On the same trip when we buried now and forever The Curse of Turner Field, have we discovered we are subject to a new kind of locale-based dysfunction?

Things don't go as well as they could at the big sack of Soilmaster. Pedro outdistanced by Dontrelle despite pitching brilliantly? That in and of itself ain't nothin' but a thang until you consider that Pedro's odyssey to hip-riddled ineffectiveness began inside the sack when he was ordered to change an undershirt. 'Twas only the first bad thing to happen a Mets pitching stalwart because the schedulemaker insists they go to Miami. Or would Duaner Sanchez be chillin' down South Beach way otherwise?

There's far too much of this sort of nonsense surrounding the Mets at a venue that is audibly friendly to them. The legend of Shingo Takatsu and the infamous “funk” happened there. Mr. Delgado battered Mr. Koo there. Mr. Delgado needlessly detoured there. Mr. Jacobs, who wouldn't have had to have been traded to the Floridians had the idiot agent with the Joe Cocker jones steered his client more eptly, kicked a ball from Paul Lo Duca's glove tonight. That after denting Pedro's armor. Since when does Lo Duca not get a call at home just because he doesn't have control of the ball? Who could forget his brilliant masking of a bobble on Opening Day, the same game when Xavier Nady went 4-for-4.

Xavier Nady was traded with the Mets in Florida.

The Lincoln-Kennedy comparison between Turner Field and Your Name Here/Football Team Stadium doesn't run perfectly down the 50-yard line. The biggest difference is the Braves used their Metmashing as a pivot point from which to dominate the division. The Marlins merely annoy — albeit effectively — now and then. Also, the Marlins have won two World Series since Turner Field opened, the Braves none.

We just lost two of three to the Fish, but we swept the Braves on what is hard to remember was this very same trip. We can still bask in that a bit until the Abreuless, Lidleless, so-happy-they're-gone-they're-hot Phillies cut our lead to a single digit.

Gotta have something besides the steam rising up from the asphalt to sweat over, Mets fans.

The problem with being one of those bloggers who blogs virtually every day is when you take a little trip and decide you're not going to blog that you still think like a blogger. You hear stuff, you see stuff and it is your impulse to post stuff. But you don't 'cause you can't or you won't.

Honestly, it's not so much the substance that went wanting. That's what a two-man operation is for (thanks bro). It's all those headlines that zip through your brain as perfect to the occasion, but the occasion slips away and it's too soon to treat it like nostalgia.

Hence, in the interest of satisfying my own needs, I will share with whoever wants them, my slightly stale, possibly irrelevant headlines and accompanying explanations to make them somewhat useful.

Aw, Hail No!

A cab? A pitcher and a fucking cab? AGAIN?

Nady of Shea I Adored You

I have to admit I've had this one simmering for the right spot — walkoff hit, something like that — since April, albeit in the present tense. All you many accordion fans should get it without prompting. (Sometimes I think I should be writing for Joe Franklin.)

He Was The X-Man, Coo-Coo-Ca-Choo

Some weeks ago, my partner advised not falling in love with players to the point you can't bear to trade them if it's for the good of the team. As a practitioner traditionally guilty of just such sentiment, I nodded and thought, “Nady would be like that.” I could see myself, if he were ever swapped out, trying to balance the “he was really important to our big start” instinct with “in the big picture, he's an OK rightfielder and a No. 7 hitter”. But we weren't going to trade Xavier Nady this year, so it was going to be moot.

He's His Own Grandpa

Given an evening to reflect on the events of Monday — Sanchez freakishly (or perhaps flukily) injured, R. Hernandez repurposed, Oliver Perez not traded for Scott Linebrink despite what ESPNews kept reporting over and over and over again — this is what I came up with: We traded Mike Cameron and got a reliever we already had. That thinking is so 2005 and ignores a dozen variables, but it is the bottom line on which I landed. Also, as ever, I blame Heath Bell.

King of the N-Men

What bugs me the most (given that little bugs me with a 13-game lead) is that while the rest of the world dwelled on the X in Xavier, I was quite proud of noticing how few Mets there were with a last name that began with N, and Nady was about to trump the lot of them. He left with, what, 14 homers? Well, eleven previous Mets, including pitchers, had last names beginning with the letter N. Those N-Men combined to hit 25 homers in 1,357 Met at-bats. Before Nady 'nocked one out (vs. the Nats) on 4/3/06, no N-Met had gone deep since Jon Nunnally took Russ Ortiz into McCovey Cove on 5/3/00. If Xavier had hit 15 Met HRs, he would have surpassed Charlie Neal's lifetime team N-mark, set at Crosley Field on 6/15/63. Instead, like Marcus Giles and Atlanta's Wild Card aspirations, Nady and Neal will forever be kissing their sisters until we trade for Albert Nujols.

It's Like One Million Degrees

Speaking of whom, I was in St. Louis for the last three days. You think it's hot here? Well, it probably is, but St. Louis took the hot cake.

It's Like One Billion Degrees

How hot was it? I don't have a swift reply. It was too darn hot for that sort of thing (the Post-Dispatch ran a front-page story this morning about how nobody in town was in the mood for “hot enough for ya?” repartee). Every time we got into our hotel elevator, it posted the outdoor temperature and every time we looked, it was 102. That's not a temperature. That's a fever.

It's Like One Trillion Degrees

If it's the searing middle of summer and I've dragged my wife to a mid-sized American city, it can mean only one thing: Somebody opened a new ballpark. Stephanie agreed to visit Busch Stadium II — or III, depending on how you take your Sportsman's Park — in early May when it sounded charming. Then came that nasty heartland hurricane followed by bulletins of power outages followed by forecasts for like one trillion degrees. My wife has the prettiest eyes, but that's not to say they're not capable of transmitting the stare of death.

It Sure Holds The Heat Well

We conserved energy in St. Louis. No, we blasted the hotel AC at will (while allowing our home to rise to a WLIR-high of 92.7 degrees while we were away). I mean we left the midday sun, which was straight out of that Twilight Zone episode in which the earth is heading the wrong way, to mad dogs, Englishmen and Cardinal Nation. If I wanted Stephanie's company for the Wednesday night game, she insisted on the joys of room service and demurred my bright ideas about going over to the park and taking many looks around.

I See Red People

Fortunately, our hotel was directly across the street from Busch. By paying through the beak for the desired view, we could watch Tuesday night's game go on in virtual luxury box isolation. And what a view! We could see just about everything one needed to see, augmenting the silent tableau with the folksy radio call of Mike Shannon (whose classy eatery we visited and enjoyed if not as much as the pilgrimage we made to The Greatest Restaurant Chain Ever) and the professional pipes of John Rooney. Almost as good was the chance to stand sentry, peek out the curtain at odd hours and make sure nobody stole the stadium. We could see life go on from climate-controlled comfort. What Stephanie and I couldn't help but notice was how red everybody was. Not from the burn of Ol' Sol but in homage to their lord god bird. We knew this from watching St. Louis games on television for many years, but it really strikes you being in the heart of it. As Stephanie noted, for all the ballparks we've been to (30 for me, 22 for her…all with, uh, me), it's an unmatched phenomenon. Not wanting to fire the ire of the locals, she requested an evening's blue and orange amnesty to purchase a red shirt with a red bird. Sportsman that I am, I went out into the heat and bought it for her with the caveat that come a potential Met-Cardinal LDS/LCS, it is hidden deep in the closet along with that one snapshot she took of a baseball-related tickertape parade that passed beneath her office window in the late 1990s.

Soulless Cages

For those of you itching to plant yourself inside Sheabbets Field in three years and partake of all that retro goodness you've seen elsewhere, I'm here to report it's overrated if not delivered correctly. Though I found Cardinals fans' self-ballyhooment as the best in baseball to be as laughable as Jeff Weaver's pitching — they boo bad things, they cheer good things, they say lame things, they wear red things — I'm willing to concede the franchise's historical track record…or as Stephanie observed as we listened to Shannon, “Do you think he brings up Stan the Man every game?” For all its brickiness and Musial statuary, I didn't feel very much Cardinalogy in the new building. Busch II/III only has four months in the books and it's perfectly fair to assume you can't manufacture ballpark lore like Whitey's Rats could manufacture runs. Maybe it takes time, but they got it right in Baltimore and Pittsburgh and even Philadelphia. Something's missing in St. Louis. Something needs to happen in that stadium before it can truly be their home field; God forbid it's a pennant in 2006. Until then, it will remain a very nice piece from the retro catalogue and not a lot more. Keep that in mind as you kiss Bill Shea's playpen goodbye. Our current facility may not be objectively gorgeous, but like the round Busch that's not there anymore, its team's fans spent four decades imbuing it with soul to spare.

No News Is Good News

It was a good trip and perhaps more details will seep out should they seem pertinent to our ongoing discussions, but after three days of the oppressive Missouri suns (surely there was more than one) and monitoring Tony LaRussa's moods (they're not good) and keeping up with a trickle of crooked numbers from Miami (we're still in first by a ton, right?) and discovering that our prime setup man and starting rightfielder are now, respectively, a Pirate and a patient, home is the place to be: Pedro and Dontrelle, me and the couch, the remote and Snigh. Long-term, any baseball that isn't the Mets is for the birds.

Baseball, man — it'll kill ya.

Good luck teasing the storylines out of this one. First we pounded poor Ricky Nolasco, who must be seeing orange and blue ghosts in his sleep. Then — and it feels like we've done this too often — we went to sleep at the switch. 6-0 became 6-1 became 6-2 became 6-3 as the Marlins pecked away at Trachsel. Trachsel was Trachsel; Roberto Hernandez was unlucky, seeing a strikeout turn into a baserunner and his teammates let his runners score to make it 6-5; and David Wright…well. David Wright may be The New Franchise, but even The New Franchise isn't immune to slumps and wearing down during the dog days. Wright twice came to the plate with the bases loaded and nobody out, and came up empty both times. Ten men left on base. Ouch. Somebody please give the guy a breather.

Speaking of 23-year-old superstar third basemen, Wright and Miguel Cabrera sure had opposite games: Wright was hopeless at the plate, but made a sparkling play in the field; Cabrera drove in four, but managed the difficult trick of having a 3-for-5 night that he should be ashamed of. This Marlins team could be a beast pretty soon — they're young, talented and play hard. At least most of them do. Their All-Star third baseman, amazingly, routinely sulks and loafs his way through games. It was startling to see Cabrera get lectured about setting himself on throws in his own dugout; it was even more startling to note that the person delivering the well-earned lecture was Dontrelle Willis, a 24-year-old pitcher. Cabrera is far too good to play a game this beautiful this badly. Even though it benefited us tonight, it's a shame to see.

Back to our struggles: It didn't help that in the late innings we had to take on both the Marlins and the home-plate ump. Mike Reilly's incorrectly calling Jose Valentin out on a pickoff was excusable — bang-bang play, not a great angle — but Andy Fletcher didn't give Chad Bradford two pitches he deserved, and then gave Joe Borowski one he didn't. I kept waiting for the Andy Fletcher mask to get torn off and reveal the demonic visage of Angel Hernandez.

Even once Cliff had been excused for the night, I was hoping that Valentin might let us exhale by hitting one over the fence and setting up Heilman (very good once again) for a cakewalk save. But I knew better. Baseball being baseball, it had to come down to Billy Wagner back in the fire, didn't it?

C'mon, admit it: After Wes Helms singled and Wags somehow hit Brian Moehler, you thought we'd lost, didn't you? When Helms got on base I got up from my desk where I was listening to the radio and took up my sometimes-lucky post on the steps, but the thing I was keeping uppermost in my mind was this: When the Marlins tie it or beat us, don't wake up Emily and Joshua screaming obscenities.

But somehow Billy found his location (and wasn't distracted by the odd sight of Joe Girardi pinch-running for a pinch-runner, something I'm pretty sure I've never seen before) and also found a little luck. Hanley Ramirez couldn't bunt, he fanned Dan Uggla, and then here came Cabrera, doing the one baseball-related thing he reliably cares about doing. That rising fastball was a thing of beauty — kept the back pages safe for Billy, our butterflies at bay and snuffed talk (at least for now) of any kind of post-Braves letdown.

Great game — once we had it won.

On Another Front: I was heartened to see the Mets send Pelfrey down and hand the fifth starter's spot (at least for now) to Maine, particularly since I figured they'd do the opposite. To me, this wasn't a question of 17 scoreless innnings and rotational justice — ask Aaron Heilman about that — so much as it was about choosing strategy over splash, something the Mets haven't always been good at. Maine has the kind of swing-and-miss stuff that's scarce in our rotation right now, and wouldn't seem to have a lot left to prove in AAA. If he can build on what's been a successful year so far, he might have an important role to play in the postseason — and I don't think there's a better way for him to study up than to get repeated, relatively low-pressure starts.

Pelfrey is in his first months as a professional, and obviously looks like a big piece of our future. We can see that, and we don't need an extended audition to be reminded of it or to be convinced to come to the ballpark. But he's not ready: Like a lot of young pitchers, his primary battle is still against himself, and his to-do list begins with harnessing his other pitches and refining the location on his fastball. The big leagues isn't the place for him to do that — not yet, and not if it comes at the expense of what Maine needs to do. Pelfrey will be back, but for now, it was right for him to go. Good move by the Mets.

One of my many little rituals is to wave my hand around during save opportunities to show how many outs there are, as if I'm an extra infielder signalling to the outfield. (I even use the index finger and the pinkie on two outs, I've taught Joshua to do the same, and I've explained to him why you can't just hold up two fingers like a normal person. Yes, I am mentally ill.)

So. Miguel Olivo leads off the ninth with a single. Then Wes Helms bunts him over. OK, fine, a hit ties it, but two productive outs won't get it done. So go get 'em Billy. Oh, and here's the first finger up for my imaginary outfielders to see. One out. Here comes Josh Willingham to pinch-hit. Wagner rears back and fires and…oops. The masters of the walk-off have just been walked-off.

You can't tell what the important parts of a story are until the story's done; with that in mind, the first inning should have been the canary in the coalmine. With Reyes on first, Lo Duca hits one 430 feet — into the glove of Alfredo Amezaga, who would have had to buy a ticket to catch it if he weren't playing in a half-assed conversion of a football stadium. (Someone move this damn team to San Antonio already!) By all rights it should be 2-0 with none out; instead it's 0-0 with one out. So Beltran doubles, Reyes trips over third, and suddenly there are two Mets converging on third base. Beltran loses this particular real-estate dilemma, and now by all rights it should be 2-0 with none out and a runner on second, but instead it's still 0-0, only with two out. And I'm wondering why I'd been so eager to see baseball, since it's obviously designed to torture and bedevil.

Then Delgado singles before Wright strikes out (our Boy Wonder looks like he needs a breather) and we've done it the hard way, but at least we've done it. Dame Fortune's reminded us she can spit in our eye if she wishes, and having proved her point will obviously now step aside like the well-bred lady she's been of late.

Then Pelfrey does a nice job getting a scoreless inning under his belt, giving up a Mike Jacobs single but then getting Miguel Cabrera to hit one straight at the newly arrived Milledge. Except Milledge doesn't catch the ball. Cody Ross promptly doubles to tie the game, and if not for the fact that Cabrera isn't playing hard, we should be down 2-1. OK, Dame Fortune, I'm paying attention again.

There was a lot to like later in this game. Beltran is a one-man offensive show right now, Lo Duca is on a tear, and best of all Pelfrey showed some good off-speed stuff and did a terrific job getting through the sixth, punching out Olivo and Amezaga. Bradford and Heilman were flawless on Day One Post-Sanchez, and thanks to Reyes, Pelfrey would have been in line for a gritty-if-not-pretty win.

But that was before Wagner threw a fastball that missed by “about 17 inches.” On further review, Dame Fortune let us know how this one would go way back in the first, didn't she?

Sheesh, we went through the ringer today and didn't even play a game.

First Duaner Sanchez — fearless, fist-pumping, goggle-wearing Duaner Sanchez — was out for the year. Now he may not be. 50-50 he'll need surgery, Omar says. Regardless of the outcome, word of the injury forced the front office into a hurry-up offense on the trading front. When a last-minute deal fell through, the final tally was Xavier Nady departing, Oliver Perez arriving (and immediately heading for Norfolk), Roberto Hernandez returning, and Lastings Milledge reappearing.

You have to assume Sanchez won't be back until 2007, but let's not panic. Bert was awfully good for us last year and has decent numbers this year — and he's the kind of player one would expect to find another gear now that he's been airlifted off the roof of the Pirate embassy. And if Bert can't handle the eighth-inning role? Well, Aaron Heilman's looked better of late, and Pedro Feliciano and Chad Bradford have been trustworthy. Who says they can't step it up a notch? And if they can't, there are intriguing players a phone call away — a revitalized Royce Ring, Heath Bell and his always-tantalizing peripherals, Henry Owens having had a taste of the Show, maybe Perez if he can find his 2004 form. If that doesn't work? Come October we're not going to need five starters. Steve Trachsel's too much a creature of habit for pen work, but Orlando Hernandez has shown he can handle it. You're telling me there's no way John Maine could prove valuable in October? Or Mike Pelfrey? Even the forgotten Brian Bannister may have something to add to this equation before it's completed — Bannister turned in a glittering rehab start in St. Lucie tonight.

None of this is on a level with seeing Jason Schmidt in orange and blue (or Dontrelle or Zito, if you were really thinking big), but that dream was dashed when Duaner Sanchez's taxi crashed. Fortunately, we're not exactly in a dogfight here. We have a 14-game lead over the Phillies, who just raised the white flag; 14.5 over the up-and-coming but still-too-young Marlins, and 15 over the stiffening corpse of the Braves. We have far-from-bad options internally, and time to find answers.

And if there is no answer in-house? Again, no need to panic: After today I trust Omar even more.

Dontrelle Willis and Barry Zito probably weren't ever in the cards. But according to various reports, Sunday night Omar was working on a three-way deal that would have gotten us Roy Oswalt — not Cliff Floyd's best pal, but 29, an All-Star and signed through '07 –for Milledge. Then Omar was forced to scramble, so he moved quickly and creatively, swapping Nady for Bert and Perez with an eye toward turning around and trading Perez and Bell to the Padres for hard-throwing lefty specialist Scott Linebrink.

That deal fell apart, apparently when the Padres blinked, but even so, it's pretty impressive for an audible. I doubt the San Diego trade can be resurrected — it's hard to imagine Linebrink, Bell or Perez getting through waivers — but considering how close he came, I have faith Omar will find a way if a way needs to be found. And if there is no way, if the current roster is what we head into October with? After Jose Valentin and Darren Oliver, I trust Omar's eye. Besides, remember how we got Sanchez. Anybody miss Jae Seo?

Yes, it's true. Xavier Nady's been sent to Pittsburgh for Roberto Hernandez and Oliver Perez. Shame to see Nady go — one would assume Lastings is now on the way back, though his tenure at Norfolk hasn't exactly been sterling. Bert we know. Perez has been putrid this year — but won 12 games a year ago with a sparkling sub-3 ERA and is only 24.

Still, this is a case of the latest news not being the real news: The trade was required because Duaner Sanchez was in a car accident last night after arriving in Miami. The good news from a human perspective: There's no indication he was badly hurt in any kind of beyond-professional way. The awful news from a Met perspective: Separated shoulder, surgery today, done for the year. (Update: Maybe not done for the year. No surgery yet. Fingers and toesies.)

Fuck.

Just…fuck.

More reaction later, after the cloud of fear lifts or, more likely, remains in place and becomes choking. In the meantime, carry on….

It just didn't matter.

If we had found a way to lose to the Braves on Sunday, the ay-Met corner would have been terribly upset, but the Mets themselves would've been…what? Only 13 games in front of them? Only 12-1/2 in front of somebody else?

The beauty part of the sweep was, except for clearing aside the lingering relevance of some ugly history, we didn't need to beat the Braves. We've so overwhelmed them and everybody else in our way that one game in late July was one game in late July.

But they, the Braves, needed it. They needed a lot more, but if they got this one, they could have continued merrily along their self-delusional path to oblivion. They just would have gotten there a day later, but who here didn't want to knock them into the side of the road at the first possible turn?

We, the fans, needed it. No further elaboration is required. Those of us who poured out of subways fumbling for a radio when Sunday's game began and tumbled off of couches in something suspiciously like tears when it ended understood the significance of this sweep. It didn't have to conclude with the newest Brave gnat getting thrown out stealing with two out, down by four in the ninth, but that it did was an exclamation point made of delicious chocolate puddin'. It signaled that not only are we way better than them but that they, at long last, are way worse than us.

Our guys? They only needed it as far as they demanded it. When the Braves were mouthing that silliness about the Mets looking over their shoulders at them (as Harold Stassen, no doubt, assessed many a presidential front-runner's preoccupation with him post-1948), I believe it insulted the Mets. You really think Lo Duca or Beltran or Delgado was at all impressed on Friday that Atlanta was still mathematically alive? Despite having lived through the last several chapters of Brave abuse, can you imagine Wright or Reyes or Pedro giving a good goddamn? Pedro intimidated by Atlanta's previous successes? Oh, that's funny.

But talk about your classic bulletin board material. P-Lo's very definitive statement about putting it to them and concluding the competitive portion of their season, you'll notice, didn't come until the final game was the next game. This is a real take 'em one at a time outfit we've got. They didn't speak until the time was right. And afterwards? Serious as a summons, Beltran spoke of going to Miami and continuing to play well. I imagine the Marlins aren't saying stupid things and that the Phillies (so delighted to have pawned Abreu and Lidle off on some deep-pocketed sucker that they swept two Sunday) will keep their lips zipped this week. Technically they are our competitors. But really, as co-tenants of a division that was so soul-crushingly boring for so long, shouldn't they greet us as liberators?

Quick aside on Beltran: Remember the winter Tuesday when he was officially welcomed as a Met? He had the morning press conference and then everybody packed up and took off over the Triborough for the afternoon freak show where Randy Johnson was let out of his cage. Johnson grabbed the back page (following the front page he earned for assaulting a cameraman), but who do you think announced the smarter deal that January 11, 2005?

Ancient stuff, I know, just like the House of Horrors hype in Atlanta. Horrors, schmorrors; Turner Field is the House of Happy from now on — as in don't worry, be massively elated (it was kind of our slogan back in '88, the last time we knew how to run the East). Yeah, Glavine's a bit of a mess, but some pitcher always is and somebody always picks up the slack. Another arm? A lefty bat? If you can do it, Omar, go ahead — just don't do anything rash. Not that I doubt you.

Not that I doubt any of you. I'd ride each and every one of you to October without hesitation. You're the 2006 Mets. You don't play other teams. Other teams play you. We've been waiting 18, maybe 20 years for a setup like this and now we've got it. You're the guys who got us here. I am confident you can take us anywhere we want to go.

Me, I'm gonna go do me some advance scouting for a couple of days. I'll catch up with the tour real soon.

“War is cruelty. There's no use trying to reform it. The crueler it is, the sooner it will be over.” — Gen. William Tecumseh Sherman.

“Our goal coming in was to end their season.” — Paul Lo Duca.

Forget battling or moral victories or taking them one game at a time and the good Lord willing things working out. Like Sherman, Lo Duca came down to these parts intending to make Georgia howl. Like Sherman, he wasn't shy about saying so. Like Sherman, he and his comrades delivered on that promise.

The Atlanta Braves are now in fourth place in the NL East, 15 games out. When they began this star-crossed weekend, they had three teams to jump over to claim the NL wild card. Now there are nine teams to beat for that honor. On Friday morning, with the trade deadline looming, they were buyers. Now, they're sellers.

These 2006 Mets never held any particular fear of the Braves. No, that was for the unruly band of camp followers known as the Met beat writers (Sherman detested reporters as spies; I get the feeling Willie L. Randolph isn't too far removed from that position) and, of course, the vast mass of fans like us whose emotions the beat writers channel and focus. Only now there's no reason for any of us to be afraid, either.

Whatever happens the rest of 2006, this is unexplored territory for those of us outside the white lines. Consider: The last time the Braves didn't win a division title, it was 1990. Buddy Harrelson was our manager. Eight '86 Mets were still on the roster. There was still a Soviet Union. Nelson Mandela was freed. Buster Douglas beat Mike Tyson. David Wright and Jose Reyes were seven. (Julio Franco was 32.) Faith and Fear? There wasn't even a World Wide Web.

Oh, yes, it was a long time ago. It was before they barged into the NL East, before Jay Payton was tagged out at third, before Bobby Cox decided Neagle and Millwood had to follow Glavine in a meaningless September game for Atlanta, before Steve Avery hit Jose Vizcaino “right in the fuckin' knee” (as Dallas Green was captured by shotgun mike explaining to the entire television audience) and Bobby Jones did fuckin' nothing about it, before Ryan Klesko and Eddie Perez and Bobby and Rickey playing cards and Kenny Rogers throwing ball four and Gerald Williams trotting home, before Maddux and Glavine got 115,847 slightly outside pitches called strikes (and the Braves still got caught cheating by setting down illegal dimensions for the catcher's box), before Angel Hernandez and Michael Fucker, before Benitez and Franco, before Brian Jordan, before John Rocker and his enemies list, before Chipper named his kid Shea, before Bobby Cox's first unconvincing protestation that he didn't hate Bobby Valentine or the Mets, before Cox thought it was cute to send a pitcher named Bong to pinch-hit against Grant Roberts, before Braden Looper managed to blow a save twice in one night, before Turner Field became a house of horrors, before there ever was a Turner Field. It was before all of these terrible, horrible things that I was able to cough up from some wounded place inside me inside of 10 seething minutes. It was before all the terrible, horrible things not on my list that you'd be able to cough up in that same period of time.

And now it's done.

I went into this series trying not to get too amped up. Ha. Even after taking two out of three, this afternoon I came off the subway shortly after the start and nearly dropped the kid in fumbling to get the radio on in the fewest possible number of nanoseconds. I tuned in just in time to hear “…and yet another grand slam for Carlos Beltran.” Jubilation on Jay Street! And then, when Glavine crumbled, you'd have thought it was the last day of 1998 and the Mets were lined up along the dugout rail watching the postseason vanish — I was apoplectic with rage. There was no way two out of three was good enough, not today, not in 2006, not after everything that's come before. Two out of three? After playing Washington Generals to their Harlem Globetrotters for 12 years? After the humiliations of being Wile E. Coyote while they smirked and twitched their eyebrows through life as the Road Runner for 12 years?

Hell no it wouldn't be enough.

So maybe today wasn't quite as hegemonic as we would have liked, but it's done and they're done and the ghosts are exorcised. (And there were bonuses, such as every shot of Bobby Cox twisting in impotent rage on the bench, or Andruw Jones proving repeatedly that he's the worst great player in the game.) As we've gone speeding through the summer and more and more of us have gotten up the courage to whisper and then calmly say and then not-so-calmly shout that the Braves aren't going to catch us, some of us have gone a step further and expressed a certain guilty regret — wouldn't it have been more satisfying to throw them off the mountaintop in a showdown at the end of September?

Well, I suppose. But after 12 years of being tied to the tracks while the Braves twisted the end of their mustache, after 12 years of getting run over by the goddamn train every time, I'm not going to complain that the bad guy had lost his pistols and fallen in a ravine by the time we got there to administer the coup de grace. We've got the deed to the ranch now, and that's all that matters.

Mission accomplished. Atlanta's in smoking ruins at our back. This blue-and-orange army is marching to Miami.

Now?

Now.

WOH-OH-OH!

OH!

OH-OH-OH-OH-OH!

WOH-OH-OH!

OH!

OH-OH-OH-OH-OH!

WOH-OH-OH!

OH!

OH-OH-OH-OH-OH!

You can't see it, but, also, I'm chopping while I'm typing.

Chop along at home. It's fun!

Especially if you've been waiting since 1997.

Bruce Sutter's induction into the National Baseball Hall of Fame today is well deserved and not much of a surprise. Tom Seaver's induction into the same august body fourteen years ago this Wednesday was more deserved and less surprising.

Tom Seaver's induction into the Cincinnati Reds Hall of Fame two weeks ago was shocking.

Tom Seaver was a Red for about 5-2/3 seasons. He won 75 games for them, pitched a no-hitter and started the only playoff opener they had during his tenure. Good stuff, but in Met terms, he was somewhere between Bobby Jones and Al Leiter for the Reds. I'll bet the Mets never induct Bobby Jones into their Hall and that Al will be waiting a while.

Don't the Reds, with roots reaching back to 1869 (the current franchise's continuous National League participation actually dates to 1890), have enough Red legends of their own to fill a Hall? Maybe not. They beat us to existence by 93 years, yet have only three more world championships to show for it — and that's counting 1919, when the other team wasn't trying particularly hard to beat them.

The Reds began their Hall of Fame in 1958 and have inducted 64 players, managers and executives. One-quarter of them, including Seaver, are righthanded starters. Of the other fifteen, none is Tom Seaver.

It is clear that Cincinnati is less choosy than we are. Seaver contemporaries Jack Billingham, Jim Maloney, Gary Nolan and Mario Soto are all in. Do they strike you at first glance as Hall of Famers? Even team Hall of Famers? Jose Rijo is the Reds HOFer of most recent vintage. Jose Rijo? With no offense to these pitchers or their Cincy righty predecessors (Ewell Blackwell, Dolf Luque, Bob Purkey among them), Tom Seaver — even not quite six years of Tom Seaver — is the greatest righthanded pitcher they've ever had.

I don't bring this up to take gratuitous shots at another organization. Actually, I applaud a team that understands its history is made up of many memorable components and remain disgusted that voting for the Mets' Hall of Fame has fallen into oblivion.

The last Met to be honored with a bust in a case on the Diamond Club level — well out of general public view — was Tommie Agee four years ago, one year after his passing, or long after he could have enjoyed it. Ten years ago, the first primarily '80s-era Met, Mookie Wilson, was inducted. A year later, Keith Hernandez followed. Four years blew by before somebody thought to immortalize Gary Carter. Assuming they don't pull a surprise and place a wreath on the head of a deserving '86er on August 19, that means we'll have had two inductees in an eight-season span.

Disgraceful. Absolutely, positively disgraceful. This franchise, with 45 years to its credit, does not lack for candidates. It does not cheapen the institution to cast a slightly wider net than has been used to capture for eternity only 21 individuals.

1 Owner

1 Lawyer

1 President

1 General manager

2 Field managers

3 Announcers

12 Players

I don't know if it's neglect or internal politics or that maddening assumption that nobody cares, but in a season when the Mets are doing so many things right, this remains a blot.

The Reds found 64 persons to call Hall of Famers. The Orioles, whose modern tenure as a big-league club runs only eight years longer than the Mets', boast 53, including newcomers Doug DeCinces and Chris Hoiles. DeCinces and Hoiles? I wouldn’t have thought of them, but I'm not an Orioles fan. I'm a Mets fan, and I'd think of a lot of Mets and those with Mets ties…

Ron Swoboda, Ron Hunt, Rube Walker, Jane Jarvis, Yogi Berra, Jon Matlack, Joe Pignatano, Felix Millan, Bob Scheffing, Bob Mandt, Craig Swan, Frank Thomas, Al Jackson, Donn Clendenon, Richie Ashburn, Wayne Garrett, Jack Lang, Karl Ehrhardt, Dave Kingman, Steve Henderson, Doug Flynn, Hubie Brooks, Nolan Ryan

…to consider inducting even before opening the floodgates and making room for those associated with 1986.

They're missing a great opportunity and failing to do the right thing by not activating a great piece of historical equity. I don't know who's responsible for this massive oversight, but I certainly hope someone's appointed to take up the task very, very soon. During one of the Mets' games in Cincinnati, SNY showed the Reds' physical Hall of Fame and it looked like a doozy, like the product of a team that cares about its past, which is to say cares about its fans. That same week, I was in Baltimore and stopped by the new home of the Orioles Hall of Fame, right next door to Camden Yards, and it, too, was a shrine to behold. I sincerely hope the stadium that won't be named Shea will make proper space for a Mets of Hall of Fame and pay proper homage to more Mets Hall of Famers.

As impassioned as I'm feeling on this topic, it's not even my primary thought at the moment. My thinking is focused on that new Cincinnati Red Hall of Famer, that old New York Mets Hall of Famer Tom Seaver. Any day is a good day for a Mets fan to think about Tom Seaver. Today, Hall of Fame Day, it's mandatory.

How's he doin'?

Seriously, I have no idea. I don't mean from a health standpoint. I assume he's fine. My glimpses this year have portrayed a fit enough 61-year-old. But those glimpses have been distant, fleeting and a little discomfiting.

Remember what a big deal it was when Tom Seaver was welcomed back into the Met fold before the 1999 season? The greatest of Mets had been estranged from the Mets since his own 1988 Mets HOF induction and number-retirement. He came back for a night in his honor when he made it to Cooperstown (highest percentage of the vote ever, it always bears repeating) in 1992, but it rained and the ceremony at Shea was kind of half-assed and they rescheduled a second one and he didn't show. He made himself scarce for the 25th anniversary activities of the '69 Mets in '94, at least those on the field. So it was not a little thing that Tom Seaver was coming home in '99.

Of course as the Mets were never given the benefit of the doubt then, the story wasn't Tom was going to be a broadcaster and pitching advisor/genius, but that they were firing Tim McCarver for being hypercritical and that Tom would be a company man in the booth. Seaver sat behind a mic for seven seasons on Channel 11 and chatted half-interestedly about pitching and what Jerry Koosman once said and occasionally offered praise for this or that “young man” on the field. Seaver wasn't a terrible announcer. He wasn't terribly engaged either. As for the other portion of his gig, he touched down in Port St. Lucie each March to impart wisdom to the pitchers, usually the righties. Never heard whether anything he said was put into action.

When SNY formed, they didn't come right out and say whether Seaver was going to be a part of their broadcasts. They named their team of Cohen, Hernandez and Darling, but left dangling the possibility that old hand Seaver and older hand Ralph Kiner would have a role. Ralph has appeared on odd Fridays and it's been reassuring. Seaver slipped almost completely out of sight.

His one headsetted television appearance during a game was downright bizarre. It came during the first Subway Series contest at Shea. He had been making the rounds that day in the way ex-players, particularly ex-great players, do. He was doing his best Kaz Matsui impression, popping up all over the place. I caught him on Joe Benigno early in the afternoon, excited for a second, disappointed the second I realized Hall of Famers who aren't in general circulation generally only make appearances to plug something. Indeed, Tom came on with Joe to let it be known that Mets fans could swipe a magnetic strip of some sort and pay for their overpriced concession purchases quick as you please. Whatever fawning questions Benigno asked (I'm not criticizing — I'd fawn, too) were bracketed by softballs to Seaver about the strip.

Great, I thought. Tom Seaver has become the ultimate Shea Stadium credit card hawker. I wondered if he'd be enticing passersby with complimentary towels and thin nylon jackets.

Tom materialized on the SNY pregame show that evening and then slid into the WB11 booth alongside Gary and Ron. He was wearing one of those dead-giveaway golf shirts. It featured the credit card sponsor's logo, meaning that Tom wasn't just coming by to say “hi” or dissect Jeremi Gonzalez's mechanics. Gary was going to have greet him with great curiosity about that magnetic strip. He was going to have to do it twice. And he did while managing to elicit a brief update of Seaver doings and Seaver thoughts.

Tom's visit lasted a half-inning. When the third out was made, Gary asked, as a matter of course, if Tom wouldn't mind sticking around for the next half-inning. Everybody sticks around for the next half-inning. The King of Sweden sticks around for the next half-inning. Yet without so much as a “thanks but I can't,” Tom insisted he had a car waiting to take him to Manhattan. And he left.

You're gonna tell me a Hall of Famer was gonna lose his ride — presumably idling outside the ballpark where he became a Hall of Famer — if he stayed for another 10 minutes? And that even if he was somehow stranded on Roosevelt Avenue, he couldn't use his credit card connections to hire another car?

I never read an explanation, thus was compelled to infer that Tom Seaver isn't all that interested in being the Met icon of Met icons these days. I don't remember him making his annual appearance as pitching guru in St. Lucie. He wasn't throwing out first balls early in the year. During the Baltimore-Cincinnati homestand, however, I did spot him on TV once, dropping by a Diamond View Suite as a special treat for a fan; once on DiamondVision, joining Rusty Staub in visiting a senior center in Brooklyn; and once on my computer, doing a mets.com chat in which I learned, among other things, that being in the Hall of Fame “is better than a sharp stick in the eye!” Tom was around, then he wasn't, leading me to divine that he must have a deal to be an intermittent goodwill ambassador, which is what Staub (another former Mets broadcaster, in case you've forgotten) has been for several years.

Nice work if you can get it.

It appears Tom Seaver is still part of the family, so if he's at the Sutter ceremonies today, I doubt he'll be sneaking away to scratch the NY off his plaque. That he's chosen to be detached uncle instead of patriarch…well, I suppose he's entitled to the rest of his life. Still, I hope he inches back to center stage for all our heritage occasions, that when the serious part of October dawns that Tom is on the mound for at least one ceremonial fling…that when spring breaks next year that maybe Mike Pelfrey or Phil Humber takes a tip or two from Tom…that when they get around to inducting the next Mets Hall of Famer that it is Tom who acts as emcee…that it is Tom Seaver who peels the final number off the right field wall in September 2008 and accepts the most thunderous ovation next door in April 2009. It doesn't feel right having a franchise without The Franchise.

I'm not being dreamy about Tom Seaver. I've heard the stories that he's not the warmest immortal on the block; I've also heard he's a perfectly fine fellow, so who knows? Better yet, who cares? I'm a member of an exceedingly large club of Mets fans who count him as their all-time favorite baseball player, albeit in the presumably slim subsegment that doesn't aspire to shake his hand or tell him he was my hero. I don't have to. I saw him pitch.

I just want to keep seeing him every now and then is all.

When the Mets had the same three announcers for their first seventeen seasons, it was rare that Lindsey Nelson or Bob Murphy or Ralph Kiner ever missed a game. But on the last weekend of July 1975, Ralph had to excuse himself. He had business in Cooperstown, his own overdue induction into the National Baseball Hall of Fame. As the Mets were home that Sunday, Ralph had to record, in advance, a Kiner's Korner instead of doing it live after the game. His guest was Tom Seaver, booked on the premise that Tom, like Ralph, would be enshrined upstate one of these days.

Seaver was in ninth season then, but there was no doubt. We couldn't have known there'd be a detour to Cincinnati and other outposts or that his relationship with the Mets would go awry more than once. But we did know he'd always be great and he'd always be ours.