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.

If you're producing a sportscast tonight and you have one highlight to show from this afternoon's Mets-Cubs game, that's easy. You pick Jose Valentin singling up the middle with the bases loaded and two out in the bottom of the tenth and then receiving highly affectionate super atomic noogies from his teammates for his walkoff RBI, scoring the only run anybody had all day.

Life is fun when you win by one, so that's absolutely the money shot; the ambassador to Azerbaijan could tell you that. But if you could show two highlights, you'd back it up two batters to Carlos Delgado at the plate. There were already two outs then, Beltran on first and Glendon Rusch — remember him? — going lefty a lefty with our cleanup hitter. Delgado, no longer in a slump but not having done anything yet today, did something he almost never does.

He went the other way.

It was dynamite. Placing a ball just over and inside the third base bag, it trickled far enough down the line to send CB to third and CD to second. That forced Pitch-Count Killjoy Dusty — he removed Prior after 103 tosses and 5-2/3 no-hit innings — to order Rusch to walk Wright, load the sacks and bring up Valentin. The nonchantworthy Jose (Ho-ZAY! Ho-Zay-Ho-Zay-Ho-ZAY!) did the rest.

Earlier in the season, when the Delgado shift began to eat its namesake alive, it was asked in polite company why Carlos D. didn't just go the other way. The answer — “he doesn't do that” — reminded me of perhaps my favorite Peanuts strip ever. It's a real cold night, see, and the gang is surrounding Snoopy's doghouse worried about the beagle's warmth as he lay atop his abode. We could bring him a blanket, somebody says. We could get him a heater, somebody else offers.

Why, asks Linus, can't he just sleep inside the doghouse?

Everybody stares at Linus and then gets back to their discussion.

I don't know why Carlos Delgado won't or can't hit to left more often, but like staying inside on a chilly night, it makes sense to me.

Going the other way turned out to be the theme of Camp Day. Prior sure departed from his previous injury-riddled form, though to be honest, we don't care. Maine, coming up as big as Utah, has taken what appears to be a permanent U-turn from Norfolk. He's a lock for the five- or six-man rotation…at least through next week. The Mets themselves have left Loserville (and the Cubs) behind after a disturbingly long layover there. For those of you whose skies fall far too easily, the Braves can take two from the Marlins tonight and tomorrow and then three from us, and we'll still be eight ahead of them on Sunday.

Attention worst-case scenarians: Go the other way and relax.

The best other way we've gone is way the fuck away from 1993. 1993, you say? Why bring that up? Today, in our 101st contest of 2006, we achieved our 60th win of the season — one more than we managed in toto thirteen horrible years ago. If it felt like an eternity trudging from Saturday to Wednesday to top 59 wins, imagine or recall what 1993 felt like when it took 162 big ones just to reach that tragic number. '93 was also the last time we were no-hit, an occurrence that seemed unlikely today, but after 6-1/3 going without, thoughts of Darryl Kile (and Ed Halicki…and Bill Stoneman…and Bob Moose…) pound in your head.

No matter what happens during the rest of 2006, even if John Maine turns into Dave Telgheder, we are now assured of nothing less than our eighth-lowest win total ever.

1962: 40

1981: 41 (strike year)

1965: 50

1963: 51

1964: 53

1994: 55 (strike year)

1993: 59

Watch out 61-101 squad of 1967 — we're coming to get you next! If we can take one of three from these Cubs, then anything's possible.

I sat here Saturday night and declared we had all the starting pitching we could possibly use right inside our three blue walls.

Since then, we've given up eight runs a game.

I opined last night that Paul Lo Duca, not Mike Piazza, is the best possible catcher we could have right now.

Then tonight's game ends with the bases loaded, Lo Duca at bat and a defensive inside-out swing that sends Bobby Howry's slider to nest in Neifi Perez's glove.

Our pitching's gone to seed.

Lo Duca didn't deliver.

I'm a little nervous about spotting any good of consequence in anything I see from the Mets.

Thus, consider the source when I tell you that Tom Glavine has really great hair.

No kidding. I see him surrounded by microphones and notepads offering up explanations like they're fastballs high in the strike zone after these losses, and I'm like, “man, that guy looks pretty good.” Looks better in the clubhouse than on the mound lately. I generally don't notice these things, but it's a shame he has to wear a cap.

If he comes out bald next week, he can blame me. But if his hair is all we lose, then we'll be all right.

Before we move on to tonight's game, a quick acknowledgment that last night saw the unveiling of another significant work by The Artist Currently Known as Keith Hernandez. Xavier Nady ended the sixth when Jacque Jones made a very nice running catch that left him nearly flipping over the padded wall beyond the right-field foul line. We had friends over for dinner and were keeping half an eye on the game, sound off, while chatting. As Jones made the catch, a fan in the front row cringed comically away from the ball like a man who suddenly finds himself sharing an inflatable raft with a Great White Shark.

Man, I thought. When they come back from the break, Keith is going to be killing that poor blighter.

Sure enough, after Phil Nevin grounded out to start the seventh, out came the replay. We turned up the sound expectantly. Keith was all over it — he even used the telestrator. “In sandlot,” he said, “that's the guy you put in right field.” Ouch!

I laughed and then turned expectantly to Emily, who didn't disappoint.

“You're lucky that wasn't you,” she said, hitting her mark perfectly. And therein lies a story, one veteran readers may have heard it before. (If so, sorry.)

May 11, 1996 was marked by an 18-minute fight that began when Pete Harnisch cold-cocked Scott Servais — amazingly enough, the last fight the Mets got into, not counting slow walks to the foul lines with furrowed brows and Mike Piazza chasing relievers around infields. John Franco celebrated John Franco Day by getting ejected for his part in the melee. Great game, great fight. But that's another story.

Earlier in that long-ago game, Emily left her seat for refreshments, leaving me and our friend Chris, the Human Fight of commenting fame, in the mezzanine. While she was gone, a batter hit a ball right at us — no angle, depth perception absolutely zero help. And, well, not to put to fine a point on it, but we cringed away from it. You might call the nature of our cringing spasmodic. You might call it pathetic. You would not call it a particularly proud moment.

Someone about 10 feet in front of us wound up with the ball and held it up proudly as the Human Fight and I exchanged a somewhat-ashamed glance.

“Good thing,” he said finally, “that your wife wasn't here to see that.”

As if on cue, enter Emily from the tunnel, hot dogs and what-not in hand.

“YOU TWO!” she boomed. “I SAW YOU ON TV! YOU COWERED AWAY FROM THAT BALL!”

Much merriment in our section. Muttering and foot-gazing from the Human Fight and me. Cringing telestrated guy who's spent today getting crap from his buddies, I feel your pain.

Well-said, blog brother. (If you just got here and want to know what I'm going on about, skip down a bit.)

I'll go a step further and say that while I'll always have an extra-large spot in my heart reserved for Mike Piazza, this team is better off with Paul Lo Duca. And it's not just a factor of timing, of Piazza's inevitable decline allowing someone else to take the stage. It's more than that.

Don't get me wrong: As you noted, Mike Piazza lifted this franchise out of the doldrums essentially by his lonesome and became a New York icon. He'll be back soon and the fans better be on their feet. (And to think he ended his first year receiving A-Rod-level boos. The shame!) But while obviously a smart, thoughtful guy, Piazza never seemed comfortable in the spotlight. There was a very revealing quote about him in one of those periodic devastating stories about the Mets, one that appeared in the New York Times Magazine during the wretched Alomar years.

Piazza said his favorite movie was “Patton,” and noted that he'd love to work for a guy like that. Work for a guy like that, not be a guy like that. He didn't want to be a leader, he wanted to be led.

But while there may be born leaders, more often that not leadership is something that's thrust upon people — if you want to stick with your military history, look at Grant, a man transformed by leadership's call from a drunken shopkeeper to the savior of the Republic. It was a call Piazza never chose to hear — he wanted to be an ensemble guy, letting leadership settle on players on the decline and players who didn't deserve the mantle and pitchers with the front office's ear and even relievers.

Lo Duca isn't going to the Hall of Fame. He's not the kind of player that makes you put off the trip to the men's room if he's due up this inning. But in one important respect, he's far more than Piazza was: He leads, and he's not the least bit shy about doing it. There's the clubhouse leadership so ably captured by Tom Verducci in SI last week, and there's the on-field variety, too. Even before the Mets starting reeling off victories and collecting clutch hits and running wild and playing pinch-me baseball, there was something different about them, something new. And it didn't take long to find the source: When the game was in the balance, there was Lo Duca coming out to the mound to bark at a pitcher losing focus, or making sure the infielders knew their assignments. The crackle and sizzle of this team begins behind the plate, with Captain Red Ass. And it's an energy, an edge, that I never saw with Piazza.

I love Mike Piazza. He defined an era with this team and carried us up from nothing to some of the happiest years of my life as a baseball fan. And I want to see his 31 up on the wall with 14, 37, 41 and 42. But this is a better team with Lo Duca. It's not so quantifiable through OPS or VORP or RCAA, but you can absolutely see it in the most important stat of all: W-L. There's a reason Lo Duca is still beloved in Los Angeles and Florida, a reason his old manager chose to wear his number. This year, it's been our great good fortune to appreciate why.