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.

Hello? Is there somebody there? Are you at the screen door? Well, nice of you to visit. Won't you come in? No, it's no bother.

You must be quite hot on a day like this. So humid of late. It feels a little too close to be comfortable. I would love to offer you a cold glass of tea but I'm afraid the icebox doesn't cool like it used to. I hope you'll forgive its tepid nature. Perhaps I could fry you up some of those green tomatoes from out back. Oh wait, we don't grow those here anymore. I don't think I've had one since the Krispy Kreme closed. Or am I thinkin' of somethin' else?

Please forgive an old woman her lapses and her occasional eccentricities. It hasn’t been easy here this year. My right arm doesn't work as good as it used to either. All that choppin'.

This place is a mess and I apologize for that. The lawn is unsightly, the kudzu is chokin' everything in sight and too many things to identify by name leak slowly. But I like it here. It reminds me of the good times.

We don't have many visitors anymore. It's the war, you know. The War of Northern Aggression. Those horrible Metropolitans and their overtly vicious way of runnin' and hittin' and pitchin' and catchin'. I'm afraid it's simply taken a toll on our beloved Southland.

Oh, but never mind that right now. I do hope you can set a spell and catch up. Tell me, have you heard from my cousin Leopold? Leopold used to be such good company, the way he'd lean forward and lean back and lean forward and lean back. I do declare that man could lean every which way but still!

You haven't heard from him, though, have you? I miss my cousin Leopold. I hear tell he took off for one of the border states…Maryland, I think. Things just haven't been the same without him.

Would you like to look at some photographs? I have the albums right here. I confess I took them down from their shelf when the summer began and have neglected to return them to their rightful place. Since The War of Northern Aggression took hold, there are days when these photographic images are all I have for comfort.

Oh, would you look at that? Look how fresh and young our boys were then! Those crisp white shirts, those neat navy caps with the red brims. Mmm. Look, there's Mad Dog. We all laughed when we called him that because there was nothin' angry about that boy. He was so quiet, but Lord, he was special. Special as the day was long. He's gone now. Gone to one of those cities with the ivy.

That's Tommy. We don't talk about him anymore.

Oh, will you look at this one? Little Johnny Rocker! Oh, so young, so precious. My, how I thought that left arm of his would go on forever. I suppose he said a few things those ungodly Metropolitans didn't care for and it got him into a bit of hot water. Oh my! Now, I'm not sayin' I agreed with Johnny, but he sure was fun to have around. Surely nothin' to lose your religion over.

There's General Cox, lookin' so handsome, so determined. Right next to my cousin Leopold. This must have been taken a good dozen years ago by now. I lose track of the calendar, so I may be off a little, but I do believe that's when we emerged triumphant in the Battle of Ohio. That was our world championship. Just the one. To realize there is only one is enough to give an old woman the vapors, I do declare.

The years have blended one after another, one after another. At first, it was easy to remember. We had so little in our beloved Southland. Then the winnin' came and it simply continued. I know, some might say we were spoiled, that we thought our paradise would endure like the sun in the sky on the first night of summer. Mmm.

Oh, take a look at this album. The photographs in here, see? This was when our Metropolitan friends were civilized. You could invite them down for a weekend and they would behave so hospitably you would almost think they were sweet southern boys themselves.

There's that nice young man who had political aspirations, always smilin', always chattin'. So polite. Did you know he came down here one autumn evenin' and allowed our boys to score at will? So thoughtful.

And there's that catcher they used to have. He could ruffle a few feathers with his occasional deep fly balls and such, but you knew when he was around nothin' bad was goin' to become of us. Always minded his manners. Even that colonel they had, the one with the name sort of like a heart, wasn't it? Yes, Valentine, that was it. I didn't particularly care for him, but when he was in charge, those fellas never caused any lastin' damage.

It's not like that now. Those nasty Metropolitans cause nothin' but trouble. I don't like it. I don't like it at all. Forgive my language but they are ill-mannered beasts, every last one of them. The catcher they have today? He's nothin' like that fine, upstandin' young man with the mustache. He just keeps playin' and keeps hittin' — it's offensive!

And I don't like that man in centerfield. He catches everything and he hits everything and he doesn't seem at all slowed down by anything! I wouldn't say this too loudly, but I fear he may be every bit as good as our Andruw…maybe better.

I liked it when they would travel here with those outfielders who didn't quite know where they were goin' next. Oh, remember that young man who went to college right here in Georgia? Payson was his name? What's that? Yes, Payton! That Payton was such a charmin' boy. Did you know he once kept runnin' all the way to third base with two out when it was clear he was goin' to make it three out? Oh my, I still smile at that memory.

It's all memories now. Our Brian Jordan and all those home runs that always seemed so dramatic. Our Eddie Perez and all those hits that always seemed so surprisin'. Our startin' pitchin' and those wins. Mmm.

Memories, just memories now. Those unconscionable Metropolitans have seen to that. For fourteen consecutive summers, we knew we could count on the early autumn meanin' somethin' to us. The early autumn might not have lasted long, and we may not have turned out to see the festivities it wrought, but it was to be depended upon, like a beautiful spring cotillion. Now there is so little to be depended upon.

I blame those dratted Metropolitans. No sir, I do not care for that new man in charge of their brigade, that Colonel Randolph. He is unsmilin' and unyieldin'. What happened to that other colonel they had, after the fella with the heart name? Who? Why? Was that it? No, Howe, that's right. Colonel Howe. What a gentleman! Never would think of upstagin' our home team. I suppose he's gone, too, just like my Cousin Leopold.

The pitchers these awful Metropolitans bring with them, I must say I don't care for their likes either. That young man who had been sick for a month who had the bad manners to re-enter the battle just last night? I thought he was showin' us the common courtesy of allowin' us several runs and would then stand aside. But instead, he just stubbornly, stubbornly wouldn't give in. I am not one to criticize, but bad manners will raise my ire. I feel the same today as regards that fella with the royal blood. I'm sorry, I'm not so good with names anymore. He's a count of some sort…or a duke…a Duque, yes, thank you. That Duque was even more impolite than the fella last night. Why, he drove in nearly as many runs as he permitted!

I miss that young man with the political aspirations. He would never stand in the way of our success.

I had such high hopes for our boys. So many of them are from these parts, you know? Alas, our crops have been trampled by all that awful artillery those savage Metropolitans brought with them. They never used to do that. They were the friendliest people. Oh, do you recall that great big bear of a man they would bring in to finish games? Those games got finished, but not nearly to their likin'! Mmm.

It's all over now. Our precious way of life is in ruins. There will be no October here, not even an early October. Our Chipper is in pain and our Betemit has been dispatched to the west and our Colonel Cox has lost that golden ability to strategize and all our homegrown crops…sapped of their usefulness. My cousin Leopold is gone. Mad Dog is gone. Johnny Rocker is gone. I haven't seen Johnny Smoltz since I don't know when either. The only thing we have around here for succor is the distant revvin' of automobile engines drownin' out what's left of our faint tomohawk chant. Those fast cars seem to make our people happy now. It takes their minds off The War of Northern Aggression.

You must be tired of listenin' to an old woman ramble on so, but dear, you have to understand. For me, it was always baseball. Atlanta Braves baseball. It wasn't the most popular pastime here, but it was the best we had to offer. Now, no matter what the boys say about how they're fightin' for one more division flag, it is gone. Gone with the Metropolitans and their enormous, pretentious lead.

Mmm. I do declare.

What other men require a trip to St. Lucie or Norfolk for, Pedro Martinez does in Atlanta.

What other men take a series of games for, Pedro achieves in an inning.

What other men hope will lead them to a gradual recovery, Pedro uses to morph almost instantly into Pedro.

Jesus, he's good.

Friday night was made up of many beautiful parts, but perhaps the loveliest was watching Mr. Martinez become Mr. Martinez as our lonely eyes turned to him. He was terrible in the first and I was terribly concerned — Petey! This ain't your homecoming game no more! — then I remembered he was entering the game cold. There were no rehab starts, just this real one.

Pedro completed all of his rehabilitation in one inning.

Why one inning?

Because any less and The Man wouldn't be human.

Zito? Willis? Maddux? You're kidding, right? After the first inning, we reacquired an ace…our own.

After he got past the first and settled down in the second, it was essentially over. A Martinez who wasn't injured wasn't going to lose to a Ramirez whatever that guy's health was. This was a Pedro night. Can't think of a better place for him to have it.

Oh those Braves. Those Braves fans. They said this was the largest crowd ever to attend a baseball game in Atlanta. Larger than Henry Aaron's 715th? Larger than any number of World Series games? Of course it was. Was it because Braves fans are wired into their Wild Card — excuse me, division title — race? That they really appreciate the comeback their team is attempting to effect? That they see this series as the beginning of a historic march through Georgia and back to the top? That they relish the scintillating rivalry between their Braves and our Mets? That as keenly insighted baseball fans, they were extremely interested in witnessing one of the great pitchers of our time make his first start in a month?

Nah. It was NASCAR Night. And fireworks afterwards. Maybe it was half-off Cokes when you fear a red fannypack, too. Despite losing 6-4, I'll bet they derived exactly as much baseball-related enjoyment from the evening as they did when the Braves regularly resided in first place instead of where they claim they are now: storming toward it like white lightning.

I'd let you know how close to the Mets the Braves have crept, except that's a lot of numbers to crunch and I'm kind of tired.

Think NASCAR draws a single soul more to its dusty tracks on Braves Night?

Real shame about Larry Jones. Seriously. You know my Commandments, particularly this one:

Don't Root For Injuries. In Game Five of the 1988 NLCS at Shea, Kirk Gibson slid into second and came up in obvious pain. Mets fans cheered. There, I thought, that's it, we're screwed. Be a human being about these things. Wish no pain on anyone. Wish they enjoy a pain-free three-month stay on the DL instead.

Thus, when LJ reaggravated his Chipping muscle and agonizingly lurched to the dugout, I did not laugh or guffaw or chuckle or giggle or hoot. No way, not me. The “Get Well” bouquet, however, may have missed the last DHL truck of the night.

Whenever the television shows the Turner Field bullpens, I can't help but notice the large food court trash cans prominently placed behind the mound. They're the Ted's version of Florida's Soilmaster sacks, but tidier. You can't miss them. I wonder…do they represent some sort of subliminal message about the messes Atlanta relievers create? Are they telling us the whole season's been a waste? That the Braves refuse to be refuse?

After Friday night's six-pitcher loss to the Mets, they announced they had picked up onetime hot closer commodity Danys Baez from the Dodgers for the excruciatingly irritating Wilson Betemit. Danys, like Bob Wickman, will surely assist in their ongoing cleanup and recovery effort. That's two firemen who aren't Chris Reitsma and Jorge Sosa (even if they are suspiciously Dan Kolbish)…and only 6-1/2 games in back of the Reds with merely the Diamondbacks, Giants, Rockies and Marlins between them.

No wonder they're the team to beat.

Hell, it was so much fun doing just that, let's beat them some more!

If you're not feeling charitable toward the Braves — and that's OK — you might wish to direct your impulses of generosity toward this Met-hearted initiative.

Top of the 2nd. In Atlanta. We've scored two to get the evening off on the right foot, then been rocked back on our heels by a four-spot. Braves 4, Mets 2, all momentum gone, eight innings of struggles and pain to come. We wouldn't score. Then they'd add one here, two there, make it 6-2 or 7-2, we'd make a little countercharge late, get it to, say, 7-4 with one on and one out, fail to score, then the roof would cave in. Lots of chopping and whoa-oh-ohh-awohing, another Turner Field loss.

I'd seen this game before. We'd all seen this game before. Afterwards Bobby Valentine would speak, well, bravely and try not to let the fury and hurt show on his face. He'd fail. Or Art Howe would say that we'd battled and say some more things that would instantly depart from our minds as too ethereal and pointless to keep even in short-term memory, kind of like Art Howe himself. We'd drop the second game, possibly in excruciating fashion, possibly in merely humiliating fashion. Then, if it mattered, we'd lose the third. And if it didn't matter we'd win the third, and pump our fists afterwards but it would feel like we could barely raise our arms to do so. Because we'd know we hadn't accomplished anything but getting dragged two steps closer to the hangman.

That's the blueprint. Or rather, it was the blueprint.

The new blueprint is that Pedro Martinez bears down after a worrisome start and ices Atlanta for six more innings of variously crafty, efficient and occasionally dominating baseball. The new blueprint is Carlos Beltran coolly bringing us even with a two-out hit in the second, making it 4-4 once again, Jose Valentin getting things done when they needed to be done, and David Wright rocking the pastels for a little insurance. The new blueprint is not letting some Atlanta pitcher with poor location and bad body language gather himself and find a groove — it's getting him out of his windup and out of the game. The new blueprint is glittering relief from guys doing their jobs one sterling inning at a time.

The old blueprint is Jay Payton and Armando Benitez and Braden Looper and everyone else who came up short at some Turner Field horror show. But that blueprint is as gone as they are. The new Braves, these 2006 Braves, are 13 back and just lost Chipper Jones again. They gave us their best shot and we came right back and put them on the floor for keeps. Tomorrow Marcus Giles and Andruw Jones and the others will be full of more talk about how they're not chasing the wild card, they're chasing us. Whatever. Look in the paper, fellas — you've got to chase the Marlins first.

Mets play tomorrow afternoon. Another audition for El Duque. He might have a role in October. Willie might rest a regular, seeing how it's hot as hell. Gonna need those guys in October. We have to take the long view these days. Still, important not to look past that day's game. So who are we playing? Hmm, let me check. All I remember is it's some third-place, sub-.500 team.

That's what Crash told Nuke you needed to play this game with. In recent days as a collective fan base we've practically wallowed in the former: Can we get by anybody in the playoffs with this rotation? Is Heilman out of his rut yet? Is Pedro healthy? What's wrong with Glavine? What's happened to our starting pitching in general? Are we going to trade Lastings? Are we not going to trade Lastings? And so on and so on, until sometimes you're left thinking, Jeez, this is sure one messed-up .594 team.

Well, Crash was right: You've got to have fear. A certain measure of fear is a good thing, both on the diamond and in the big, less-well-defined place around it in which the rest of us stumble through our days. The fearless get complacent, stop seeking opportunities, stop enforcing high standards for themselves, and never see what's coming until it knocks them flat. So OK, let's face our fears: Even when firing on all cylinders, our starting pitching isn't the kind of thing to stop anybody's heart once the stands are hung with bunting. And the starters aren't firing on even most cylinders right now — going down the line, they look hurt and out of sync and like Trachsel and too old and too young. Another starter would make us feel a lot better — but it has to be the right starter and we can't give up a big piece of the future and if we pull the trigger we better win. Which is a lot of tumblers to try and line up just so.

But in worrying about all these bogeymen, we've forgotten that other thing Crash told Ebby Calvin to bring to the table. How about a little arrogance?

After all, we've got no shortage of material: We've got the best record in the National League. We've scored the most runs in the National League. We've given up the fewest. Our run differential is +77 — the next-best mark in the NL is +25. We're 10 games over .500 on the road. We lead the majors in steals and are within six of leading the NL in home runs. We lead the league in ERA. We're second in the league in Ks. If it's close, we'll beat you — we're 22-10 in one-run games. Extra-innings? We're 8-5. Walk-offs? Ten in the books, with more heroics to come.

In short, we're a monster, a terrifying orange-and-blue beast with power and speed, stingy pitching and a flare for the dramatic. Playing us is like getting in the ring against a 25-armed hydra of a boxer. We've got supercharged kids who'll beat you and wily old men who'll do the same. Fourth outfielders and Hall of Famers and reclamation projects and budding superstars, speedballers and dead-fishmongers. Get through one terrifying Carlos and we'll come right back at you with another one. Escape Young Jose and we'll do you in with Old Jose. When we're going good we're unstoppable and when we're going bad we're still a handful.

And so now we head down south to face the Braves. They've looked better of late, give them that. They've looked dead before, that should be remembered. But put yourself in the other guy's shoes: Get swept and the flickering pilot light of their division hopes goes out. Lose two out of three and they've just wasted three days. Take two out of three, they gain one lousy game. If everything breaks right for them and they sweep us? They're two games under .500, nine games out of first and it's August. Not exactly the kind of thing to make you feel, um, chipper.

The Braves have gone 14-7 over the last three weeks — and for their troubles they've gained 1 1/2 games on us. At that rate, they'll catch us in mid-January. Sure, they've put themselves back in the wild-card picture. But they're five out and need to jump over three teams — and six more teams are within 2 1/2 of them. We've tried to solve that math problem before and know it's tear-your-hair-out stuff. The Braves, for all their good recent play, are a bad weekend away from last place. We're a bad weekend away from…from what, exactly? A stern talking-to from the manager? We can put their season on life support this weekend. All they can get is our attention.

Fear and arrogance. Let's not get so preoccupied with the one that we forget the other. We've got October problems. Fine. It's not October. While we're working on those, let's enjoy the heck out of July and August and September.

The Braves? Bring on the Braves.