Tonight, as promised, I watched two episodes of “The Wire” on TiVo.
People in St. Louis watched it rain. We checked in various places to verify that that's what it was doing.
Tom Glavine had his usual fourth day of rest. So did Jeff Weaver. The Cardinals' bullpen took it easy too.
Willie Randolph offered crumbs of platitudes to a hungry press corps, then said something else entirely to his troops. Tony La Russa pondered the intricacies of, say, lefty-righty matchups when up or down 13 runs. If he wasn't playing some six-dimensional game of eeny-meeny with his baseball cards of Weaver and Chris Carpenter.
Postal workers moved packages of FAITH AND FEAR t-shirts through our nation's mail system. A couple have even arrived at their new homes.
Cliff Floyd's Achilles got slightly better. So did Albert Pujols' hamstring and Scott Rolen's shoulder.
El Duque thought about Willis Reed.
Tigers scouts groused and grumbled and went up in the Gateway Arch or something.
Baseball fans in two cities (and lots of kindred souls outside them) waited and analyzed and argued and fussed and fretted and sighed.
Well, it was the night for it. Now, finish whatever you're doing, get into bed, and get some sleep. Because the weather report for Missouri tomorrow night is favorable, with a 100% chance of tension. We've got at least two days of baseball played full throttle, maybe three.
And this weekend? Either winter will have come down like a hammer, or we'll be off on one final mission: to storm the gates of Baseball Heaven.
Rest up.

Rain, rain wouldn’t go away. Game postponed. They play tomorrow night. Glavine, better rested versus a better rested Weaver or, for all we know, a three-day Carpenter. Maybe La Russa, that genius, will pitch Spiezio.
Got a presser on SNY right now. St. Louis writers say “we” a lot and refer to Cardinal players by first name. One just asked about “Yadier,” as if the questioner were Jose or Bengie.
About these press conferences, here are the questions, generally:
“Were you thinking something I might be thinking when you accomplished that thing on the field?”
“Do you believe what just happened will completely alter the series let alone the course of the Western world?”
“Can you keep from rolling your eyes while I ask something immensely irrelevant?”
Snigh still supposed to have Post Season Live on later. Tim Teufel looks like me in every science class I ever took. Please don’t call on me. Please don’t call on me.
In the meantime, Josh…I mean Danny looks to save the world…I mean a TV show at 10 o’clock tonight on The West Wing…I mean Studio 60.

The Carloses are a beautiful thing, aren't they? ¡Nosotros Carlamos! We are them and they are us and we are all together…goo goo g'joob.
Yet they're not Ollie and Ollie, saviors in arms.
Yeah, that's who it figured to hinge on. All the series previews in print and on air had it exactly as it's happened: Darren Oliver eating up innings in Game Three and Oliver Perez giving up solo homers in Game Four. Those were the keys to the pennant all along.
Nobody saw it coming, but that — without discounting any of the dozen delightful Met runs still crossing the plate — now defines why glee is outpointing glum in Metsopotamia. Oliver surrendered no earned runs in a loss. Perez absorbed five in a win. And somehow it's all good.
Welcome to your narrative-free National League Championship Series. Forget that claptrap about momentum and the next day's starting pitcher. The last night's starting pitcher threw as pedestrian a 5 and two-thirds as you're going to see and, in context, it was magnificent. The appeal of Perez was that he could go out and potentially blow hitters away. He didn't. He didn't have to. He pitched with the poise of a veteran who had been in the Majors for more than a dozen years.
Check that. He pitched better than Steve Trachsel.
I'll admit my faith in Oliver Perez was well veiled — “folly” is what I believe I said it would be to count on him — but getting proven wrong is often the best part about being a nervous-nelly baseball fan. This isn't about being right. This is about being happy. And we're happy this morning. Twenty-four hours ago, we were blogging virtual suicide notes. Today we're either seeding clouds over St. Louis (rest Glavine!) or spreading a tarp across Missouri (the bats…the bats…the bats are on fire!).
Whatever. There's no legitimate pegging of this series. We have seen four contests, none of which has resembled the other three.
Game One? A taut pitching duel determined on a single swing.
Game Two? A seesaw slugfest.
Game Three? A suffocating shutout.
Game Four? A slambang beatdown by those that done been whitewashed the night before.
Game Five? I'unno.
So let 'em play tonight or let 'em wait. The Mets and the Cardinals have left few clues as to what comes next.

Whew!
The series is even, and no matter what happens, the Mets are coming back to New York alive.
You saw it. We all saw it. Really, this rebound began last night, when Darren Oliver saved the bullpen from having to put in overtime. It continued tonight, with the other Oliver (young Mr. Perez) pitching bravely and effectively. Never mind his numbers, which got a little blemished late as he was trading potential runs for outs — he did exactly what we needed him to do, exactly what Steve Trachsel was utterly incapable of doing, and now things are different.
Did the worm turn tonight? Only the baseball gods can say. But diving into baseball phrenology, it should be noted that since the seventh inning of Game 2 the Cardinals have most certainly had The Look — big hits from the guys you tend to look past (Encarnacion, Spiezio and Molina), homers from unlikely sources (Taguchi and Eckstein), pitchers hitting homers, young relievers coming up big, two-run triples everywhere, and lots of balls eluding Met gloves by inches (Green in Game 2, Green and Chavez in Game 3, Beltran and Wright early tonight).
But tonight was different: Those young relievers weren't so good and the Cards' fielding fell apart. And, of course, the Met bats erupted. This was no “save some of that for tomorrow night” — this was wanting hitting to get contagious, for everyone in the lineup to leave with a knock, for all concerned to freaking relax already. Mission accomplished — the nicest sight for me wasn't Jose Valentin's casket-closing double, but the way he raised his fist and grinned afterwards. When the Mets took the field, the wolf was at the door. Three and a half hours later, he'd fled into the woods yelping that the monsters were out of the cage.
Now, time to keep the furry little blighter there.
My fondest hope for tomorrow night? It has nothing to do with baseball. It's that we spend tomorrow watching “Prison Break” or “Justice” or whatever it is Fox has as a backup plan. (I'd be catching up with “The Wire” on TiVo, but you get the idea.) The weather report for Monday night is apocalyptic, and that's just fine with me. If it rains, Glavine pitches Tuesday night on normal rest. Same for Jeff Weaver, but short rest is more dangerous for a touch-and-feel guy like Glavine than for a winger-flinger like Weaver.
After that? Well — and this is a case where you do need to look ahead — if Glavine prevails in Game 5 (on normal rest or not), the Cardinals need Carpenter to beat Maine and Suppan to beat [Oliver or Oliver or Trachsel] at Shea. If Game 5 goes to St. Louis, we need our rotation's soft underbelly to put together two good games against the Cardinals' ace and a guy who shut us down Saturday. Or for the hopefully still-uncaged monsters to run wild, eating wolves and birds and anything else that gets within reach, of course. But solid pitching from unexpected sources would sure help, and that could well be too much to ask down 3-2, Shea or no Shea.
Funny thing, hoping to spend Monday night doing whatever the hell I do when there isn't baseball.

“Why so glum, Greg?”
“Isn't it obvious? The Mets have lost two of three to the Cardinals.”
“We did that lots. Lost two out of three to a whole bunch of teams.”
“I don't think you understand, 2003.”
“What don't I understand? Your Mets are losing and you're depressed. I know how you get.”
“This is different.”
“How?”
“Well, we're getting lousy starting pitching.”
“Yeah? Who took the loss last night?”
“Trachsel.”
“I had him.”
“We're not hitting.”
“I know that feeling.”
“Injuries…Floyd's Achilles, for example.”
“He's still not over that?”
“2003, it's not the same thing.”
“It's not?”
“No! Do you have any idea who we're pitching tonight?”
“Jason Roach?”
“No.”
“Jeremy Griffiths?”
“No.”
“Who?”
“Oliver Perez.”
“Who?”
“Exactly.”
“That's tough, Greg. Doesn't sound like your 2006 Mets are doing very well. What a shame that they haven't come very far in three years.”
“Well, I wouldn't say that.”
“What is it — the middle of June? You're 15, 18 games behind the Braves? Expos coming to town next? Fran Healy doing the game?”
“It's not like that at all, 2003. We're in the playoffs.”
“You're kidding.”
“No, really.”
“So they expanded the Wild Card to include everybody?”
“No. In fact, we won the division.”
“You're shitting me.”
“I am not. Here, look at the standings.”
“Holy crap! The Mets won 97 games!”
“Yeah. Looked like it was going to be more than a hundred, but September didn't go so well and…”
“Holy crap! The Mets won 97 games!”
“Uh-huh. I was trying to say that it could have been more, except…”
“Holy crap! The Mets won 97 games!”
“You keep saying that.”
“Greg, we won 66 games in 2003.”
“I remember.”
“You do? Do you really?”
“Of course. It was only three years ago.”
“Then why are you acting like such a ungrateful bastard?”
“Hey, I resent that. I'm constantly writing nice things about the Mets on my blog.”
“Listen, I don't know what that is, but I can hear it in your voice that you have no idea how good you've got it.”
“We're down in the National League Championship Series and if we lose tonight, we're one game from elimination.”
“Greg, get ahold of yourself. In 2003, we weren't anywhere near the National League Championship Series.”
“I guess.”
“You GUESS? Are you out of your mind? We won 66 fucking games! We were out of it by the end of April!”
“That was a long time ago, 2003.”
“No, it wasn't. It was three years. We were hopelessly lousy three years ago and you're in the playoffs three years later and you're muttering about the Cardinals and one-game deficits and unproven starting pitchers?”
“Expectations change, 2003. It's a different perspective when you're here.”
“Look Greg, I haven't been around in a while, so maybe I better ask you a few more questions.”
“OK.”
“Where are the Braves?”
“Home.”
“Where are the Yankees?”
“Home.”
“Where are the Mets?”
“In the NLCS.”
“Isn't this what you waited for?”
“Yes.”
“Let me ask you something else: What were you doing in late August three years ago?”
“Uh…”
“Don't screw with me. Tell me what you were doing.”
“I was looking at the standings…”
“And?”
“And I was figuring out if there was any way we could make a run at the Wild Card. You saw that?”
“Greg, there wasn't much else for me to do. We sucked! But I remember you sitting there with the paper, us finally having had a couple of decent weeks in late summer…”
“We were only 10-1/2 back! If we could get on a roll…”
“See?”
“See what?”
“You would have KILLED to have been in the spot you and the Mets are now. You would have run through the rain in nothing but your Jason Phillips t-shirt to be down one game in a best-of-seven series.”
“I suppose.”
“You suppose right.”
“None of that really helps right now.”
“Well, let me ask you about the 2006 team. Is it good?”
“I thought we were. After we swept the Dodgers in the NLDS…”
“Wait. The Mets swept the Dodgers?”
“Yeah.”
“In the first round?”
“Yeah.”
“So now you're panicking because it's the second round and they're down 2-1?”
“Um, when you put it that way…”
“Geez. Tell me about this team. Did Reyes ever recover from the hamstring problems?”
“Oh he's fine. Led the league in steals and triples the last two years. Hit 19 homers, too.”
“I'm so happy to hear that!”
“He even has his own song when he comes to bat. I mean everybody sings it.”
“You're kidding. The only thing we had like that was 'Hold On' by Wilson Phillips for Wilson and Phillips. And nobody sung along.”
“This isn't like that.”
“Anybody else from those kids in 2003? What about Aaron Heilman? We gave him a bunch of starts then.”
“He's a reliever now. Pretty good one. Sets up Billy Wagner.”
“So Aaron was traded to Houston?”
“No, he sets up Billy Wagner for us.”
“We have Billy Wagner?”
“Yeah. Signed him around the same time we got Carlos Delgado.”
“WE HAVE CARLOS DELGADO? The slugger from the Blue Jays?”
“Sure.”
“Wow. No wonder you're in the playoffs. I know you said there isn't much pitching, but with the kind of talent you're describing, there must be enough. Kazmir really blossomed, huh?”
“In a manner of speaking. The key was going out and getting Pedro Martinez.”
“PEDRO MARTINEZ IS ON THE METS?”
“Yeah. Free agent a couple of winters ago.”
“Wow. I didn't know Jim Duquette had it in him. That's pretty bold. And you don't have enough pitching?”
“He's hurt is the problem.”
“I see. But surely the Duke replaced Tom Glavine with somebody young and reliable by now.”
“Glavine's still here.”
“My condolences.”
“No, 2003. Glavine stuck it out and turned it around and he's pitching great, just like he was supposed to.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Boy, Greg, you and the 2006 Mets are on quite a roll.”
“Could be better, though. Wright hasn't hit with much power since he was in the All-Star Game.”
“Who?”
“Wright. David Wright.”
“The kid in Single-A three years ago?”
“That's right.”
“The third baseman?”
“Uh-huh.”
“He actually made the big leagues and became an All-Star?”
“Sure.”
“What do you mean 'sure'? Met third base prospects never do that!”
“This one did.”
“So what did they do with Ty Wigginton? Convert him to a centerfielder?”
“No, Wiggy was traded a while go. And Carlos Beltran plays center.”
“CARLOS BELTRAN? That stud from the Royals?”
“Yeah. We signed him right after Pedro Martinez.”
“Greg, you have to stop complaining at once. Do you realize what a team you've got there?”
“I get it, 2003. I get that this is way more successful than I could have hoped three short years ago, but to come this close and maybe not win would be so disappointing.”
“More disappointing than 66-95? More disappointing than Orber Moreno and Mike Glavine and Jason Middlebrook and Jay Bell and Jeff Duncan and Jorge Velandia? More disappointing than Al Leiter and John Franco lobbying a broken down David Cone into the rotation? More disappointing than Mo Vaughn on the DL and collecting huge checks? More disappointing than Rey Sanchez giving Armando Benitez a haircut during a game? More disappointing than Roger Cedeño chasing fly balls from left to right even though he was in center? More disappointing than shoving Mike Piazza to first base…say, is Mike still there?”
“No, he moved on. Lo Duca's the catcher now.”
“Paul Lo Duca? From the Dodgers?”
“Yup.”
“That's not a bad replacement.”
“No, it's not.”
“The point is, Greg, three years ago you never would have dreamed you'd have a team like this or get even this far. I know you want to go as far as you can, as far as Art Howe can manage…”
“Uh, 2003…”
“What?”
“Art Howe's not the manager anymore.”
“What are you talking about? He signed a four-year deal four years ago, and I know the Wilpons wouldn't just pay him not to manage.”
“They did. They got rid of him after 2004.”
“No kidding?”
“No kidding.”
“Who's the manager?”
“Willie Randolph.”
“No kidding?”
“No kidding.”
“He any good?”
“He's not Art Howe.”
“Well, there ya go! You've got it goin' on, you and the Mets. You couldn't have been much lower in 2003 and now you're near the top of the world. So, c'mon! Buck up! If you guys could win 97 games, a division title, sweep a division series and be in the NLCS, then surely you gotta believe you can do a little more.”
“You know what, 2003? Talking to you has really cheered me up. You've given me some much-needed perspective. If we can go from last to first in three years, from laughingstock to pennant finalist, from hopeless to oh so close, then why not feel good today?”
“Why not indeed, Greg. I may not be completely up to date, but I'm 2003 and I know what I know. So keep believing.”
“I will.”
“Things can always be worse.”
“I understand.”
“After all, we may have won only 66 games, but think about those poor Detroit Tigers. They went 43-119 three years ago. I'll bet they're not playing in any League Championship Series tonight!”
“Right again, 2003. Right again.”