The Giants won the pennant, won the pennant 55 years ago today.
Brad Clontz didn't even do as well as Ralph Branca 7 years ago today, unleashing a wild pitch that turned Melvin Mora into a de facto Bobby Thomson as the Mets tied for the Wild Card, tied for the Wild Card.
And on this date in 2004, Todd Zeile hit the shot heard 'round the Zeile household.
October 3 has been a fun date to take to a baseball game in my lifetime, even my pre-lifetime. Thomson's swing in the Polo Grounds ensured the New York Giants would become my historical fetish. Clontz's errant throw ensured the Mets would live to see another day in 1999 (it turned out they survived clear to past midnight on October 20). There was nothing more at stake than a warm feeling on 10/3/04, but in retrospect, your co-bloggers and their friends wound up watching a horrible Met era end on a poignant up note.
I was going to tie all of this together. I was going to plug a remarkable new book by Joshua Prager called The Echoing Green, I was going to tell you how last week I saw the author along with his prime subjects, Mr. Thomson and Mr. Branca, in Manhattan and how astounding that was. I was going to tie the Brooklyn Dodger fan festering wound from that one-game playoff to something I just watched on HBO about the Cubs' sorry history and I'm sure I would have woven in Melvin Mora and Ralph Branca's son-in-law Bobby Valentine and Joe Hietpas and the death of the Expos and something about the Marlins and I would have helped us count down the hours until 4:09 tomorrow afternoon.
But now, unfortunately, I have real news to report: El Duque might not go tomorrow. Willie announced at his press conference that Orlando was running in the outfield, felt something in his right calf, is receiving an MRI and his start may be up for grabs. No definitive word on Hernandez's health or who might replace him.
October 3 giveth. Let us hope it doesn't taketh away.

The 25-man roster has apparently been decided. Several things jump out.
1) Three catchers. DiFelice joins Lo Duca and Castro, freeing up Ramon as a potential righty pinch-hitter. I like that aspect. RC was swinging the bat very well over the weekend. Sure, it would be nice if he could bring a pinch-runner with him, but he may be the righty bat we can count on for a bit of pop. With him and Franco (hot, at last) and Woodward (who used to be good), the bench doesn't look as bleak. DiFelice will presumably sit on his hands unless an emergency arises. And whoever heard of a backup catcher getting into a playoff game? Next thing you'll tell me a future Hall of Famer once got hurt, was replaced by his caddy and that guy smacked a series-winning home run off Matt Mantei.
2) Eleven pitchers. That's probably all we need. If you're dipping into a twelfth pitcher, you're going home anyway. Everybody in the pen is a reliever by trade. Not much chance that John Maine will be the long man, which isn't the worst thing, considering he made only one relief appearance in the regular season. Pedro's calf 'n' cuff probably paved the way for Roberto Hernandez, who was my odd man out when we our starting was more imposing. As composed, Bert is seventh on the depth chart, depending how desperate we are to use Darren Oliver. Gads, I love our pen, the two situational guys leading into our big three. C'mon starters, six innings apiece. Is that too much to ask?
3) No Dave Williams or Oliver Perez. At least not for this round. Perez could have been a secret weapon or he could have blown up in our faces. Williams never stopped intriguing me, and part of me wants to hand him the ball for Game Three over Trachsel or Maine, neither of whom I trust completely (and both of whom I distrust not a little). I think he made only one cameo down the stretch, so I guess he was never considered.
4) Michael Tucker. He's my dark horse candidate to get a big hit (nice cursing him with expectations, stupid). I'm probably reading way too much into that tater he toasted in Washington in August, but I see him as a latter-day Matt Franco minus the famous uncle. He's the lefty stick off the bench to be sure. The other one will be some combination of the three outfielders who aren't Beltran.
5) Cliff Floyd. Wow, he is not running well, not at all. But he can still swing. I don't think there's anybody who's watched him for four seasons who doesn't, ideally, want him in left, in the lineup with a chance to do something great. But I don't think there's anybody who doesn't wonder whether he's capable of being ideal in his condition. With Shawn Green at last not lunging at every low, outside pitch he sees, I feel OK about him in right. Then it comes down to Cliff or Endy. For starting, I have to go with Cliff, not because of longevity or emotion or because he's walked to the plate with the Sanford and Son theme in the background or because he makes deep and clever observations about the light at the end of the tunnel or who in his family makes the doughnuts or even because we feel bad about him losing his sister. I have to go with Cliff because he looked pretty formidable at the plate in D.C. and I don't have enough confidence in him as a pinch-hitter. I'm guessing it's harder to go from the bench to the lineup than the other way around and expect a solid contribution. Endy's been coming out of the dugout all year and I suspect he'll be finding the field yet again.
6) No Lastings. I really thought Milledge would make a case for himself Timo-style in September. No such luck. I wonder if his omission is a not-so-subtle message from the higher-ups as regards his behavior or just the result of his not quite setting the world ablaze. I'd like to have that speed and that quickness (two different things), but there are still liabilities in his game. I imagine if Cliff can't make it to a next round, if there is a next round, Lastings would get the call. Gosh, I hope he would, considering the alternative would be Ricky Ledee, who's also not on the roster and I'm not complaining about that oversight. Milledge sure doesn't seem like the next great product of the farm system as he did in early June, does he?
7) No Anderson Hernandez. There's no Kevin Elster role available on this team. Nobody's gonna pinch-hit for any of our infielders. But his glove is nonpareil and he did show a flash or two of offense of late. In the era when you could carry nine or ten pitchers and not sweat it, I'd want him around. I didn't feel that way a month ago. His stock shot up in September.
No other surprises. Glavine, Duque, Wright, Reyes, Delgado, Valentin are the only other names not mentioned or alluded to above who will trot to the foul line Wednesday afternoon.
Though his absence will not doom us, I sure do miss Pedro Martinez.
To fill the void, how about a shirt?

I will be happy. I already am. I have been since first place became our permanent place for 2006 in April, but this is another dimension of happiness. I'm afloat and will remain so until further notice.
I will be immersed. We're in the playoffs. It's all I can think about. In late October 2000, I recall a boiling debate in the news about a vote in the Senate. There were fingers pointing and recriminations abounding. I had to admit I had no idea what they were talking about. I was so caught up in the World Series and the rounds preceding it that I had tuned out everything that wasn't my Mets habit or didn't provide me the means to support it.
I will be profligate. In October 1988, WFAN announced it was selling K Kloths at Modell's. They were total ripoffs of the previous autumn's Homer Hankies, a Midwestern conceit derided by us Eastern intellectual types…you can't clap if you're waving a hankie. But once they had something like that for us, I grabbed as many as I could. Now and then I run across them in a box of stuff. The Mets lost that playoff but I still smile at the K Kloth. When they put other playoff stuff in front of me this week and hopefully next week and more hopefully the weeks and months after that, I will dig deep. Whether it winds up on my wall, on my person or in my closet, the smile will stay with me. That's from 2006, when we were in the playoffs.
I will be proud. When SportsCenter does its reports from those workouts, one of them will emanate from Shea Stadium. Hey! They're talking about the Mets! That's Endy Chavez taking batting practice in the background! When I pick up the paper tomorrow and there's a special section on the playoffs, I will save half of it instead of shoving all of it inside a kitty carrier as has been my practice since 2001. When I pass somebody on the street wearing a Mets cap, I will either raise my fist in solidarity or perhaps tamp down the urge to do so because I'm not really that outgoing. If I am handed a pro-Mets placard coming off the subway on Thursday (or Wednesday should I get lucky), I will carry it home with care and display it in my window for the neighbors to see.
I will be relevant. In 1999, I worked with a woman who was the soul of dyspepsia. If it wasn't absolutely necessary, we didn't speak. But on the elevator down at the end of the Monday after the Sunday when Robin Ventura singled over the fence, she sought me out: “Fifteen innings. That was something else.” Family members who patronize me during the season will actually ask what I'm thinking. Shopkeepers will recognize me and tell me Way To Go! or Hang In There. Anybody who calls who isn't a telemarketer will beg pardon for the interruption. When it's over, I will be just another man. Until then, I am That Mets Fan.
I will be insightful. “You know how I know the Mets are playing in Atlanta? Because when the Mets are up, the crowd boos, but when the Braves are up, the crowd cheers.” That was my expert determination as relayed to Mom and Dad during the first-ever National League Championship Series game on October 4, 1969. I'm bound to come up with another flash any day now.
I will be fretful. I'm in a hot debate with myself over which cap to wear Wednesday. I wore my black 2000 World Series model to five straight victories but its magic left me later in September. I really love my Bicentennial cap, but that's almost too showy. The official blue and black & blue models have yielded no wins when I've been at Shea. Do I go with something anti-Dodger like my cherished black New York Giants topper? Something tangentially related like my Rheingold number? Something deep-seated like the 1981 adjustable, mesh survivor with the oversized NY? No cap at all? This is a big decision to make by Wednesday…and it's for the game that I don't have a ticket to.
I will be amazed. It's something to realize your team, my team, our team is still playing when most other teams aren't. It's a reward for being Mets fans. It feels instantly like destiny. How could they ever think of having postseasons without us? I love how it becomes part of the fabric of conversation. Some good-natured, non-baseball ruckus ensued in Manhattan in October 1973 and Channel 2 reported that “for just a moment, the war in the Middle East, the resignation of Spiro Agnew and even the Mets had to take a back seat.” Yes, even the Mets. But just for a moment.
I will be nervous. There was an upholstered chair in my parents' bedroom forever. I spent the latter innings of Game Three of the 1986 NLCS more or less sitting in it, scratching at its arms as the Astros closed in on a 2-1 series advantage. Shortly after Lenny Dykstra took Dave Smith deep, I noticed it was suddenly in dire need of reupholstering.
I will be devastated. And that will be if Jose Reyes doesn't lead off Game One with a triple on the first pitch (and if he does, I'll be disappointed that he didn't come all the way around on the throw). Every strike against us will be the end of the world, every inning when we don't score will augur doom. I will try to keep this tendency in check. Good luck.
I will be irrational. Anybody with a microphone who picks the Dodgers goes on my enemies list right now. I listened earlier to Keith Olbermann and Dan Patrick on ESPN Radio pick the Dodgers. Patrick's a cipher, but Olbermann — he of the “special comment” and the “worst person in the world” and nightly truth-telling on MSNBC — is one of my idols. Was, I mean. This is real with us-or-against us time. Sorry Keith. We'll be pals again by November.
I will be careful. Did I write anything that the gods will forward to the Dodger clubhouse? Oh crap, I have to go back and scrub my copy. Um, Grady Little is a genius, J.D. Drew is whatever the opposite of annoying is and Rafael Furcal is the salt of the earth.
I will be touchy. STOP TELLING ME ABOUT THE 2004 RED SOX! WE DON'T HAVE ORTIZ OR MANNY TO SAY NOTHING OF PEDRO! WE'RE DOWN OH TO FUCKING THREE! YOU DON'T NEED TO REMIND ME! I will also be weaving worst-case scenarios as a precaution against worst cases.
I will be confident. Mets in anywhere from three to five. What's the point of thinking otherwise?
I will be remembering. Six postseasons are burned into the memory. When time peels away everything else, I will recall what it felt like to understand my team and I were circling the top of the world in Octobers 1969, 1973, 1986, 1988, 1999 and 2000, to luxuriate in landing at its apex twice, to despair of coming so close the four other times but being sated on some level that we got as far as we did, me and the Mets. Until playoff appearances become second-nature for this franchise, I will remember this, our seventh October, for as long as I have the faculties to do so.
I will be ready. I already am.

Takin' care of business for the 97th time in 162 attempts, the Mets ended their regular season.
Their next assignment is to turn the season into something extraordinary.
Even more so than it already is.
The television overlords have granted us a comfy interregnum, until Wednesday at 4:09 PM, to find out what awaits. For now, we know we disdain the Dodgers more than mosquitoes. They are our opponent, no thanks to the Diamondbacks whose comeback from down 7-1 stalled at 7-6 against Trevor Hoffman and the Padres. Yes, I'll admit it now — I wanted San Diego in the first round, or at least I didn't want Los Angeles. It's no longer relevant, though. The Dodgers it is, the Dodgers, they will have to be beaten starting late Wednesday afternoon. The Padres will now go to St. Louis, where the Cardinals fans were shamelessly chopping their arms off to thank the Braves for eliminating the Astros and saving the Redbirds from themselves.
I guess we've seen Roger Clemens' final start again…not counting when he takes the ball in the California Penal League.
Meanwhile, a moment to reflect on what ended today.
The New York Mets finished the regulation portion of their schedule with a 97-65 mark, the fifth-best in their history, trailing only 1986, 1988, 1969 and 1985 (whose dollar-short end Ron and Keith were Snighfully ruing Sunday, 21 years after the fact). The 2006 version of us outdid our 1999 predecessors by a half-game. These editions struck me as clearly the two best of the past 18 years, which tells you a couple of things:
1) The 1999 Mets really collapsed with a thud! before their amazin', amazin', amazin' turnaround, because that was a wonderful team and it didn't get to 100 wins.
2) 100 wins is hard to reach, especially if the 2006 Mets couldn't get there. We were so good all year long, but all it took was two limp weeks to confine us to double-digits.
Doesn't matter, I guess. Every team is 0-0 now. Twenty-two of them are 0-0 in 2007. Eight of us are 0-0, best of five. Still, I like that we have the best record in baseball. Perversely, I don't mind that we share that distinction with the New York Yankees, partly because we were two down with two to go in that department but mostly because we don't have to shoulder the “the team with the best record never wins the World Series” burden.
Was not thrilled with what I watched from Detroit, where the Tigers hissed away their divisional crown to Jeff Keppinger and the Royals. No great attachment to the Tigers here (none at all, actually), but I wanted Minnesota to take on the Skanks because I thought the Twins had a good shot in five games to take them out. Oh well, go Tigers, even Kenny Rogers (who walked in the other team's tenth run in extra innings, geez Louise.)
This has nothing to do with me not wanting Us to play Them. Rooting against the Yankees is an independent pursuit. In our universe, they do not interest me. I simply don't like them on merit, whereas the only team I have in it for in the context of what counts is the Dodgers. That's the business to be taken care of next. Something tells me the American League playoffs will escape most of my notice as of Wednesday at 4:09 PM.
Watching and listening to out-of-town baseball over the last weekend of the season produces a window into the soul of clubs you don't otherwise think about. Did you realize Tim Salmon was retiring from the Angels? That Geoff Jenkins will be leaving the Brewers? That Luis Gonzalez's imminent departure from the Diamondbacks rated the painting of a purple “20” in left field in Phoenix? That there are still fans in this world who give Barry Bonds a curtain call without benefit of a home run?
That kind of private celebrating and mourning shouldn't be surprising, particular to a devotee of Met finales. Last year at this time, it was us and Mike. The year before it was us and St. Todd Zeile (and to a lesser extent John Franco, Art Howe and the Montreal Expos). We were also the fans on last-Sundays-past to go koo-koo for the guy who collected his hundredth ribby or topped .280, stuff that followers of contenders would roll their eyes toward.
I suppose I'm too new at haught and arrogance to do that. The Nationals' goodbye to Frank Robinson moved me beyond anything I thought possible. Good for the Washingtonians who have had only two years with him and good for Frank, whose hardwired crankiness and surliness, it turns out, was just a façade. He's a sweetheart! I've always admired him (what's not to admire?) without being particularly fond of him; he was a '69 Oriole, for cryin' out loud. Maybe it was the enormity of his career or his thoughtfulness in congratulating the Mets, but I was touched by his pregame remarks. I can't think of another immortal in his position — taking off the uniform long after stopping playing — embracing the game so lovingly upon his farewell from it.
Finally, there were the Mets, the first-place Mets on the last day of the season, scoring six in the second and winning one more. We clinched our division 13 days ago. Since then we've had the slump, the calf, the cuff, the personal reasons and another dozen distractions and/or pressing questions. But y'know what? We just won four in a row and we have at least three games ahead of us. To borrow from Steve Zabriskie, this particular dream season is not over.
Just one more note. There's something I like to say every chance I get, but at this particular juncture in the calendar, it almost never comes up. Huzzah, it does this year:
Let's Go Mets.

In the course of a season, one makes choices. Whether one can enforce his choosing is another matter.
For example, it was quite human-natural to decide whom we wanted to play when — when, not if; ah, 2006…do you really have to end? — we made the postseason. That it was a nonbinding referendum was beside the point. If our choices had any impact on any of our fate, we'd be brandishing 44 rings (baby).
In any event, I'm sure we all made hypothetical choices. We sure didn't want to play the Cardinals, the only team with a real chance to knock us off. Until we probably wanted to play the Cardinals, barely hanging on as we speak. We also didn't want any part of the pitching-rich Astros, preferring to play some hitting-impaired outfit like, uh…the Astros. The Giants and all that experience (creaky bastards). The Reds and all that scrappiness (callow bastards). The Diamondbacks and Webb (and nobody else).
Bring 'em on!
I mean keep 'em away!
It doesn't work. The Brewers were on my radar a long time ago as dangerous. They fell off it almost as long ago, but you know what? I still wouldn't want to play them in the playoffs. Unless they were who was put in front of us. Then it's, you know, let's beat the living crap out of the Brewers.
All of which brings us to our last hypothetical of the regular season. We know we're not going to be playing an N.L. Central team in the first round and we know we won't have anything to do with San Francisco, Arizona or Colorado. And because we won't play anybody from the East at any point (au revoir at last, Philadelphia — who knew waving the white flag would very nearly succeed?), that leaves us one from Column LA and one from Column SD.
Dodgers or Padres? Padres or Dodgers? By tonight, we'll know how the NLDS sets up. Right now, it goes like this:
• The Padres beat the Diamondbacks, we play the Dodgers.
• The Padres lose to the Diamondbacks but the Dodgers lose to the Giants, we play the Dodgers.
• The Padres lose to the Diamondbacks while the Dodgers beat the Giants, we play the Padres.
What to do, what to do? And for whom to root, for whom to root?
I'm not good at this. I know I'm supposed to be wanting to keep Houston from sneaking in for several reasons, starting with Clemens the Juicer, continuing with that fucking funhouse full of yahoos and ending with my longstanding personal animus for all things Astro. But they were playing the Braves last night, and the Braves are still the Braves (technically speaking). Plus, damn my editorial impulses, the Astros have been quite a story. Wouldn't it be something to see this Houston-St. Louis thing go into double-secret overtime? Then again, this is no occasion to be kibitzing from the balcony. Self-interest is all that counts. I don't want to deal with Houston in the second round if there is a second round for us.
And now that I've said that, I don't want it posted on the bulletin board in the home clubhouse at Busch Stadium. Or that of the Western Division team that might beat either one of them.
Where was I? Oh yeah, I'm not good at this. I don't think it's healthy to take sides in battles that don't superdirectly concern you as long as you have skin in the game. That make sense? Well, consider our so-called choices.
I don't want to play the Dodgers. They are one of the three teams, along with the Phillies and Astros, that stuck around in the last month who reminded me of us when we were just dangerous enough to do marvelous things in '99 and '00. They have an odd mixture of Hall of Fame locks and candidates (Maddux, Kent, Garciaparra), all-time gadflies (Lofton, Drew, Furfuckingcal) and guys whose names half the time escape me but always seem to be doing something to somebody (like that catcher and that closer and who knows who else). Plus there's the requisite recent ex-Met who is lurking in the weeds and ominously blowing bubbles, Marlon Anderson. He'll want revenge. Beware storylines like that and like all those ex-Red Sox showing up but not Pedro. The ghosts of '88 also figure to hover.
I don't want to play the Padres. The ex-Met factor is off the charts, of course (Cameron sure has gotten hot), but there's a more frightening reason: They don't frighten me. We saw them seven times this year, three times less than two months ago plus I've seen them a good bit on Extra Innings, yet I still fail to retain who's on that team. Try as I might to get into a tizzy over Jake Peavy and Chris Young and Woody Williams and that fuck David Wells, I keep defaulting into “yeah, but they're Padres,” which is stupidthink. Trevor Hoffman became righteously reviled here for a week in July, but can you really hate Trevor Hoffman based on an exhibition? Before his unhelpful All-Star meltdown, I carried a vague admiration for Trevor Hoffman based on his not being Mariano Rivera. As for their bats, besides our old Mikes (and Manny Alexander), there's Brian Giles and that first baseman for whom I accidentally rooted for a portion of one plate appearance when Piazza was visiting and Klesko, I think, but maybe not that irritating shortstop who's been hurt but definitely that second baseman whose father was once traded for Al Leiter. He really killed us in April (the second baseman, not Leiter). And that other catcher who fills in for Piazza like clockwork late in games. And I'm sure I'm leaving out tons of guys who can hurt us.
I'd avoid the Dodgers and the Padres if there were a more appealing option, but taking our division title and going home would actually rather suck. So later today, after the two Western qualifiers sort themselves out, I'll be waiting at the proverbial airport to theoretically chauffeur to Shea the National League Wild Card winner. Finally we can stop being hypothetical and start rooting for us and against our definitively determined Division Series opponent.
Whatever is said about aces who are hurting, third starters who are in personal transit, rookies who are grating on veteran nerves and first basemen who are mysteriously sitting from “soreness” (say, isn't what Delgado has what Beltran had before it was a quad?), we just showed for the 96th time in 2006 that we're a team I'm pretty certain nobody would freely choose to play.
But it's not like they have a choice in the matter either.
Luckily, YOU can choose to purchase a Faith and Fear t-shirt. Just a couple of days left to place your order before they go back in the vault. We're like Disney that way.