Don't Root For Injuries. In Game Five of the 1988 NLCS at Shea, Kirk Gibson slid into second and came up in obvious pain. Mets fans cheered. There, I thought, that's it, we're screwed. Be a human being about these things. Wish no pain on anyone. Wish they enjoy a pain-free three-month stay on the DL instead.

—The Greg Commandments, handed down unto Mets fans, July 14, 2005

I blame myself, but I was provoked.

You put a Molina in front of me, it's bound to set something off. Something very, very dark.

There was Bengie Molina, batting cleanup for the Giants on Tuesday night. A Molina…not the loathsome one, but close enough for bile. Bengie Molina homered off Ollie Perez in the top of the first. After an eventful evening that would wind twelve innings and nearly four hours, culminating in jubilation, I more or less forgot about him.

But I remembered his brother Yadier. He's never altogether far from my thoughts.

The prick.

Yadier Fucking Molina.

Fucking Yadier Molina.

However you say it, it's appropriate. But my behavior wasn't.

Wednesday night, I'm watching the beginning of the telecast, the part where Gary gives us the news and notes from around baseball. His first newsy note arrives by way of St. Louis, word that Yadier Fuckface Molina will be out four to six weeks with a fractured left wrist.

“HA! YES! FUCK HIM! FUCK YADIER MOLINA! GOOD! GOOD! HA!”

It just burst out of me, y'know? It happens. “Don't Root For Injuries” is among the hardest Commandments to keep because the easiest route to Mets success, intuitively, is for a Higher Power to smite all our enemies. For example, John Smoltz has been allegedly injured about twenty times this year. I say “allegedly” because for all the pinkies he is reported to aggravate, he's always right back out there on the mound, pitching seven scoreless innings, particularly against us. When I hear that Smoltz or one his teammates is hurting, my initial reaction is to call a caterer and plan a party. But then I catch myself, reminding myself that we don't do that. Not even for Braves do we root for injuries. If I take it back quickly enough, I feel I have violated no Commandment.

But I didn't take it back on Yadier Fuckall Molina. Yadfuckier Molina ruined everything last October. So did Jeff Suppan and So Taguchi and Scott Spiezio and take your pick, but nobody held and plunged the dagger through our hearts like Yadier Mofuckinglina. Maybe, I thought fleetingly, that I shouldn't be happy over a player's injury, not even a Cardinal's injury, not even this Cardinal's injury, but it was a very fleeting thought.

So what happens the next night? In the very first inning? One of our most irreplaceable players, Carlos Beltran, runs into Rich Aurilia and suffers a contusion to his right knee. Contusion…bruise…unholy mark…whatever you call it, it was enough to chase him from the game after he toughed it out long enough to score on David Wright's double.

Carlos Beltran is always doing something to himself racing toward first base, usually disturbing his quads. He's like a graceful Mike Piazza in his ability to hurt himself doing something so routine. Can't we just build him a transporter for those ninety feet?

I tried not to think about life without Beltran even as our powerhouse outfield of Alou-Beltran-Green became Johnson-Gomez-Chavez. One guy goes down, we can live with it. Two guys go down, we can live with it because Endy Chavez is the equivalent of any two mortal men. But all three starting outfielders out, including the one who's actually athletic and strong and capable of doing everything?

El Duque took my mind off Carlos B for the balance of Thursday night (how does he ever lose?), but going online and reading the ESPN recap reminded me of what I may have wrought. Carlos will have an MRI and maybe need do no more than rest a day or two. A bruise doesn't sound so bad. But how many injuries have you witnessed that don't sound so bad, that will only require a day or two off, become DL stays of indeterminate length? Do you really want to find out?

Why Carlos? Could it be because I was so gleeful upon hearing of Yadifuck Molina's misfortune? Was it the Irony Dept. of Baseball Gods Inc. messing with me? I cheer pain sustained by he who took Aaron Heilman deep in Game Seven, I am reprimanded with pain for he who was caught looking by Adam Wainwright minutes later.

I'm just thankful it never occurred to me to stick pins in that David Eckstein voodoo doll I keep under the bed. Let's leave the shortstops out of this.

Long before My Name Is Earl made it fashionable, I took great care to Abide By Karma. It's the Commandment right after the one about the injuries. I wouldn't even lick my chops over ex-Giant Armando Benitez entering Tuesday night's trap door so conscious am I of not getting greedy with the gods. Well, my name is mud at least in my book if Beltran is out more than a weekend and change. Things were going so well — still are going so well by the light of the standings — but that killer June schedule has arrived and we need every top cat we've got under contract to be on the prowl. What have we gained by the presumed near-returns of Moises and Valentin if we're down a superstud? CB hasn't been ripping the cover off the ball of late, but he's still Carlos Beltran. He's our No. 3 hitter and the league's leading All-Star vote-getter for a reason. He's very great. We'd miss him very much.

So here goes…

Gosh, I'm sorry that Yadier Fu…I mean Yadier Molina is hurt. I sure wish him a pain-free recovery. He's quite the competitor and the game is better off with all its players intact. And while we're at it, much happiness to Armando Benitez upon his return to the Marlins whom we play ten more times in 2007.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to say three Hail Endys and scream into my pillow.

Before this game goes into the books for good or ill (ill's tucked in by the rail and riding hard), a word about the improbable events of last night — perhaps the only time in Mets history a walkoff home run will leave me and Emily blinking in puzzlement instead of leaping about. (I mean, we were happy, but in a pinch-me startled way. And we agreed, to our horror, that we felt mildly sympathetic towards Armando Benitez!)

Joshua and I now have a morning ritual — at some point during the getting dressed, the wrangling of school items and the walking to school, he'll ask if the Mets won last night, since he rarely gets to see anything beyond about the fourth. The kid is working on his math, so he particularly likes the score — not the final score, but what the score was each time it changed.

I always happily indulge him as far as my poor memory will allow — I mean, my goodness, my kid wants to know exact details about the Mets game. This morning, as you might imagine, I was particularly happy to do so.

Daddy: Well, Joshua, in the first inning two Giants hit solo home runs, so it was Giants 2, Mets 0.

Joshua: That's not good.

Daddy: Then Carlos Delgado hit a home run with Carlos Beltran on base….

Joshua: That's A DOUBLE-DECKER HOME RUN!

Daddy: Yep, a two-run home run.

Joshua (very fierce): No, it's a double-decker home run!

[Daddy backs down hastily. Yes, it was a double-decker home run. Hell, that's more fun to say anyway.]

Joshua: And it was Mets 2, Giants 2. And that's good!

Daddy: Yep. And then Carlos Beltran drove in a run, so it was Mets 3, Giants 2. But then ANOTHER Giant hit a home run, so it was —

Joshua: Mets 3, Giants 3. That's NOT good.

Daddy: No, it wasn't. And then Joe Smith allowed a walk and hit a batter —

Joshua (confused): He hit the batter?

Daddy: He threw the ball and it hit the batter. That's the same as a walk.

Joshua: He shouldn't do that. That's not nice.

Daddy: He didn't do it on purpose. It was an accident. He didn't want to do it because then the Giants had runners on first and second. And then [we'll skip the long explanation of bunting, which is a lot harder to explain to a child than you may think, if you've never tried it]. And then a Giant hit a ground ball to Carlos Delgado, who got the batter out at first and threw home but he was JUST TOO LATE to get the runner at the plate.

Joshua: So it was … Mets 3, Giants 4.

Daddy: Right. So [reminder of extra innings and how they work]. And Armando Benitez — who used to be a Met — was pitching for the Giants. And he walked Jose Reyes.

Joshua: I LOVE when Jose gets a walk! Or hits a home run!

[We pause to sing the Jose Jose Jose song. Because.]

Daddy: And then Armando committed a balk, so Jose got to go to second.

Joshua: What's a balk?

Oh boy. How to handle that one? Well, son, a balk is when … what the hell is a balk, exactly? It's when the pitcher tries to deceive the runner, but of course the pitcher does that all the time. It's … gee. I settled for saying it's when the pitcher doesn't throw smoothly to the base or to the batter, when he flinches or stops and starts. (Right? Kinda?) And when Joshua pressed me, I couldn't resist saying that a balk is the word that comes out of Bob Davidson's mouth when a neutrino unsettles a neuron in his brain. Because that first balk, wow. Sometimes Davidson is like a small-town cop a ticket shy of his quota at 4:35 p.m. on the 31st. There's a violation out somewhere, and Bob's gonna find it.

Anyway, eventually we got the balk sorted out and moved on to Endy's bunt, which happily we'd already covered, and then the disappointment of Beltran not getting the job done, which led to a revisiting of the sacrifice fly, which is also harder to explain than you might think. And then the second balk. Joshua thought this was fairly amazing. I told him he didn't know the thousandth of it.

The second Delgado home run? We were united in the opinion that it was very, very good.

* Trivia question for the adults: There is ONE situation where a baseball team may “decline a penalty” and choose the outcome of a play. What is it?

Dear Citi Field,

Hello. We don't know each other yet, but I will be one of the fans who, if nothing terrible happens to either one of us, will be keeping you company during the first years, hopefully decades, of your life. I've been looking at pictures of you since you were conceived and even grabbed a few glimpses of you developing from a distance. Last night, because my friend parked in his car on a street that may not even exist by the time you're up and running (it barely exists now), I came as close as I have yet to seeing what you look like inside.

Once you're truly born, I won't be able to see any of that because you'll be covered with grass and bricks and everything else that is supposed to make you special. You're a long way from being with us in full but you're also obviously and clearly on your way. I could see that as I walked around you before and after Tuesday night's game. You and I are going to be spending a lot of time together starting in April 2009 so I'd like us to commence getting acquainted.

You don't have a lot to show or tell me yet, so I figure it's up to someone like me — an actual Mets fan — to get you up to speed on what we're all about. Last night is a terrific jumping-off point.

I went to the Mets game last night. I do that a lot. It's folks like me who are the reason you are being born. The people who gave you your name (which I'm dreadfully sorry about) might tell you different, that you're also there to be the flagship of a “multifaceted strategic marketing and business partnership,” but no, you're there solely for us, the Mets fans. Those who will fawn over you at first you may not see that much as time goes along, but we will be there with you and for you long after the novelty of your birth has passed. And you will be there for us. That's how it works between baseball fans and their ballpark.

I know your older brother very, very well. I've known him a very, very long time. I will only know him for a short time longer but after last night, I learned something about him: I learned that there's always more to discover in a ballpark. That's going to be great news for you and me when we're together.

Just so you know, your older brother and I go back 35 seasons now. I've visited with him on about 350 occasions. So you'd think I would know all there is to know by now, right? But no, your brother keeps surprising me.

For example, last night I went to the game with three gentlemen who have known your older brother even longer than I have. You'd think that as Mets fans of such standing, we'd get some sort of royal treatment, but we're just like anybody else who makes the trip to see him. We sit where our tickets tell us to sit. That's how it works at ballgames. I hope it still does when we're coming to see you. In this case, we sat deep in the right field loge. Do you know what a loge is? Goodness, I don't even know if you're going to be born with one of those. Since I haven't come across any other loges anywhere else, I'm guessing you won't.

Don't feel bad, Citi. You'll have levels all your own, but a loge can be a special place. It was last night. We were just inside the foul pole and far back enough so seeing the scoreboard was kind of an adventure. Me and my three companions each took turns trundling down the steps of our section to peek at the out-of-town scores. We were like couriers on a mountain expedition, each bringing back progressively better news from far-away lands like Toronto and Milwaukee.

Doesn't sound ideal, does it? But, actually, it added to the fun we were having, and make no mistake, we were having lots of fun. I don't think I had ever sat precisely where we were last night, but I enjoyed a whole new angle on the Mets game from there. Fancy that — 35 seasons of coming to see your older brother and he showed me views I hadn't seen.

There were moments when fly balls were mostly rumor and we had to hold our breath to divine whether they were caught or landed over the fence or what exactly, but that just added to the suspense. In the meantime, I could peer over at the side of the scoreboard and notice holes I had never noticed before, get a sideways glance at the Home Run Apple (I didn't know it stood on a platform) and when I got ambitious, I could walk a couple of sections over and stare directly down at the Mets' bullpen. I had more legroom than I ever had before and I think the end of Row H, Section 29 in loge is the only spot your older brother offers where I haven't had anybody block my view (particularly of the third base line, which came in very handy in the twelfth inning) or nudge me to get up to let them pass through. I felt we were in our own little village out there.

Plus, the seat itself came in very handy when, as has become my custom amid winning rallies, I glued myself into it as bedlam began to unfold. I have a lot of almost-involuntary rituals and superstitions, Citi, and I trust you'll grow familiar with them just as your older brother has.

It wasn't just me and my three friends. There were nearly 48,000 of us on hand to see the Mets and the Giants. I guess that's a number that will be out of your reach even once you start to grow up. It doesn't necessarily make you a lesser ballpark, just different. Right now with your older brother hosting crowds like that every weekend and most weeknights, it seems a little offputting to think they've limited you to 45,000 of us. Weird angles that don't let you see all the scoreboard or field and seats that make you squeeze your legs in with one or two exceptions are supposed to be a thing of the past with you and that should be nice. But you should know that on a night like last night, none of those inconveniences mattered with your older brother. They never do.

You and your older brother will have one thing in common, the most important thing. You will have Mets games just like he has. Well, I hope you have a Mets game like the one he had last night. I have to be honest, Citi, I think it will take you a long time to grow that certain something that makes a ballpark and a ballclub mesh the way your older brother and our team do with us. Then again, they've had it for a long time, so maybe not. Still, it's hard to fathom that what I saw last night could take place in any other ballpark in the world.

Hey, I've prattled on so much that I haven't really told you about the game itself. I tend to do that. You'll hold so many ballgames that you'll tend to forget a lot of the details as you grow older, but there are always going to be a few when you remember the feeling more than anything. Last night's was one of those games. And last night felt great, especially at the end, maybe even more especially in the moments leading up to the end.

You're eventually going to be soaked in the legend of the Mets (if the people who tend to you are doing their jobs correctly) and you'll learn all the names and the dates and what they mean, but there's one man in particular, a relief pitcher, who had a very shall we say spotty history with your older brother. He did some good things when he was a Met, but they always seemed secondary to the absolutely abominable things he did to the Mets. When he went to play for other teams, he was not remembered kindly. And when he came back to visit your older brother wearing the wrong uniform…hoo-boy! Let's just say that last night he showed up and did everything we wanted. That's probably the key reason last night felt so great.

I'll bet you're going to laugh when I tell you this, Citi, but I read something yesterday that said New Yorkers were “in a funk” over how another team was doing. What I experienced last night was the total opposite. Most of the 48,000 people who were with your older brother at the end of the evening were positively euphoric over what they had just seen — a pitcher's duel between two young and mostly untouchable guns; two near-winning rallies squelched in a fashion that made us nearly give up; two shortstops with Hall of Fame potential doing what's made them famous; that relief pitcher I mentioned doing what's made him infamous (when you're old enough, I'll attempt to explain the balk rule to you if I can ever figure it out myself); and, finally, a walkoff blast that sailed somewhere in the vicinity of our obstructed view to snatch victory from defeat — and they've seen a lot of late to be euphoric about!

Come to think of it, we were all just like the Mets: jumping up and down and slapping each other on the back and hugging and cheering when the game was over. There was so much utter happiness at Shea Stadium last night, just like there's been so many times in the 35 seasons I've known him. That's one reason nights like last night are extremely special, because one incredible game touches off memories of other incredible games and even some mundane games we've lived through with your older brother. It's all part of that ballclub-ballpark-ballfan relationship I mentioned.

As we walked by you on our way out, I told the guys I came with, “Citi Field is going to have a lot going for it, but it won't have the game we just saw.” Someday, maybe you will. I can't wait for that day. But then again, I can't wait to see what else your older brother has in store for me.

Your day will come. Until then, I remain,

Eventually Faithfullly Yours

Ladies and gentlemen, the blog is not burning.

I was sitting in my office shortly after 8 AM preparing just the right words to describe the thrill of being at last night's glorious victory when I happened to notice the smell of smoke and the sound of an alarm and, wiz that I am, eventually put the two together. In short, there was a fire in another apartment in our building. So, in honor of the man whose name is on the shirt I'm still wearing after having fallen asleep in it, I ran like Jose Reyes…or as much as I can run like Jose Reyes. After a lot of standing around in the parking lot and witnessing some everyday heroics from our local FD, everything is essentially fine. Nobody was hurt, the cats have been accounted for and we're able to close and lock our door (those rescue guys wield a heavy axe).

The air is a little crispy, but that 12-inning balkoff/blastoff still rates a few “hot damn!”s. They'll be en route soon enough.

When you smell and hear something, don't think it's something else. Just get moving. A public service announcement from the only Mets blog endorsed by Smoky Burgess.

Somebody call Bernie Mac, D.L. Hughley, Steve Harvey and Cedric the Entertainer and tell them to find a new line of work. They may be The Original Kings of Comedy, but today comedy has new kings.

Meet the hysterical duo of Noah Fowle and Dave Goldiner. These comic geniuses have penned perhaps the funniest article ever written. It appears — where else? — in that noted comedy bible known as the Daily News.

The headline tells you that the story is going to be a scream:

City's in funk as Bombers bombing

I don't want to give away all the punchlines (you can check the American League standings for those), but I can't let this opportunity pass without — spoiler alert! — sharing this one joke they tell about all the damage the Yankees' recent losing is apt to do to New York's collective psyche:

“It might not be a coincidence that the Bombers' bad runs in the '60s and late '80s and early '90s coincided with eras of rising crime and economic stagnation.”

Several hallmarks of a great joke are present here.

1) It is preposterous. “It might not be a coincidence…” It also might not be a coincidence that I sat on my ass and watched TV yesterday and then it rained. But since I sit on my ass and watch a lot of TV and that doesn't necessarily lead to rain, I'm going to say it was indeed a coincidence. Their assertion is preposterous, therefore it is funny.

2) It is nonsensical. “It might not be a coincidence…coincided with…” Actually, when things coincide, it is generally indicative of a coincidence. Nonsense can be very funny.

3) It is illogical. “…the Bombers' bad runs in the '60s and late '80s and early '90s coincided with eras of rising crime and economic stagnation.” How did that work exactly? Every time Tom Tresh went 0-for-4, a liquor store was robbed? Andy Stankiewicz got a start and an investment bank moved to the suburbs? High-larious conclusions by the writers! Next time someone's driving while handling a cell phone, somebody arrest Jason Giambi (though I hear he can't get arrested…no matter how hard he tries).

This is one of those gags where you don't just laugh, but you applaud, so bravo fellas! And bravo to the editors who put stuff like this on page 2 of their newspaper and continue to devote almost all of their space to the floundering Yankees while practically ignoring the humdrum achievements of the first-place Mets (whose New York-based fans may not join their neighbors on this inevitable Yankee-related crime spree since our collective psyche is hanging in there OK). The Daily News' overwhelmingly Yankeecentric coverage of baseball in the Big Apple continues to be the sports-journalism equivalent of open mic night at Caroline's.

Some things are just funny because they're funny. In Neil Simon's The Sunshine Boys, cantankerous Willy Clark explained words with the “k”-sound in them are funny. By his reasoning, the “Yankees” are funny. The idea that the “Yankees” are sending New “Yorkers” into a “funk” should have us doubled over in laughter.

And it does!

If anyone feared a 2007 letdown following the success of 2006 (and who didn't?), it hasn't happened. I suppose you could just look at the standings and figure that out for yourself, but out of curiosity, I did some checking to determine how historic the Mets' fine start is coming as it has on the heels of a very good season.

It's pretty historic.

Here is how 2006 + 49 games of 2007 ranks in terms of winning percentage among the best Full Mets Season + 49-Game samples.

Note: There's nothing magical about the 49-game mark, it just happens to be where we are after a delightful weekend and it's close enough to one-third of a season to form impressions considering there's no game today.

1) 1986-87: 133-78 (.630)

2) 1985-86: 132-79 (.626)

3) 2006-07: 129-82 (.611)

4) 1988-89: 125-84 (.598)

5) 1987-88: 126-85 (.597)

6) 1969-70: 125-86 (.592)

7) 1999-2000: 124-88 (.585)

8) 1984-85: 120-91 (.569)

9) 1990-91: 118-93 (.559)

10) 1997-98: 117-94 (.555)

What, if anything, does this portend for the rest of 2007? I'm not sure, of course, but '07 — nagging dings and vexing slumps notwithstanding — is one of only four successor years listed above that, after 49 games, has resulted in a winning percentage at least 50 points (.050) better than its predecessor's already excellent full season.

In other words, we're running at a .653 winning percentage (106-56 if you like to dream) right now, a nifty .054 better than where we finished 2006. History indicates that if the Mets win at least 90 games one year and have a winning percentage 50 points better than they achieved at the end of that first year after 49 games the next year, it's a pretty good sign in terms of things to come.

The newly discovered 90/50/49 Rule in action:

1987 Full Season W%: .568

1988 49 Games W%: .694

Improvement: +.126

1988 Full Season W%: .625

1988 Differential 49G to End '88: -.069

1985 Full Season W%: .604

1986 49 Games W%: .694

Improvement: +.090

1986 Full Season W%: .667

1986 Differential 49G to End '86: -.027

1984 Full Season W%: .556

1985 49 Games W%: .612

Improvement: +.056

1985 Full Season W%: .604

1985 Differential 49G to End '85: -.008

2006 Full Season W%: .599

2007: 49 Games W%: .653

Improvement: +.054

2007: Full Season W%: TK

2007: Differential 49G to End: TK

If precedent presents any kind of clue, we see that an already very good Mets team that improves upon its winning percentage for 49 games — approximately the first third of the next season — by at least 50 points (+.050) is likely on its way to a significantly better overall record than its predecessor.

Full Year 1988: +10 wins versus 1987

Full Year 1986: +10 wins versus 1985

Full Year 1985: +8 wins versus 1984

The '88 and '86 Mets did not maintain their respective .694 winning percentages (they both would have wound up with about 112 wins if they had), but they each put down a pretty effective marker in those first 49 games to launch them toward division titles. 1985 stayed pretty consistent throughout and its 98 wins would be golden in the Wild Card era.

I wouldn't swear to it based on my statistical noodling, but if the Mets can simply not screw up a whole lot over the next 113 games, I think we're in pretty good shape.

65-48 from here on out would get us to where we got last year: 97-65. The track record provided by 1988, 1986 and 1985 (each season building on an already very good record the year before) indicates a dropoff from the 49-game blistering pace of improvement is to be expected, but it shouldn't be so severe that it hampers us in the long run. If we suffered the worst of those three dropoffs, with our winning percentage declining by 1988's .069 over the last 113 games, we'd go 66-47 (.584) the rest of the way and wind up with 98 wins.

98 wins would be just dandy.

Also, for what it's worth, we seem to be in the midst of one of the finest two-year runs in Mets history. So enjoy that if you can stand to.

Mets 6, Marlins 4.

The Mets put up a four-spot in the fourth inning against Scott Olsen, Jorge Sosa held the Marlins at bay, and the relievers hung on despite two late Florida runs and the Mets leaving the bases loaded in the seventh and eighth. Seems pretty straightforward.

Ah, but it wasn't. Depending on which medium you were enjoying, Gary and Keith and Howie and Tom did a great job dissecting two half-innings that could have gone very, very differently but for a mischance here and a play not quite made there.

Marlins third: Abercrombie singled to left. Abercrombie stole second. Olsen sacrificed to pitcher, Abercrombie to third. Amezaga hit sacrifice fly to right, Abercrombie scored. Uggla popped out to second. Marlins 1, Mets 0.

Abercrombie's single went to left, manned by Damion Easley now that Moises Alou, Shawn Green and Carlos Gomez are on the shelf. Easley was playing back, and Abercrombie's single was a parachute that Endy Chavez probably would have caught. (No insult to Easley — he's not an outfielder.) Abercombie's steal of second drew no throw from Ramon Castro, because Scott Olsen practically fell across the plate swinging and getting in Castro's way. If Ed Hickox calls interference, Abercrombie is out. If Chavez is in left the pitcher's hitting with none on and one out. If the umpire makes a call he arguably should have made, same situation.

Mets fourth: Gotay struck out swinging. Beltran walked. Wright singled to right, Beltran to second. Delgado singled to right, Beltran scored, Wright to second. Wright stole third, Delgado stole second. Easley reached on infield single to second, Wright scored, Delgado scored on throwing error by second baseman Uggla. Easley to second on wild pitch by Olsen. Castro struck out swinging. Chavez singled to left, Easley scored. Sosa struck out looking. Mets 4, Marlins 1.

Wright's single to right was a little floater that wound up in no-man's land — not a bad play, but lousy luck for Olsen. On the double-steal, Miguel Olivo threw to third, trying to get a fast runner with the batter blocking him out instead of trying to nail the lead-footed Delgado unobstructed. Easley's two-run infield single was a tough play, but the error on Uggla that let the second run score was first baseman Aaron Boone's fault — an inexperienced first baseman, he wasn't properly positioned for a throw that sailed a bit to the left of the bag. The wild pitch escaped Olivo because he made very little effort to slide his body left to get in front of it. Endy's single? It was past Miguel Cabrera, inexplicably playing in with two outs. If Cabrera's positioned normally, he throws Endy out. Toss out the bad luck for Olsen and plays not made because his teammates were out of position or not thinking, and it's 1-1 or perhaps still 1-0. Olsen probably hasn't thrown 44 pitches and maybe isn't fantasizing about what various teammates would look like if he were to catch them across their snouts with a hurled bag of Soilmaster. But what's done is done, and the game is basically lost.

There are probably several thousand things I love about baseball. But one of the biggest ones is that it rewards wide-eyed fandom, occasional attention and experienced, careful scrutiny alike, but in different ways. To a new fan (my four-year-old, for instance), that Mets fourth was a merry parade of unexpected events ending with a crooked number for the good guys. To a fan paying idle attention (lots of us at various points), the game was good company, with a couple of weird plays thrown in for interest. And to a veteran fan watching closely, it was a reminder that games turn on the littlest things, and the recap sometimes doesn't tell anything close to the whole story.