Hey partner: Do you remember the 27th night of September?
C'mon, think…six years ago. You and I witnessed what nobody has seen since then, what many of us hope to see tonight.
We saw the Mets clinch at Shea!
WOO-HOO!
OK, it wasn't that woo-hooish. But it happened. Surely one of the six most memorable clinches in Mets history took place on September 27, 2000. The details come swimming back.
There was Joe Torre rapping into a double play, Harrelson to Weis to Clendenon…that was 1969.
There was Glenn Beckert softy lining into the glove of John Milner, the Hammer stepping on first and…that was 1973.
Chico Walker grounds to Backman, who throws to Hernandez and the dream season…was 1986.
The toast of every recent rain delay is Ron Darling, en route to freezing Lance Parrish with strike three…in 1988.
And who could forget Edgardo Alfonzo nabbing a rocket off the bat of Dmitri Young…”Caught! The game is over!…The Mets have won the Wild Card in the National League!”…in 1999.
Those indelible moments are frozen in Mets lore. Thrice at Shea and twice on the road, the Mets preserved last outs of games that won them entry into the postseason tournament. Teammates rushed from the dugout and created a single ball of Mets. The ensuing clubhouse scenes were off the hook.
Off the hook, I tell ya!
Add to that the excitement of September 27, 2000, when…
When…uh…
Damn, what did happen then?
Although it's the only Mets clinching I ever attended, I had to look up that Armando Benitez struck out Keith Lockhart to secure the 2000 Wild Card, a second consecutive playoff bid for the first time in franchise history. I vaguely recalled Rick Reed's very solid eight innings and, once reminded by the boxscore, knew Fonzie had homered. Having taken a 6-1 lead into the ninth (Armando gave up a leadoff shot to Galarraga to make the final a stress-free 6-2), there was no particular suspense to the evening and, unlike 1969, 1973, 1986, 1988 and 1999, no burst of celebration on the field. Certainly no fantasies of rushing it from the stands either.
Were we blasé? Or would it have just felt stupid to have gotten very elated? A little of both, I think.
The last time we clinched a playoff spot was against the Braves. That would have made it kind of sweet except it was one night after the Braves clinched the division against us. We were still trying to win the National League East 24 hours earlier. As ever in that era, we didn't. The Braves' magic number seemed to be 2, but when you factored in tiebreakers, it was 1. Whatever it was, it was quickly 0. The Braves won their 10th consecutive divisional title on September 26, 2000 — we got to see most of that, too (we wisely abandoned Shea before the ninth). The Mets, who had entered September in first place, had to scrounge for first among N.L. seconds yet again.
But they did. Despite their traditional September shenanigans, lagging 1-7 to start the month, our Metsies outlasted a lunge from the Dodgers and Diamondbacks and clinched the Wild Card on September 27. In '99, it was a huge deal. Just clinching the tie on the last day of the season, with Melvin Mora scampering across home plate as Brad Clontz unleashed a wild pitch, was transcendent. In 2000, the process was half-embarrassing. We were clinching against the team that had just clinched the bigger prize over us.
It was something, but it was surely something lesser. The mounted patrol lined the field and the scoreboard flashed something congratulatory and, as was fast becoming custom, a question was pondered regarding who was responsible for releasing more than one canine. But given the context, blasting the Baha Men's recording of that crazy “Who Let The Dogs Out?” was about as nuts as management was willing to go. After Lockhart struck out, the player handshakes were heartier than for a win in May, but they weren't partying like it was 1999. It was 2000. This one felt like the consolation prize.
Up in the upper deck, we were not altogether unhappy, but we spent more time rolling eyes (the mounted patrol…for this?) than slapping palms. The Braves were division champs and probably had to suppress a guffaw that the Mets seemed the least bit happy that they'd finished behind them once more. They couldn't know that the Mets would be smiling a lot longer in October than they would be, but that's another story for another time.
On the 27th night of September, we couldn't see that what we were seeing wouldn't be repeated in the regular season again for at least six years. On the off chance there's something to celebrate tonight, I'm going to try to remember it a lot better.

sinister (sin'i-ster) adj. 1. Suggesting or threatening evil; a sinister smile. 2. Presaging trouble; ominous; sinister storm clouds. 3. Attended by or causing disaster or inauspicious circumstances. 4. On the left side; left. [Middle English sinistre, unfavorable, from Old French, from Latin sinister, on the left, unlucky.]
On the night of August 24 I became the proud possessor of a ticket for Monday night, Sept. 18 — Mets vs. Marlins. Given our magic number of 22, one had to wonder: Could that be a Wonkaesque golden ticket, a mezzanine-row seat for the first clinching in 18 years? Seemed possible. But then our magic number hurtled toward zero, and that ticket lost its maybehood and eventually took on Just Another Game status, not that there's anything remotely wrong with that. Unless, of course, something went wrong.
Cue Pittsburgh, where something did indeed go wrong.
The fact that our clinching was delayed by X number of days won't matter much at all — the sight of a gaggle of leaping, shouting, champagne-spraying Mets will blast Gorzelanny and Duke and Maholm right out of our collective conscious. Heck, if anything we've taken mild solace in the fact that the same thing happened to the mighty '86 team. A good sign: The once-maligned back end of the rotation stood strong — El Duque was masterful, and John Maine quietly pitched a very good game, avoiding gopher balls despite not having his best stuff. (Pedro…well, something tells me he'll answer the bell when it matters. It doesn't quite yet.)
The Pirates won a moral victory? Good for them. We had to go home to clinch? Fine. (And possibly good for me and Greg.) None of that worries me. What does worry me is our sudden inability against lefties. Because games are running short, and it's awfully late to be cavalier about October problems. (Fortunately, when it comes to lefties the potential playoff team that's most worrisome is the Phils, with Wolf, Moyer and Hamels. We can't see them until the NLCS. Though if we do….)
OK. Deep breath. Going to be positive. Everything's gonna be fine. So, any pointers for sneaking a bottle of bubbly into Shea? Because repeat after me: Brian Moehler is right-handed. Brian Moehler is right-handed. Brian Moehler is right-handed….

Everybody cleared out? Sanchez? Bay? Ronnie Freaking Paulino? We wouldn't want to hurt a single human being.
Not so fast there, Randa.
KA-BOOM!!!
Pity, I really liked PNC Park. Of course I saw it when the Cardinals were the visiting team and I had nothing invested in the outcome. It was much prettier then. But you know the rules. When we get swept somewhere, that place must be destroyed. We did it with historic Fenway Park and we have to do it again.
KA-BOOM!!!
There go all those brooms, straight up in the air. Fibers are floating everywhere. (Who's fer stickball?) Way to go Pirates fans, spoiling…what? A weekend? We're still 13-1/2 games in front. Hey, look! It's a Steelers game! Run along now.
KA-BOOM!!!
There go all the bottles of Korbel snuck in from two states away. All those receipts for gas and airplanes, too. Sorry traveling Mets fans. At least you got to see a really great stadium before it was eviscerated in a fit of well-deserved pique.
KA-BOOM!!!
There go the concessions and advertisements. That's a lot of Pup-Peroni. And Primantis. Mmmm…doggie treat sandwiches with cole slaw…
KA-BOOM!!!
There goes that scoreboard with all the zeroes posted by all those lefties. Maholm, Gorzelanny, Duke: If you want to make it to arbitration eligibility so Kevin McClatchy can trade you before you want to get paid your worth, I suggest you grab your mitts, cross the Clemente and call your agents. You were just waiting in Pittsburgh to become free agents anyway.
KA-…KA-…KA-…?
There goes nothing, specifically the Mets' collective performance over the last three games. It didn't blow up because it didn't show up. Maybe Charlie Samuels shipped the bats directly from Miami to Shea. Great foresight.
So one Met win or one Phillie loss and…like I have to tell you anymore? You know the magic number better than your social security. The Astros, not surprisingly, did us no favors (for all of you who rooted so heartily for Philadelphia to win for aesthetic reasons, please remind me how great that was if we're staring down the barrel of Randy Wolf and Ryan Howard in a few weeks). The Red Sox, shockingly, did stave off their own elimination this afternoon which means even if they are stomped upon tonight, the A.L. East cannot be clinched until at least Tuesday. The Yankees play tomorrow but Boston doesn't. Just for that, they can have Fenway back.
Now the wishes of thousands come partially true. By losing Sunday (and Saturday and Friday), the Mets come home in front of their adoring — though maybe not as adoring as we were 48 hours ago — masses with a chance to clinch first in New York and create an unforgettable love-in 17 years and 148 games in the making.
Don't blow it.

Clinch today. Clinch in Pittsburgh. Clinch in front of Xavier Nady. Clinch in front of Jeromy Burnitz. Clinch in front of Ty Wigginton and Marvell Wynne and Tim Foli and anybody else who used to be a Met. Clinch and send them a check.
Clinch today. Clinch on your own. Or clinch by the hand of Wandy Rodriguez. Clinch when the Astros beat the Phillies if you can't beat the Pirates.
Clinch and call Keith Hernandez's car service and get home. Clinch and trot out onto the field Monday night as division champs.
Clinch today. Clinch on the afternoon of September 17, 2006, not because of the neat symmetry of clinching on the 20th anniversary of clinching our second-most recent to date National League Eastern Division championship (though that's well and good) but because of what might very likely happen on the night of September 17, 2006.
Clinch today. Because if you don't accomplish that small task with a magic number of 1, then another team, whose magic number is momentarily 4, will clinch before us. They get to play their 2006 patsies (speaking of dogs) during the day and again in the evening. A win for them is a loss for the team directly behind them. Who doesn't think it's quite possible to probable that the Yankees will sweep the Red Sox Sunday? They do that and they've clinched on September 17.
We must clinch September 17. First. In the daytime. Before them. This is not negotiable. This is not “gee, it wouldn't be as much fun to clinch while they're in the clubhouse” or “gosh, I have a ticket [and I do] for Monday night” or, heaven help any Mets fan, “Zach Duke is on my fantasy team.” This is one of those few times in the course of this extraordinary season when there is a MUST win. For us. For Houston. Whoever. Preferences are no longer an option.
I do not want to live in a world in which we are not the first New York team to be division champion this particular season.
I do not care how it is done.
Clinch.
Now.

Hindsight being 20-20, I should have known we weren't clinching about 11:10 this morning.
That's when Emily and Joshua and I walked into Madison Square Park, home of Shake Shack — and site of some American Kennel Club carnival that looked like it had been put together late last night by a couple of AKC volunteers who'd been smoking pot and knew this guy who kind of had, like, some A/V gear? The PA — if you can call one speaker that — played a succession of calculatedly inoffensive, dog-related hits, like (wait for it) “Hound Dog.” Hi-larious! And the AKC folks had forgotten how to play musical chairs. Really, it was avert-your-eyes sad.
But as part of this event, there was the black spot from Friday night — a Pup-Peroni banner.
Pup-Peroni? What the fuck? Will Paul Maholm arrive and offer to strike me out? Will Jason Bay show up, snatch away my Shackburger and tell me I can't have it until tomorrow?
We should have known, but we didn't. Preparing for our Saturday evening out, Emily and I perused the various Met blogs before (duh) I realized our own blog had a link to Mets bars. (Honest. It's down there on the left.)
I'm not a stranger to booze or booze-related misdeeds. Quite the contrary, in fact, as too many stories and my expanding middle will attest. But baseball and booze don't particularly mix for me. I don't like drinking at Shea because it's expensive, you miss things while peeing, and the subway ride home becomes a horrifying test of bladder elasticity. Bars are better, but the sound's rarely on, after a few I lose track of the little things that make baseball rewarding, and if we lose the boozy belligerence means running the risk of saying something stupid and getting my ass beat by someone a lot bigger and meaner than me.
But tonight was different: The babysitter was coming, Emily and I were headed out, and we needed a Mets bar.
As site of last night's Metsblog frustratapalooza, McFadden's seemed steeped in failure, and was a little too UES for our us anyway. Broadway Dive Bar sounded good, but 102nd Street may as well be in Vermont. I tossed Scruffy Duffy's out because it violated a basic principle — never go to a bar if you'd be embarrassed to die there and have the name of the bar in your obit. We thought of Loki Lounge in Park Slope, but I'd had a previous misadventure there and wasn't eager to return. In the end, we decided to forget about Mets bars (that said, if anyone has a good one, email us) head down to the northern precincts of Red Hook (Cobble Hill West, if you wanna be all realtor about it) and try the Moonshine, a excellent dive bar just north of Hamilton Avenue with a lovely view of the Brooklyn Motor Inn.
There weren't a lot of Met fans to be found, sad to say — the Moonshine had Access Hollywood on the TV when we arrived, in fact. But they switched without argument and we sat at one end of the bar and watched most of the game while drinking Stella, munching peanuts, and trying not to be filled with dread. Which all worked just fine while the Pirates kept getting doubled off first and El Duque kept getting out of leadoff-runner troubles.
Emily had a good feeling in the top of the 7th. I'm not sure why. Then, around the 8th (I was drunk by then, so my recall may be off), the black spot appeared: Pup-Peroni. We didn't score. They did. Emily was off to the bathroom before Joe Randa even touched home plate.
Well, fuck. Anyone up for some afternoon champagne?