Consider this incomplete, unofficial and nonbinding, but there's no way Carlos Beltran isn't the most valuable player in the National League this year. That doesn't mean he'll be the Most Valuable Player in the National League vote. I'd be kind of surprised if he is, given the way voting traditionally works.

Rule No. 1: If there's an award worthy of a Met, it will go to someone else. We've had four Cy Youngs, four Rookies of the Year, one Manager of the Year and no MVPs. Without me listing any right now, you and I can trade historical slights all night.

Rule No. 2: Other than screwing over the Mets, there is no set pattern. The gritty, gutty guy with decent numbers gets it over the far more dynamic player who did bigger things (Gibson over Strawberry, 1988). The guy who leads his team to the league's best record is overshadowed by the guy with the longer baseball card back (Bonds over Pujols, 2004). The fellow who is perceived as turning his team around is chosen instead of the guy who just kept being really great for a really good team (Pendleton over Bonds, 1991).

Rule No. 3: The cult of Albert Pujols lives. It's not an unreasonable cult in which to maintain membership. Pujols is scary. He's effective. And he's valuable. But his team's record is roughly where the 2005 Mets was at this time last year and he's not all alone in St. Louis, no matter what the Apujolgists will tell you. He is his team's best player (him or Gary Bennett lately) and his team is in first place, but not the way the Mets are. Still, their standing, his rep, his big start and the fact that it's easier to keep voting for the same guy who won last year may put him over the top. There's no shame in losing an award to Albert Pujols, but it would be a shame if it happened to Beltran this year.

Rule No. 4: Big, loud home runs speak volumes. Except for falling in the right direction and “robbing” the occasional grounder on an overshift, Ryan Howard is a butcher at first base. He is not a complete player by any means. But boy can he hit 'em far and often. It's not a bad talent to have. He was even kind enough to display it at an exhibition in July. I don't mean to diminish Ryan Howard, though I hope Met pitching does for a few turns at bat later today. He is sensational. But he's not a player on the level of Carlos Beltran.

Rule No. 5: Players having great seasons on great teams can't be all that valuable, can they? Carlos Beltran 2006 is a different player from Carlos Beltran 2005. By subtracting the tentative, overwrought, injured Carlos Beltran with the healed, fleet, relaxed, comfortable, confident, powerful Carlos Beltran, the Mets have gone from a Wild Card hopeful to a divisional lock, from a team playing footsie with .500 to one likely to top .600. Delgado's replaced Mietnkiewicz/Jacobs, Wagner's replaced Looper, Valentin's replaced Matsui, but the biggest upgrade was Beltran 2.0 over Beta Beltran. Whether lazy, brainless, hack out-of-town writers who decide this award bother to understand that is up for grabs. (Rule No. 5A: Gotta remember to stop insulting the voters.)

I've heard arguments in recent days that Beltran isn't necessarily the most valuable player on his own team. I take that as a compliment toward the team rather than a slap at Beltran. Jose Reyes in particular is held up as the irreplaceable catalyst and I like that portrayal. But Reyes has gone cold at times this year. Delgado and Wright, the original “M!-V!-P!” kid, have had honest-to-badness slumps that were/are not pretty. Lo Duca, to mock the language of Moneyball, has the intangibles to say nothing of an impressive batting average, but his numbers aren't up to his predecessor's, so he makes more of aesthetic case. Wagner has become huge in the last month and you have to tip your cap all about the field and acknowledge Met contributors galore.

But Carlos Beltran has been outstanding above everybody else since the season's third game, the night he had to be nudged out of the dugout for the touchstone curtain call, the night the Mets moved into first place for good. He missed about a dozen games with a bum leg in late April (remember that it was wondered aloud whether he was being too cautious and if that revealed some character defect?) and then made up for his shortfall in a blink. By the middle of May, Carlos' stats were being marveled at with the caveat “and that's even after missing those games while he was hurt.”

Carlos Beltran has never stopped being very good to excellent for any meaningful portion of 2006. When he's not driving in runs, he's scoring them. He finds a way to get on base almost every day. While Lo Duca bats second, Beltran stands in the on-deck circle getting into the pitcher's head. That can't hurt Lo Duca. Delgado and Wright have RBI opportunities created or extended by Beltran. And without being showy about it, Carlos B has gotten to all but maybe three balls in center. If he doesn't lead the league in any of the glamour categories, he's up there and his accumulation of stats has been part and parcel of a greater good. His team leads in the most important category of them all: winning.

Yes, his team is the best team in the league. But you don't penalize a player for being the best player on that team. You celebrate him. You award him. There's no way that these 2006 Mets are these 2006 Mets without him. I'd rather be these 2006 Mets than those 2006 Cardinals or Phillies or anybody else sticking around the chewy nougat center known as the National League.

The Wild Card race has had an Andy Warhol effect on perception. Everybody but the Pirates, Cubs and Nationals has been a contender for 15 minutes. Some team will outspurt the others to win it and that team will probably be led by some player who puts on a big September push. A great month to boost an OK team into the playoffs will be seen as valuable. A great year to lead a fantastic team will somehow be seen as mundane.

Perhaps, as infrequently occurs, logic will prevail. Perhaps Carlos Beltran will win the Most Valuable Player award this year. For now, he'll have to settle for deserving it.

While the second-newest Met has certainly been embraced, this is a get-it-done town, and funny stories about Shawn Green salsa dancing at Carlos Delgado's wedding or Delgado taping a yarmulke onto his scalp at Green's wedding were only going to do the trick for so long. A two-run double over the glove of the hapless Pat the Bat to turn a 5-5 tie into a 7-5 lead? That's the stuff. Add in some heroics from the Carloses, the Joses and the Endy and it was a bad night for the Phillies.

And how about that Oliver Perez? Sure, we saw things get better down in the Norfolk box scores. But how seriously to take a modest run of success, particularly after those ghastly numbers with the Pirates? Well, Oliver walked off with even uglier numbers and had to be taken off the hook, but he no longer looks like a throw-in, does he? He's got three pretty good pitches, even if he sometimes doesn't seem to know exactly where they're going. It's tough to give up five earned runs on just two hits, but hanging a slider to Ryan Howard on an 0-2 pitch sure makes it easier. One of the better games I've seen that ended with a guy sporting a 9.00 ERA, that's for sure.

Emily and I left the kid with the babysitter and started an evening of successfully calling audibles by walking over the Manhattan Bridge. We tuned in after stuffing ourselves at Dumpling House on Eldridge Street (extraordinarily satisfying dinner for two: $8), then split headphones to see how our boys were doing. The first words over the airwaves, from Howie Rose: “…and has now retired seven in a row.” Normally I would have assumed the missing subject was “Lieber,” but a certain warmth in Howie's voice made me think good things were afoot. As they were, for a while.

My new strategy for Met no-hitters is to talk about them openly (don't tell me it's a jinx — no other strategy has worked), and so that's what we did as we made our way west on Grand Street in search of a bar where we could catch a few innings. We learned of Beltran's heroism somewhere around Lafayette, then rolled into Toad Hall after spying two TV screens full of Mets and nary a Yankee in sight. I guess the visuals weren't lucky: By the end of our first round Victorino had broken up the no-hitter and the shutout and Howard had done a lot more than that. But the staff of Toad Hall were obviously Met fans, so we hung in there until the seventh-inning stretch, then walked south with the forces of good down by a measly run and optimism in the air. Show a little faith, there's magic numbers in the night!

It didn't take long. By Chambers Street it was a rout; as we hit the halfway point on the Brooklyn Bridge it was in the books. The magic number's 20. Zero hour coming into view.

“Lose”? What this thing you call “lose”?

Odd this thing you call “lose”. Feel funny. Not good funny but peculiar funny.

Still not understand “lose”. Mean Mets not win?

Mets always win!

Not understand at all.

See Mets play close game. Mets win close game, yes? Mets always win close game, no?

Met pitcher get in trouble early but then get out. Met pitcher limit damage. Met pitcher then win, no?

Trachsel always get in trouble, Trachsel not necessarily limit damage, Trachsel always win. This pitcher not win? This pitcher not Trachsel?

Met bullpen so solid. Met bullpen pick up win? No win for Met bullpen? But always win for Met bullpen! Except when Trachsel pitch, then win for Trachsel. But no win last night at all?

Still not understand “lose”.

Other team big home run hitter hit big home run other night. Mets win.

Other team big home run hitter hit big home run last night. Mets not win?

Mets big home run hitter hit more home run last night. That happen other night. Mets win then. Mets not win now?

Mets fear no one! But Mets not touch Wolf.

Mets fear Wolf? Wolf beat Mets?

Team smile and shake hands at end not Mets?

Division lead not increase? Magic number not decrease?

What this thing you call “lose”? Still not understand!

And not care for in least.

I don't know another place like Shea Stadium in 2006.

I don't know anywhere else where I get to inject myself into my favorite pastime as it gets better and better.

I don't know anywhere else where most everybody else wants to happen what I want to happen…and it usually happens.

I don't know anywhere else where I can sit with one great friend for hours and discuss the thing we like most, then excuse myself for a bit to find some other great friends for quick chats on what we like most.

Me and my friends, wherever they're sitting, are into the same thing. And that thing is going very well of late.

I enter Shea Stadium in 2006 excited and I leave it ecstatic.

My team is there and my friends are there and neither of them ever seem to let me down.

You just wait to be in this zone and now that I'm firmly entrenched in it, it's every bit as special as you might imagine it would be.

Someday, sooner than we can fathom, they will pave William A. Shea Municipal Stadium and put up a parking lot.

So do me this favor:

Don't let it be forgot that once there was a spot for one brief shining moment that was known as…

…Camelot?

Yes, right there at the corner of 126th and Roosevelt.

Shea what you will about the often absurd edifice that is mandated to disappear in the blink of an eye. With the team that bats last winning every night, with a quarter of a million fans floating through its gates in the course of a week and with a pure energy rising relentlessly higher than the flags above the upper deck, I gotta believe that our green, green grass of home is the most beautiful sight these eyes will ever see.

Shea Stadium in 2006. It is Camelot, I swear it is.

I'm happy. I'm having a ball.

Watching my team win frequently on TV is pretty awesome, but being inside those three blue walls to bear witness to it is something else altogether. The only thing missing from this sensational season for me until the beginning of this month was the synchronization of my presence and the Mets' success. When they lost eight of the first eleven games I attended, I really began to wonder whether they were allergic to me.

I've stopped thinking in those terms. I've been to four of the last ten Mets games at Shea Stadium, including last night's, and the Mets have won all four. They've won the other six, too. Perhaps I'm incidental — mere garnish to their main course.

If that's the case, that's fine. I'm just happy to be 1/45,000th of the parsley on the plate.

So, in summary, this is what I do at every opportunity in 2006:

I go to Shea Stadium.

I see my friends there.

I see the Mets win there.

I come home.

I write about it.

My life is good.

Your co-bloggers, they had a long time to talk tonight.

First there was the game, which was a delight. Welcome to New York, Shawn Green! We believe we see light at the end of the tunnel, David Wright! Nicely done, Dave Williams! We're glad you're on our side, Jose Reyes and Carlos Delgado! Following that, there was an ill-fated right turn out of Gate A, which let us into the parking lot and a near-circumnavigation of the construction fence behind which New Shea will soon rise. You'd think you could slip through the test drillings or whatever it is they're doing back there, but nope — a right turn out of Gate A leaves you ultimately playing some demented blue and orange version of Frogger with the crush of SUVs trying to exit onto Chop Shop Lane. Trying to exit through a lake. Evading the lake means a second trip through the vaguely lined-up SUVs. Fun. After that, the tender mercies of the 7 train.

Anyway, between our various navigational mishaps and the long rumble into Manhattan, we had a long while to discuss our baseball team. And we remarked on something: the utter lack of fear we have about what's to come, the strange sensation of six weeks of baseball that aren't weighed down by anxiety and superstition.

Ah, superstition. It's a time-honored tenet of responsible fandom that you don't ask the baseball gods to script things just so: Don't say you hope they lose a few on the road so you can see them wrap it up at home, on your anniversary, or whatever date would make you even happier. Don't hope that Hated Team X hangs around long enough for your team to administer the coup de grace. Don't look past Team Y, the baseball-fan equivalent of flipping ahead in the book to see if the killer's brought to justice. Don't say you want Potential Opponent Team Z because they seem beatable, or because you have a grudge, or whatever it is. Take what you're given.

Following this rule isn't like taking a vow of silence, though. It's OK to talk about scenarios that have particular appeal, as long as you do it at a respectable remove, and as long as not you're just pretending that you're asking for a certain script. (The baseball gods are not so easily tricked!) Digressionary example: I love the Earth Wind and Fire song “September,” one of the sunniest tunes ever written, and have long thought that A) it would be great to hear it played after September victories that mean something; and B) it would be great if something wonderful happened for the Mets on the 21st night of September, as mentioned in the lyrics. It's OK to talk about that wistfully. It's not OK to hope that the Mets slow down the magic-number pace so as not to clinch before 9/21. That's asking for trouble. (Digression within a digression: It doesn't matter anyway, because if we clinch at home the Mets will blast “The Best,” four minutes of Tina Turner hacking up a hairball as deservedly faceless sessioneers rawk out. Something tells me I'll still be a very happy man.)

The baseball gods don't frown at respectful talk. Nor do they require you to hunker down in superstitious dread until the last possible moment. Up 14.5 with a magic number of 22? Go ahead and discuss the playoffs — as my co-blogger noted some time ago, they're not gonna get us.

I'm not going to say we want the Cardinals or the Reds or the Dodgers or the Padres or some Central or West team that emerges from the ranks of those who are below .500 but in contention. I'm certainly not going to start scouting the NLCS or, God forbid, American League teams. We just covered that.

But we can say this: We just swept the Cardinals, generally considered the second-best team in the NL. We've seen all the teams on the list of possible first-round opponents, and none of them exactly make you gulp. This isn't to say we're guaranteed to beat them — anybody can beat anybody in a postseason series. It's not even really about them at all. It's about us. It's about a balanced lineup that can beat you with speed, power and patience. It's about smothering defense. It's about a bullpen that's rounding into form after a scare. And about a starting rotation that…um, well, there's time to get everybody healthy, and in the meantime how about those fill-ins! (Tonight we had a good laugh over this scenario: Back in March we peer into the Faith and Fear crystal ball and see an August stretch in which our pitchers could be Dave Williams, Brian Bannister, Oliver Perez/Darren Oliver, John Maine and Steve Trachsel — and yet for some reason the late-summer Greg and Jace don't look worried. In fact, they look…happy?)

That's part of the point. This year there isn't an Atlanta Braves lurking out there between us and a pennant — a team that's in our heads, that haunts our dreams, that we've good reason to fear. Sure, there are lots of things that can go wrong even in this Braveless New World. We could go cold at the absolute worst time. Whatever team we draw in the first round could get obscenely hot. We could be undone by injuries. We could come out on the short end of some plain old-fashioned bad luck. If you want to be anxious about any or all of that, go ahead — it's only sensible. But this year that anxiety isn't attached to any of our potential NL opponents. Wanna see the 2006 National League Bogeyman? Look in the mirror, because the team that makes managers mutter and scouts toss and turn at night is us.

That's not a guarantee of anything, except this: The only thing we have to fear is baseball itself.

There haven't been that many really good games we've lost this year, but one of them was a contest in St. Louis between the two best teams in the National League. It was just over three months ago, a classic pitchers' duel between Mark Mulder and Steve Trachsel. We got beat 1-0 when Scott Rolen lifted a seemingly impossible pitch off the ground and drove it for the deciding run. It was the kind of night that made you tip your cap and order another round because at a brisk 2:32, there were plenty of hours to closing time and lots of season to go.

It's just over three months later and almost everything's changed.

THEN: The Mets (24-15) weren't hitting.

NOW: They are (77-49).

THEN: The Cardinals (25-15) were imposing.

NOW: They're barely hanging on (66-59).

THEN: Mulder (5-1) was daunting.

NOW: He's slowly recuperating (6-6).

THEN: Trachsel (2-4) got no support.

NOW: He's offensively pampered (13-5).

THEN: 2-1/2 hours to play 8-1/2 innings.

NOW: Is the game over yet?

Granted, at 3:21, the Mets' Wednesday night 10-8 triumph of attrition would beat the shortest Yankee-Red Sox game in the last 50 years for brevity. And wouldn't you stay up all night for a Met victory?

Sure you would. But when you jump out to a 10-2 lead, you could be forgiven for wondering when the hell your starter will stop giving up home runs to Jose Vizcaino and put the opposition away. It never quite happened, but five relievers — right up through sudden Cy Young candidate Billy Wagner (quick, name a starting pitcher who's a prohibitive favorite…and Trachsel doesn't count) — wriggled and jiggled and got the job done. First a laugher, then just nervous laughter. It takes all kinds.

We haven't won a bad game all year. When you win, there's no such thing as a bad game.

The only substantive factor that hasn't changed since May 17 is that the Mets and Cardinals remain the two best teams in the National League. Then we were neck-and-neck. Now we're the giraffe and they're Walt Williams. All NL Game Ones featuring the Mets will take place here. The Cards can consult with the Reds, Dodgers, Padres and any ambitious Central or West stragglers to determine all other hosting duties.

There's no way we should lose to anybody in the National League in October. That's not to say that it can't happen or it won't happen. But between you and me, there's no way we should lose to anybody in the National League in late August or the remainder of the season. At the risk of angering the gods when I'm due at Shea in 16-odd hours, if the Cardinals are the other best team in the league, then…nah, I'm not gonna say anything. Respect all opponents, especially with Pujols and Rolen and freaking Vizcaino and other assorted ex-Mets zipping around in red.

I'm of two broad minds on potential post-Yom Kippur matchups. One is I don't care who we're playing as long as we're playing. The other is I don't want to play anybody because anybody can beat anybody in the tenth month. We've been on both sides of that equation in our illustrious history. It's only fun when it comes out in our favor.

Still, I'm beginning to think that the team I actually don't want to see down the road is the Wild Card team if it's the Phillies, ridiculously hot since pawning off Abreu and Lidle on the Yankees (say, whatever happened to those guys?) and only 1-1/2 behind Cincinnati, which is only 1 behind St. Louis. We play the Phillies for about the hundredth time in August this weekend. We have the Dodgers — the previously ridiculously hot club in our circuit, now decidedly cooled off — in for four in a couple of weeks. And tonight one more with the Cardinals. Those are the only eight games we have left with serious potential pennant opponents, so get out your clipboards and radar guns and start scouting.

Gathering intelligence and not getting hurt are what it's all about now. That and continuing winning. However unappealingly we go may about it now and then, it's a good habit to stay in.

Honestly, this would have been a good night in Met Land even if we hadn't come all the way back from 7-1 in thrilling fashion. Instead of going under the knife, Tom Glavine will have to take baby aspirin — the stuff that isn't even bitter when you chew it. Instead of the uncertain business of asking what might be too much from Endy Chavez and demanding Lastings Milledge grow up in public, we added a veteran to man right field through October. And if it doesn't look like a dip in the Fountain of Postseason will rejuvenate Shawn Green, Chavez/Milledge isn't a bad Plan B.

That's what I was thinking when it was 7-1 and the only question was how many more Bad Albert would swat to Portugal. John Maine may have a tough go of it his second time through the league, but there's no first-time discount when Pujols is at the plate. Luckily, there's not a lot more to the Cardinals these days, besides annoying ex-Mets to scowl at. (RUN, TIMO! YOU JACKASS! RUN! And Looper…Christ, where to start with you. Oh, the hell with it. Just go away.) There is a lot more to us — while David Wright continues his lonely sojourn in Slump Forest, Carlos Delgado has emerged, blinking and mildly annoyed, from those deep dark woods. And has he ever brought lumber out with him — his grand slam was so ridiculously gone that I barely blinked. When a ball goes that far it's meant to be and you're just a bystander. Does one cheer avalanches or miles-long forks of lightning cracking the sky? Add in Lo Duca playing his usual gritty defense and slashing hits at every opportunity, Chad Bradford coolly inducing not one but two clutch double plays and the continuing renaissance of Aaron Heilman, and it was a very nice night indeed.

And that was before the heroics of Carlos Beltran. If this season winds up being one of those that's endlessly, lovingly dissected and chronicled — like a certain one just satisfyingly celebrated — the key moment lasered in on by every baseball historian will be this one: the moment Carlos Beltran decided that no, he wasn't going to acknowledge Shea Stadium's petty, fickle fans with the curtain call they wanted — not after how shabbily he'd been treated for a year and change. And then the moment, hard on its heels, when Julio Franco told him sympathetically but firmly that his point had been made, and it was time to get up on that top step.

Since he emerged from the dugout that night there's been nary a boo for Carlos Beltran — and nary a reason for even the least-forgiving leather-lung to express displeasure. That wasn't just the moment Carlos Beltran and the fans agreed to start over, though that was significant. It was also the moment Carlos Beltran realized that there was no reason to try to make himself into whatever mythical beast is the product of Carlos Beltran + $119 million — that just being Carlos Beltran would be more than enough. He, and we, have been the beneficiaries ever since.

Before we go, a moment for a wonderful call from Howie Rose, one that'll be leading off a lot of WFAN broadcasts: “First pitch … fastball hit deep to right field! It's gonna win the ballgame! Home run!”

Oh, and keep playing “The Curly Shuffle.” Just a hunch.