently. Pete Orr single. Kelly Johnson walk. Matt Diaz walk. On CW11, Ronnie was talking about how Maine was in uncharted territory innings-wise and what a toll that had taken on him as a young pitcher. But never mind that – at the plate was Chipper Jones, the Pat Burrell of the South, standing in as the tying run with nobody out.

Raise your hand if you thought Chipper just might hit one to Stone Mountain. (Mine’s raised.) You could see into a terrible future, couldn’t you? The ball would clear the fence by eight or 10 feet, bracketed by a disappointed Beltran and Endy. Chipper would grin his joker grin as Whoa-oh-whoah-a-whoahs rained down on the Mets’ heads. Gary would say something about Pat Burrell and give us the latest grim tidings about what the Marlins were suffering at the hands of the Phillies, those hellhounds on our trail. Maine would wipe his brow and try not to hang his head. Willie would emerge from the dugout, grim as death, and soon we’d be watching Sele or Schoeneweis get whacked around, the Phils would be one game out, and all would be sackcloth and ashes.

Except Chipper – incredibly, amazingly, unfathomably – popped up.

He popped up, allowing me to exhale and briefly mock his horrible-looking chin beard. But here came Mark Teixeira – and here came a wild pitch by Maine to make it 4-1. Only Teixeira too popped up. (Raise your hand if you thought Teixeira just might hit one to Athens.) But here came Brian McCann – and Maine promptly went to a 3-0 count on him. (Raise your hand if you thought McCann just might hit one to Macon.) Rick Peterson had already been out, so here came Carlos Delgado. And, after whatever counsel he offered, Maine gathered himself and got McCann on a borderline strike at the knees. Out of the inning! And with the added benefit of pissing Bobby Cox off! (Emily and I were amused to see Roger McDowell sitting absolutely still beside Cox, the way one sits when the giant drunk stranger on the next barstool suddenly turns red and starts screaming about the government.)

How appropriate that it was Delgado playing emergency pitching coach with no second visit possible. Delgado had reminded us of all that’s gone wrong this season on the very first batter Maine faced, looking very much like a statue as Kelly Johnson rifled one not very far from him into right field. But he’d also reminded us of all he can do that's right by connecting off Hudson — a majestic shot far over Andruw’s head. I’m a big fan of small ball, but there’s nothing like a three-run homer or a grand slam for releasing a baseball fan’s pent-up frustrations. Delgado connecting brought back Olerud hitting his grand slam off Maddux and Piazza capping the 10-run inning off Mulholland. It was like a thunderstorm sweeping away stifling heat and leaving you free to breathe. It was exactly what we needed. And then he gave us exactly what we needed again and reminded us of his not-be-overlooked intangibles, stiffening Maine’s resolve and willing him through that one more batter so he too could breathe again.

And we’d get more than that. We got Jose Reyes looking like Jose Reyes again, and Endy Chavez stifling an outbreak of Bravery with a wonderful catch off the annoying Willie Harris, and the continuing magic of Marlon Anderson, and news that with El Duque’s annual September break here and Pedro Martinez looking good in a bullpen session, The Man may be done with St. Lucie and with us for the duration.

A lot of good news all at once. But after the horrors of Philadelphia, weren’t we due?

…your declarations no longer make us laugh. You're to be taken seriously, because you've backed up everything you said.

OK, Pat Burrell. Dumb people may have referred to you as “once terrifying, now vaguely pathetic,” but that was a while ago. Those people have been chastened, and never want to see you at the plate against us again. You're every bit the Met killer you once were.

For the vast majority of our existence, the Phillies were the team that should matter more than they did, the rival that wasn't and possibly never would be. In the last couple of years they've finally mattered standings-wise, but not competition-wise: We knew they'd revert to Philliedom, to punching the clock in their curiously listless way while their fans chanted for the Eagles. Somewhere along the line Aaron Rowand and Ryan Howard and Chase Utley and Shane Victorino and Jimmy Rollins — great baseball players, ferocious competitors and stand-up guys all — changed that clubhouse. Their Philies are very real, and this series' two black eyes, bloody nose and final knockout blow were the last bit of proof anyone could need.

For the series, Rollins went 9 for 19, 5 runs scored, 2 HRs, 3 RBIs. Utley was 5 for 15, 2 runs scored, 1 HR and 3 RBI. Burrell was 5 for 15, 4 runs scored, 3 HR and 7 RBI. And Howard was 9 for 18, 3 runs scored, 2 HR and 4 RBI. Goodness. That's an absolute beatdown.

As yesterday's game roared along (an absolute classic, though I get the feeling it won't be repeated on SNY), I suggested to an equally nervous Emily that maybe the Mets and Phils should just declare whoever won the Champion of the Universe and then go home until February. Should either or both of us make the playoffs (and after these last four days, that conditional is not just baseball superstition), it's hard to believe there will be a game this thrilling — or exhausting. Apologies that this is late, but I went to bed at 8:30 and didn't stir until 7. A baseball apocalypse will do that to you.

Once Wagner gave up the home run to Pat the Bat, I knew we were going to lose. Whether it was fatigue or just a bad day at the office, Billy didn't seem to have it and it was painfully apparent this wasn't the day he was going to get a six-out save. (That's not a second-guess, by the way — if not Wagner, who? There are no good answers for Willie right now.) The Phillies did everything right all series. They played with an amazing, un-Phillielike intensity, and they got all the breaks — as teams playing at that level will and should.

At least the Mets' twin comebacks — fueled by a maturing-before-our-eyes David Wright — took some of the sting away. Yes, yesterday and the three days before that hurt like hell. But once El Duque fell behind 5-0, I think a lot us figured the Mets would throw in the towel, take their beating and slink off to Atlanta saying philosophical things. Instead they came out of the coffin all nails and teeth, throwing punches and roundhouse kicks and biting and clawing, and if not for some terrible luck for Aaron Sele we might now be celebrating our escape and saying that hey, for all that we're still four games up.

Didn't happen. We're two games up with another tormenter still to confront and no shortage of fears. OK then. Jimmy Rollins, my cap is tipped to you and your teammates. It's a pennant race again, with a month of anxiety and exhiliration ahead. Proportions — and final outcome — to be determined.

This week's sign of the apocalypse: The Mets have to win a game.

If the Mets don't win this afternoon, they will have been swept by their closest pursuers. They will still be in first, they will lead the Phillies by two games and they will enter September no worse than ahead of the pack. But a five-game losing streak is no springboard for a trip to Turner Field.

Must-win games are Game Six and such. This isn't that. But the Mets really oughta win today. I don't mean that in the betting line sense. I mean they would do themselves a world of good by scoring more runs than the Phillies and concomitantly surrendering fewer. They might remember the sensation from the last time El Duque pitched. It wasn't really more than five days ago. It just seems like it.

Time to stop pussyfooting around. Lead by four, not by two. Go to Atlanta on a one-game winning streak, not amid unfolding disaster. Play like the team we know you are.

There. That's the pep talk. I'll most likely be finding out after the fact whether it's done any good, for I am off to do a little advance scouting. I've left a couple of heat & eat posts in the fridge for the weekend. Just take 'em out, stick 'em in the microwave and dig in.

Good advice as to how to handle the Phillies and Braves.

“I see great things in baseball. It's our game — the American game. It will repair our losses and be a blessing to us.”

Walt Whitman may have said that (more likely he didn't), but then he never saw tonight's game. Because that was one of the purest forms of excruciation I've ever spent nearly three hours enduring while thinking I was doing something I loved.

When did it all go wrong? When we took the field, more or less.

Maybe it was when Reyes got picked off for the first time, sending the bird that is hope smashing into the plate-glass window that is same old, same old. (Joshua, always optimistic, chirped that “now he has time to rest!”)

When we let ancient Jamie Moyer wriggle free.

When Jimmy Rollins continued to back up his big talk by lasering a home run off Oliver Perez.

When Pat the Bat nearly hit the upper deck. (I'll say one thing for the Phillies, who deserve to have many things said for them in this series, however grudgingly and through gritted teeth: They're not hitting cheap Citizens Bank home runs off us so far.)

When Oliver hit two lasers in a row and the second one turned into a double play.

When Nunez erased a Luis Castillo double for the first time.

When Wright got rung up and another umpire went on the Enemies List.

When Nunez did it to Castillo again.

When Oliver kept catching Lo Duca's throws with his bare hand. (Don't do that. I mean, Jesus!)

When Reyes got picked off again.

When Beltran got under a fat pitch from Tom Gordon.

When Alou hit into a double play.

When Ron Darling inexplicably volunteered that he'd been to the Ziegfield in college to see “The Rose” because it had a great sound system, leaving the booth speechless.

I mean, how many ways could we be tormented in this game? How many ways could we be injured and outraged before being dispatched?

Well, one more than even I expected. In the ninth, Delgado battled bravely, but I kept waiting for Myers to pull out that curveball, and he finally did. But then Lo Duca got on, Endy got ready, and Marlon Anderson smacked a ball up the gap that Shane Victorino (whom I respect and admire and never, ever want to see again) somehow cut off. I wasn't convinced. In fact, I told Emily Shawn Green would hit into a double play, which was an expression of grim certainty and not a clumsy attempt at a reverse jinx, though I would have taken it.

And Green did. But goodness knows not in the way any of us could have dreamed. An obstruction call? Really? On Anderson, a veteran added for his intangibles? When the obstruction WASN'T NECESSARY BECAUSE GREEN WAS GOING TO BE SAFE AND THE RUN WAS GOING TO SCORE?

No, I never dreamed of that one.

(Outraged sputtering aside, I can't fault the call. I know Anderson could reach second, contrary to what Joe West said later, but that was a Wrestlemania two-handed slap. I've seen hard slides and slides out of the baseline, but not too many of those. Once I calmed down from magma to boiling, I watched the replay and found myself thinking, You Can't Do That.)

And anyway, I'm bitter enough. A seven-game lead down to three, the Phillies looking nothing like the Phillies we've come to know and scorn, too much road trip still ahead, the offense missing, the bullpen in tatters and the magic number too large to not easily turn tragic. My plate is full.

Perceptions are tough to shake. For example, last month in San Diego it was noted that Jose Reyes and David Wright had paired to become the Mets' all-time leaders in starting together at short and third with 395 such games in the lineup since 2004. My first thought was “somebody keeps track of that?” My second thought was “nah, no way!” I grew up watching Buddy Harrelson and Wayne Garrett start practically every game at short and third for like eight years. No way they didn't play like a thousand games together!

Of course the Mets were always acquiring somebody to take Wayne's place: Foy, Aspromonte, Fregosi, Torre. And Buddy always did seem to be on the disabled list. But still, c'mon! Buddy at short. Wayne at third. They formed a combination that was as much a staple of my childhood as canned ravioli and Chinese noodles.

Buddy and Wayne, fewer than 400 games together? Impossible. And even more impossible? Learning that Jose and David weren't breaking their record, but that of Kevin Elster and Howard Johnson. Elster and Johnson? For some reason, they wouldn't have even occurred to me as being in the top three — what about Rey-Rey and Fonzie? They were broken up on the left side by the arrival of Ventura, but they had to be second, right? Reyes and Wright have a long way to go. I'm sure of it.

Don't be so sure. I did a little digging and discovered that Ordoñez and Alfonzo played only 350 games together as shortstop and third baseman. Elster and HoJo outpaced them by 44 games for the then-record 394. And my boys of every summer I could remember between 1969 and 1976, Bud Harrelson and Red Garrett?

Only 387 games started as shortstop and third base in tandem. Only 44 games in 1969. Only 77 games in the nearly as magical season of 1973. Only six games together in 1975. Never as many as half the games in any one season. Buddy Harrelson and Wayne Garrett, for all my perceptions of them as the eternal left side of the infield of my youth, did not play side by side at their trademark positions all that much.

So some perceptions crumble in the face of statistics. Others, like last night's twin reminder that Guillermo Mota and Armando Benitez always blow games, are probably immune to numbers. I could show you boxscores from 2006 wherein Mota was a positive difference-maker for the Mets and I could easily point to stretches from 1999 to 2003 when Benitez was as effective as any reliever in the sport. You, like I, wouldn't care at this point. We know they suck. We don't need confirmation that they don't. It's not going to change our minds.

Which brings me to one of the bête noires of my life as a fan: Jerry Martin.

Not J.C. Martin whose magical wrist stuck out from the baseline just enough to clinch Game Four against the Orioles. Not Billy Martin who looked so sad despite have just won the 1977 World Series (though maybe that was an actor with fake ears). This was Jerry Martin, a player for whom the term “nondescript” was conceived.

Jerry Martin played the outfield in the major leagues between 1974 and 1984 for five different clubs, including the Phillies' perennial division champs of the late '70s. He was a fourth outfielder for them, a starter with decent power on some bad Cubs clubs thereafter. He was of no interest to me whatsoever until his surfaced surprisingly on the Mets in the middle of May 1984.

It was a surprise to me, anyway. That was the year things were going so well while I was so far away from the Mets. I was at school in Tampa until mid-July. Not nearly as on top of the Tidewater Shuttle as I would have liked to have been, I didn't notice we had brought Martin in during Spring Training (even though I was close to Spring Training by being in Tampa). I must have missed his signing in the Transactions agate of The Sporting News the week in March that it happened. But I've generally given the benefit of the doubt to fringe players I've at least heard of, so if Jerry Martin was going to come to the Mets and help us continue our surprise run at first place, well, good luck to him, good luck to us.

'Cause we'd need it.

In short order, Jerry Martin would become my bane. You know the way you see Mota or saw Benitez and you groan or groaned a thousand groans? That was me and Martin — at least that's how I remember it. If Jerry Martin was batting, a popup was sure to follow. Jerry Martin plate appearances were where rallies went to die.

Having emerged from the dark ages of 1977-1983, you'd think there must have been dozens of Mets like that. I suppose there were, but how were you going to tell them apart? When you suck en masse, you don't stand out. When you suck alone, you're sucking for everyone to see.

Jerry Martin really sucked. Amid the promise of Strawberry and the incandescence of Hernandez and the otherworldliness of Gooden and all the spit and vinegar provided by Darling and Backman and Wilson and Orosco and pre-deterioration Doug Sisk, Jerry Martin was the sorest of thumbs on the glorious hand of the 1984 Mets. When we were holding first place, it didn't matter all that much. When it was slipping from our grip, I decided it was all Jerry Martin's fault.

Ryne Sandberg's, too, a little, but mostly Jerry Martin.

Jerry Martin wasn't Bob Bailor, my favorite post-Teddy Martinez, pre-Joe McEwing utilityman. Bailor went with Carlos Diaz to the Dodgers for El Sid and Ross Jones. People will tell you the Mets stole Sid Fernandez. I say it was equal value. Had Bailor remained on the '84 Mets, there would have been no Jerry Martin, there would have been no devastation by the Cubs, there would have been Miracle on 126th St., Part II. I can't prove it, I just know it.

Jerry Martin was Davey Johnson's old teammate. His old drinking buddy, I assumed. If Jerry and Davey hadn't been pals in Philly, why would have we signed him, why would have we given so many opportunities to screw us over? I can't prove it, I just know it as well.

I can prove this, however: Jerry Martin was completely unproductive. Completely. Well, not completely completely, because the record indicates Jerry Martin hit three home runs as a 1984 Met and in those three games, the Mets were 3-0.

The rest of the time? In the wake of last night's Mota show (we used to call such things horror shows but that was deemed redundant), I was drawn into a discussion of which Mets have driven you crazy just by their mere sight. The easy answer to such an exercise is always Mel Rojas, which seems both accurate and just a little cruel given that Rojas' awfulness has been cited so frequently that it's practically in tatters; I think Mota is here just so we'll have a different setup man to instantly put down. Somebody else then brought up Jerry Martin and I got rallykilling chills up and down my spine all over again.

But, y'know, I was so sure that Buddy Harrelson and Wayne Garrett played together at short and third so much, it seemed only fair to look up whether Jerry Martin was as bad as I remembered.

So I did. And he was.

According to the indispensable Baseball-Reference.com, Jerry Martin in 1984:

• went 3 for 24 with two walks, 13 strikeouts and two double plays grounded into as a pinch-hitter;

• went 2 for 23 with two walks, seven strikeouts and three double plays grounded into with runners in scoring position;

• and went 1 for 19 in “late & close” situations, walking twice, striking out eight times and grounding into three double plays in the seventh inning later with the Mets tied, up by one or the tying run at least on deck.

Presumably some of these plate appearances came as a pinch-hitter with runners on base in late & close situations, so there's bound to be some repetition in the futility, but that's all right. With Jerry Martin in 1984, I was pretty sure there was nothing but repetition and futility. And now I'm certain.

I've also been reminded that Jerry Martin was part of the group of Kansas City Royals who went through the ignominy of being outed as drug users in 1983, actually doing time for trying to buy coke. I'd completely forgotten that, and perhaps there is something to be said for an old friend, in this case Davey Johnson, giving another old friend a break (his last chance in the bigs, it would turn out). And I'm by no means suggesting that Jerry Martin was a bad person or is a bad person. I don't know what kind of person he is in 2007. I do know he was an immensely ineffective New York Met in 1984 — 3-5-.154 — right at the moment when we needed optimal effectiveness to succeed to our fullest blossoming potential. Amid a franchise whose history is chock full of immense ineffectiveness, he really stands out for that.

That said, he could probably hit Mota's fastball.

Gosh, didn't see that coming.

To borrow an observation from last week's Mad Men, watching Guillermo Mota set down the Phillies 1-2-3 in the ninth was like watching a dog play the piano. It was very impressive. And you knew he was highly unlikely to do it again.

Mets aren't hitting anymore, are they? For a while they had one scalding hot batter at a time — first Alou, then Beltran, then Wright. I kept thinking “if they could just get those guys to do it at the same time…” Instead everybody got together and went quiet. Reyes, too.

It's tempting to say games like tonight always happen to the Mets at the Cit as they always seemed to at the Vet, even if I know it's untrue. Yet the Mets played a virtual prototype of this game last May, including Heilman giving up a key run on a ball that didn't reach the mound. It feels very familiar. Hauntingly so. Maybe it was just one of the 54 you're gonna lose, though at this stage of the season, it's a little late to accept blows like tonight's.

Armando didn't kill the Marlins. They beat the Braves. They remain just close enough to merit concern. The Phillies are either charging or peaking. I'm not yet certain, but I'm certain they're making it hard (maybe it's supposed to be hard, but it's not supposed to be obnoxiously so). I'd rather be four up than four back. But I'd rather be six up. I'd rather Glavine had pitched the eighth. I'd rather Guillermo Mota had been suspended for 50 years, not 50 games.

You can't always get what you want.

How does Armando Benitez continue to stay employed as a relief pitcher?

It may not matter in the long term as in the race at hand. It may not even matter in the short term for tonight. But how does a manager, in this case Fredi Gonzalez, use Armando Benitez in any kind of competitive baseball situation?

I turn on the Braves and Marlins. Florida's up 3-1 in the eighth. Great, I think. Armando's pitching. Uh-oh. One on. Oh dear. Chipper Larry is at bat. No…

3-3.

Let's forget the Braves being six games behind the Mets and that the Mets were beating the Phillies and all extraneous matters of self-interest. I just wanna know why, why, WHY Gonzalez would allow a matchup between Benitez and someone who is so FUCKING OBVIOUSLY going to kick his ass?

We could have had this discussion in 2001 (and I would have found a way to have propped up Benitez because I was never one of his dedicated antagonists). But in 2007? When, if I may use exaggeration to make a point, HE ALWAYS FUCKING DOES THIS?

Don't the Marlins get the same scouting reports as everyone else?

ADDENDUM: I'm not too fond of Aaron Rowand either.

It should be hard. I like that it's hard.

—Matt Kelley to Toby Ziegler, “Twenty Hours in America,” The West Wing

The brand spankin' new vibe around the Mets after months of stick-in-the-muddiness is because their lead quietly ballooned to seven satisfying games over the weekend, the race is over and won. I've seen columns that have all but placed the “x” next to our name in the standings. I've heard TV commentators who haven't given us all that much respect for months pencil the Mets in as division champs. There's way less worry in the air than there was a few weeks ago.

Since we were unofficially declared to have accomplished our mission, the lead has inched downward to five. I'd prefer it be nine, but y'know what? Fine that it's five if it has to be five.

It's a division title. It should be hard. I like that it's hard.

I'm going to remember this season, by gum. I'm going to remember how hard it was. I'm going to remember that August bumped up against September and we were still getting all our Pedro Martinez updates from the Florida State League. I'm going to remember that heretofore barely known and lightly considered quantities like Chan Ho Park and Jason Vargas and Lawrence of Oblivion took Pedro Martinez's starts when nobody else would.

I'm going to remember the struggle. I don't want to overdo the pathos, but it's been a task-and-a-half maintaining the same position atop the East day after day since the middle of May. It's been done without Endy Chavez and without Carlos Gomez and without Paul Lo Duca and without Ramon Castro and without Carlos Beltran and without Lastings Milledge and without Duaner Sanchez and without Moises Alou and without Shawn Green and without Dave Williams and without Jose Valentin and without Oliver Perez and without Orlando Hernandez for at least 15 days apiece, usually more. That's in addition to doing it without Pedro Martinez.

I'm going to remember the shortcomings. I'm going to remember that Carlos Delgado didn't come through far more than he did, but I will remember the times he came through because there were several. I'm going to remember the slow burn up the charts by David Wright and the cartoon running start of Jose Reyes and how once he went whoosh! he really went whoosh!. I'm going to remember Beltran up a hill and Chip Ambres out of nowhere and Ruben Gotay crossing home plate on a Thursday and Luis Castillo all asprawl and Ollie in mid-leap and Glavine's wife and Glavine's speech and Glavine's round number and Endy bunting and Gomez bunting and Marlon Anderson picking up right where he left off and Shawn Green tickling the scoreboard and Armando Benitez shaken to his core like the rookie he will never stop being.

I'm going to remember Billy Wagner's fistfuls of sand, thrown with almost perfect precision from the middle of April to the beginning of August. I'm going to remember slugger John Maine. I'm going to remember El Duque's failure to obey the minimum speed limit. I'm going to remember the sidearming of Joe Smith and the resiliency of Aaron Heilman and Pedro Feliciano and Jorge Sosa. I'm going to remember Damion Easley running 360 feet without stopping. I'm going to remember Sandy Alomar and Mike DiFelice catching like pros and Ricky Ledee and David Newhan trying their darndest and even this Brian Lawrence fellow who can hit better than he can pitch, but at least he does something well.

I'm going to remember a horrible Fourth of July in Denver and a listless checkout before the All-Star break in Houston and desperate nights in L.A. and sorry afternoons in Detroit and frightful endings against an assortment of Marlins and Nationals. I'm going to remember Willie Harris and a 5-0 lead in Pittsburgh and pitiful performances versus everyone from Tyler Clippard to Johan Santana to David Wells to J.D. Durbin. Because I remember this stuff, too, I can't automatically forget how hard this has been and pretend that suddenly it's easy, not with a month and change to go.

I'm going to remember, whatever the outcome, 2007. It has been a very different animal from 2006. We won't know 'til it's over whether it was better or worse. That's part of the fun, you know — finding out. I'd like a nice big lead like the one we had a year ago at this time. I'd like Philadelphia and Atlanta buried once and for all. I'd like to join the growing murmur that the Mets are surely on their way to October. I will if and when I know for certain it is merited.

Right now I don't. But that's OK. It's not supposed to be as easy as it was in 2006 and I think we all knew that then as now. It should be hard.