2007 is one-third and one game over. Geez, doesn't it seem like Opening Night in St. Louis was maybe last week? It was more than two months ago. That's baseball for you: a long season that disappears way too quickly.

What kind of year has it been? Quite good, if you enjoy the Mets being 15 games over .500 and in first place by 3-1/2 games. Not so good if you're the kind of fan who worries over every little thing that doesn't go right. Most of us veer toward the latter after a dispiriting loss like Sunday's when we're shut down by a Diamondback who isn't Brandon Webb and drop a series in the process. But we shouldn't do that. As discussed in loose statistical terms a week ago, we are in the second year of a two-year roll. The first year doesn't do cut much ice in the '07 standings but it's no doubt changed the way we can look at things.

A year ago at this juncture, we were 33-22, two games off the current pace, 4-1/2 games up on the Phillies, a lead one notch better than what we've got on the Braves. You could say it's a wash regarding which one, last year or this year, feels or is better. 2006 informs our sense of the moment. We're not pinching ourselves over being in first. We more or less expect it. Then again, we were never headed in '06 whereas we trailed the Braves as recently as May 15. Plus, the Phillies — no offense to the dangerous, room-temperature club coming in for three — were the Phillies. The Braves are the Braves.

Having tasted the smuggled champagne of a division-clinching last year, can we assume another batch will be sprayed in our direction come September? I would assume nothing. A lot can change in two-thirds of a season, but right now one lousy stretch of baseball could put us not only behind the Braves but in a scramble for the Wild Card. The Central is a mess but the West is a rootin'-tootin' scramble with well-rounded L.A., the pitching-powered Padres and not-terrible (when we're not playing them in Phoenix) Arizona each showing signs of legitimacy. We'd do well not to engage in a lousy stretch of baseball.

Might we? Anything is possible, but the good news is while we always seem to be missing something or somebody, we don't fall apart. Imagine if the Mets click on all offensive cylinders for a week or two instead of selectively firing our pistons. Imagine Delgado hitting not just those satisfyingly majestic homers but filling the at-bats in between with two singles and a double per night in the next series. Imagine Wright truly, finally breaking out. Imagine J!4 lashing a few more extra-base hits and running just a bit wilder.

It can happen. It's exactly what happened exactly a year ago. The 2006 Mets threw off the last vestiges of their training wheels as June got going, heading west to Arizona and Los Angeles and, ultimately, well north of Philadelphia. That was The Road Trip, 9-1 in case you've forgotten. That was pretty much the clincher for '06, emblematic of how almost everything set up beautifully for the balance of the season.

Can we have that now? I don't know. We are due some hot streaks. Somebody somewhat unlikely usually does just enough to push us over the top of late. The exploits of the Endys and Rubens and Ramons and spare Carloses add up to one gargantuan godsend, but I have a theory I'm too lazy to back up with any real research: when your career offensive years are coming from your least likely sources, something's a little off. My precedent is the not altogether fresh example of 1987. Twenty years ago around now, the Mets were getting great stuff out of pinch-hitter deluxe Lee Mazzilli and unusually hot shortstop Rafael Santana and surprisingly strong Howard Johnson and successfully shuffling platoon second baseman Tim Teufel. It was the lack of consistency from Keith Hernandez and Gary Carter that was holding us back.

I love the pop provided by those Gotay guys. Believe me, I'm not throwing it back. But ya gotta think one superlative June from Reyes, Wright or Delgado — addressing the healthy Mets for now — would make all the difference in the world. Reyes' OPS plunged 300 points from his April Player-of-the-Monthliness in May. Wright and Delgado, conversely, made a big turn from April to May, but they have anecdotally been lacking true consistency, that hella good week, ten days that can carry a team, the kind of run (and runs) produced by Reyes and Beltran in April. If it sounds a little greedy to want one from Delgado and Wright after they've each had some very big hits since May dawned, well, greed is good when it comes to your big guns.

Now let's get Sunny Sam in here so he can tell Gloomy Gus to consider some context. The Mets have been absent of their left fielder, their right fielder and their second baseman for extended, concurrent periods of time. Their centerfielder has been nursing a bruise for a few days, too. If they've done as well as they have with Alou, Green, Valentin and Beltran not around, imagine how great they'll be with everybody contributing.

I suppose. Even if we overlook Carlos B.'s random bouts of brittleness and concede he's not in the same ballpark as the other three when it comes to the wear and tear wrought by age, we still have the other three. I'm not overly concerned with Moises, Shawn and OtherJose's capabilities. I am significantly concerned with their well-being in light of their accumulated yearage. Alou had a great April. We were told throughout April that he always has great Aprils. April is over. He's even older than he was when he went out in the middle of May. It will, presumably, take him a little while to rev it up; it's already taken him longer than suspected to come back. Valentin…same thing at least a little. Green…his injury was a bit freakier but, c'mon. He's Shawn Green. Who doesn't figure he's one extended ohfer from a spiral of dismal? (And I'm the big Shawn Green fan here.)

It's quite possible it all seeks its own level, that the reasonably healthy Mets of the very near future — with returning starters approximating if not duplicating the fine things they did in April; the starters who haven't gotten hurt heating up in simultaneous fashion; and the benchmen asked only to chip in, not haul loads of playing time — will improve upon the performance of the contemporary Mets who have acquitted themselves respectably (7-6 in their last thirteen) under less than ideal circumstances. It's hard to tell there's been a problem when you look at the top line of the N.L. East.

It's also hard to tell from the Mets' pitching, which has been damn near brilliant. We hoped for adequate. We got so much more. Oliver Perez pitched well enough to beat the Diamondbacks Sunday. If the bats hadn't wilted at the sight of Doug Davis, he would have. Similarly, John Maine simply picked the wrong Friday night to take the ball, going up against Brandon Webb when he was recertifying his own greatness. I'm not crazy about Maine's intermittent struggle for command (who would have thought that it would be Johnny, not Ollie, walking more than 4.5 batters per nine innings?), but are you ready to declare them both bona fide No. 2-type starters? I am.

Jorge Sosa has done nothing to not inspire confidence in 2007 except for having been Jorge Sosa in 2006. If we can look past his pre-Jacket body of work and assume that the relevant sample is the one he's building, then what a No. 5 starter, huh? If you told me nine weeks ago that Mike Pelfrey wouldn't pitch nearly as well as Jorge Sosa, I would have guessed Pelfrey's ERA was in the 20s. But Sosa has been the Damion Easley of the staff — a lifesaver. The Easley magic has been a little spotty of late, which has nothing to do with Sosa per se, but reminds us, just a bit, that some sources can only be tapped so successfully for so long. But honestly, who saw five wins from Jorge Sosa by June 4? Everything else is gravy for the guy.

Expectations do change. My expectation for Maine and Perez, more like my hope, was one decent start, one very good start and maybe one clinker for every three. With our lineup, I figured that would suffice. Maine and Perez between them have had, what, maybe five undeniably poor starts between them out of 22? And Sosa's had one in six? Even with Glavine valiantly fighting Father Time and El Duque regularly subject to the AARP wing of the DL, the rotation has become the rock of the Mets. It's the who-woulda-thunkiest positive of this season's first third.

The bullpen's been so sound that it almost escapes my attention on a daily basis. Wagner can drive you nuts now and then because that's what closers do (it's in their contracts), but he hasn't really blown anything worth complaining about, has he? Heilman has had his rough patches, Mota gave in to Stephen Drew Friday night and Scott Schoeneweis is the 21st-century answer to Doug Simons until further notice, but Met relief pitching has been the best kind of relief pitching — the kind you barely notice (kind of like our Steady-Endy glovework). Kudos to Billy (or Rube Wagner as my new pal Rich affectionately dubbed him last Tuesday), to Aaron, to the only Pedro we've got thus far and to Smitty the Kid. And our catcher probably has something to do with all this fine pitching.

We haven't beaten the Braves enough and we haven't played the Dodgers and Padres yet and we have some tough assignments from the other league on the docket and nobody's handing us a free transfer to October. We're not 55-0, which is the only prescription for some Mets fans' happiness (and even then we wouldn't be winning by enough) and the back pages are going to be a problem beyond any sane person's control for a little longer. We're not completely healthy and we may never be, given our 40-man's CBS demographics. We're not a sure thing to get everything we want out of the 107 games that remain on the schedule because you just can't be a sure thing on June 4 without a 10-game lead.

But we're 15 games over .500, we're up by 3-1/2 over Atlanta, we're authors of heartstopping keepsake victories over Colorado, Chicago and San Francisco and we're just plain better than anybody and everybody we've faced. So what kind of year has it been?

You have to ask?

Brandon Webb was real good Friday night. The players who played for the Mets were less so. Guess what happens when you plug that formula into an actual game.

Bingo.

A lineup chock full of future obscurities and curiosities was perfect for me and my companion for the evening, the one and only Mark from Mets Walkoffs and Other Minutiae. Bloggers like us, we thrive on obscurities and curiosities — except when they predominate on the immediate bill of fare.

Because David Wright had back spasms and Carlos Beltran's knee is healing from a bruise and several other featured performers have been long lost track of, Damion Easley batted third. There it was on the scoreboard: 3 2B. Though he's still tied for second on the club in homers with seven, I haven't been as startled by such a non-September notation since another Friday night in the same ballpark a quarter-century ago when 10 RF was batting third. That was Rusty Staub, far past the point when right was his thing. Hitting third, however, always was. Rusty went 2-for-3 with two ribbies in an 8-4 win over the Phillies.

See what I'm doing? I'm talking about the Mets but not the Mets who lost Friday night's game. That's what Mark and I did as Webb mowed down Met after Met and Maine couldn't quite keep up. We would have been happier to have drilled deep into the likes of Gary Kroll and Gary Nolan with Beltran and Wright keeping Reyes and Delgado and Lo Duca company, without Easley batting third, without the unlikely corner outfielders of David Newhan and Ben Johnson and without surprise third baseman Julio Franco taking on the defending National League Cy Young winner. But that — like success — was not an option.

Brandon Webb: eight innings. Brandon Lyons: the ninth inning. I'm thinking it's the first time the Mets have been beaten by two Brandons. I'm thinking that way because I've made a habit of reading Mets Walkoffs.

Two of the three previous games I'd attended prior to Friday were supercharged walkoff wins, the kinds of affairs that bring Mark and his sensational site to mind. When the Mets came back with five in the ninth two weeks ago to beat Chicago, I called Mark's voice mail and told him “I have a new No. 1 for my Cubs list,” code for “I'm hopeless, as are you.” When the Mets fell behind the Giants in the twelfth on Tuesday night, I took solace in something Mark had written about games against teams led by Barry Bonds, a pattern he detected, a pattern that proved out in the bottom of the inning. All of this is to say I really enjoy this man's work and it was a pleasure to swap stories and stats with him last night even if it was a pain to consider the Mets of Newhan and Johnson and third baseman Julio Franco trying to solve the Diamondbacks of Brandon Webb.

Sometimes you don't get a walkoff win. Sometimes you just settle for reveling in the minutiae.

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.