It’s been a long time since I rock and rolled,

It’s been a long time since I did the stroll.

Been a long lonely lonely lonely lonely lonely time.

I didn’t think I’d been nervous until I started realizing just how many things I’d forgotten.

Like where was my hat? Normally if there’s a game to be played I’ve got my beloved, faded, battered Cyclones hat on my head. Or, failing that, my gray Mets hat with the NY in stars and stripes. (I don’t know why, I just like that one.) Or, should neither of those seem lucky, the blue and orange NEW YORK one, or the blue and red BROOKLYN one. Or those old standbys, the black NY hat or the hat that was a Met hat when it never occurred to marketers that there could be more than one. Not today. I came back from my office bathroom having changed into my black away uni, rummaged through my bag and realized I didn’t have my hat. How could I leave the house today of all days without it?

(As an incompetence bookend: I brought the digital camera, pulled it out of my bag in a happy Shea Stadium, turned it on and saw a beautiful image of the field and the happy baseball team below. Atop it, strange words: NO MEMORY CARD. Oops.)

The champagne didn’t make it either, though I did remember it. I’d loaded my bag up Greg-style for camoflague — work shirt, t-shirt, book, printed manuscript pages, umbrella (no rain in forecast), the memory-card-free camera, and miscellaneous crap grabbed from my office to put the largest number of barriers between the eyes/hands of a security guard and the moderate-sized bottle of Verve Veuve Clicquot I’d found in a cabinet during a hasty search on Friday night. By the time I was done it was like carrying a cinderblock.

I knew I wouldn’t make it, though: The security guard dug through that bag like he was fricking Heinrich Schliemann while I waited for the inevitable. Finally he held up the champagne and simply shook his head, pleasant but implacable. I mumbled something lame about a dinner and BYOB, surrendered my bottle, and trudged into Shea with my enormous load of now utterly useless crap making me list to port. (Happy ending: Faith and Fear friend Laurie came through with mini-bottles smuggled in one of those umbrella carriers some bags have on the bottom. She’s a crafty one, that Laurie. Oh, and her camera had a memory card in it.)

Everything else went just fine, of course. The Cubs put up crookeder and crookeder numbers, the Mets played crisply, and the crowd was going full throttle, ready to push the team across any finish line it came near. Up in the mezzanine, Greg and I fretted and then stop fretting and started wondering if Steve Trachsel, who often pitches the way continents meander across oceans, could possibly beat the news from Philadelphia. He could and he did — pitched wonderfully, in fact, and in near-record time. For all the attention Pedro’s abortive return got on Friday night, Trachsel’s storyline had to be just as compelling. He’s never going to be loved at Shea, not with his water-torture pace and his head-down trudge to and from the dugout (the 5+ ERA doesn’t help either), and he stands slightly apart on this team, a holdover from previous administrations who can’t plead that he merely arrived early. But did he ever do his job when it needed to be done. It was disappointing that Trachsel couldn’t tip his cap or wave his hand to the crowd that gave him a standing ovation — what was there to visualize at that point, Steve? — but what the heck, he probably didn’t know what to do when confronted by a Shea standing ovation. Here’s hoping he gets to ignore some more standing Os.

The rest? Signs premature (NL EAST DIVISION CHAMPS before we were), to the point (CLINCH) and irritatingly off-point (BRING ON THE YANKEES). Public-address messages that would have seemed like jinxes in other years — we were entreated not to go on the field (“illegal and dangerous”) before the top of the ninth. Yankee fans got booed — my favorite target was a teenage girl in a camoflague Yanks hat whose walk around the mezzanine was paced, metronome-style, by a section-by-section YANKEES SUCK! chant. Various Mets were treated to unofficial MVP lobbying; “Around the Majors” showed highlights from the completely meaningless Reds-Astros game, a dose of habitual Shea incompetence that was somehow comforting; and Reyes and Valentin were serenaded with their shared first name. (“Jose Jose Jose Jose! Other Jose, Other Jose!” Greg and I improvised cleverly.)

And, of course, there was a final line drive and a lot of yelling and drinking of warm, properly smuggled champagne and a long, happy subway ride home with the exhilirated faithful. After a game I like watching the Met share of my fellow riders slowly decrease as the distance from Shea increases and people peel off for the near-infinite number of familiar routes taking them from Shea to their homes, until I’m down to knots of Met fans and then scattered sightings and finally the one or two fans who happen to live where I live and happened to have left the stadium at the same time I did, a coincidence that usually allows for a brief exchange of happiness or reassurance or commiseration before we go back to our non-baseball lives.

Tonight my 7 car was filled with booming Mets chants all the way to 42nd Street, despite various Met rooters being disgorged for the LIRR, the 4/5/6 and the B/D/F. They were still chanting on the 2/3 platform at 42nd, and I could hear them all the way down to 14th. (LET’S! GO! METS!) and then Chambers (LET’S! GO! METS!), the chants and sightings gradually dwindling until finally I got off at Clark Street and there was just me.

Just me, but I wasn’t exactly alone. There was my uniform shirt and the astonishingly heavy bag and the flush of yelling and booze and victory and the season of blissful memories so far and the now-official glee and hope and anxiety for the future — that marvelous collection of things that come with being, at long last, NATIONAL LEAGUE EAST CHAMPS.

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.