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.

The other night, watching Mets Weekly, I saw a clip of Butch Huskey making the turn and heading for home against the Reds. The clock read 6:36, meaning he had homered in the first game of a twinight doubleheader. Searching my mental archive (and later confirming it via Retrosheet), I knew it had to have taken place in one of the more pivotal twinbills in Mets history.

The Mets beat the Reds in that opener 7-3. They took Cincinnati 5-3 in the nightcap. It was a sweep for the Mets on a brilliant May evening in 1998. This was about 40 games into the year that followed the uplifting 1997 season. We finished 14 games over .500 in '97 and were running with a winning record a quarter through '98.

Paid attendance: 15,558. To see the clip now and remember what it looked like then, that included a lot of no-shows. The scrappy Bobby Valentine Mets, succeeding on the field, were attracting very few from off it.

Three days later, they announced they were acquiring Mike Piazza. It wasn't a coincidence. He was what was needed to boost the franchise in the public consciousness, never mind the standings.

When Mike returns with San Diego in a couple of weeks, rest assured we'll be happily kissing his blue and orange ascent and calling it Breyers Ice Cream. The pleasure is ours. He gave us eight great years and there's not nearly enough good to say about him, starting with he was exactly the right man at the right time in the right position.

In 2006, that's Paul Lo Duca. He couldn't be less like Mike Piazza and, right now, that's fine. He's not better, he's just different — and he fits.

Mike's got pretty good power numbers in San Diego. He probably would have had them here. But Paul, with only three homers and barely thirty RBI, is better for now. We don't need a catcher to light up the marquee (or even Jason Marquis). We don't need a catcher to make us gasp in awe and grasp our Kleenex. We've got plenty of sluggers capable of producing plenty of drama. We need a catcher who's a catcher. And this guy is a catcher.

There was a play in Monday night's otherwise useless and annoying loss to the Cubs that almost made the whole thing worthwhile. Juan Pierre squibbed one in the Franco's Triangle between home, first and the mound. Lo Duca lunged, pounced and slung, beating Pierre — hustling all the way — to the bag by maybe one stitch on the ball. This came toward the end of an evening when we were reminded that Lo Duca's playing with a nasty ligament yet continues to hit and continues to throw and most of all continues to catch.

Mike Piazza played hurt. He was the strong, silent type. Paul Lo Duca plays hurt. We ache along with him. Paul does not keep it to himself. He makes no bones about being hurt, but he's decided to catch past it so we'll all feel OK. Willie's no dummy; he'll rest him one of every three days. But in the meantime, Paul plays and Paul lets it all hang out. The pounce of Pierre is just one example of how he lets us in to his game every step of the way. He may be strong, but he sure as hell isn't silent.

If this seems like revisionist history-I'll take Lo Duca-you keep Piazza, it ain't. Mike's place in the pantheon is secure. But it's hard to imagine that even if he were to reproduce his 15 Padre home runs as a ninth-year Met that this season would be this season with him and without Lo Duca. Mike's a legend here forever. Paul's the man in 2006.

“New York Mets ticket sales. This is Astrid, how may I help you?”

“Hello, I'd like to find out about prorated ticket plans, the kind that will allow me to purchase postseason tickets.”

“Certainly sir, we have those. I'll just need a little information.”

“Sure.”

“First name?”

“Greg.”

“Last name?”

“Prince.”

“All right, let me just enter that…uh, sir?”

“Yes?”

“Are you the Greg Prince who sat in the upper deck Sunday?”

“Why, yes I am.”

“Mr. Prince, I'll need you to hold for Mr. Minaya.”

“Uh, OK.”

“Hello, Greg?”

“Yes?”

“Greg, this is Omar Minaya, general manager of the New York Mets.”

“Mr. Minaya!”

“Please, call me Omar.”

“Omar! I'm a little taken aback.”

“Why is that, Greg?”

“You're one of the most important men in the history of the Mets. You make the decisions that affect everything about the franchise.”

“Forget my job title, Greg. I'm just a New York kid and a baseball fan at heart, just like you.”

“That's nice to hear you say.”

“It's true. I've never forgotten what it means to be a fan.”

“That's comforting to know, Omar.”

“I'm glad you feel that way.”

“Listen, I'm a huge Mets fan.”

“I know you are, Greg. I read your blog.”

“You're kidding! You read Faith and Fear?”

“Absolutely. We keep tabs on our biggest fans and you're certainly one of them.”

“Gosh. I don't know what to say.”

“I also know why you're calling.”

“Astrid told you?”

“Yes. You're calling about a season ticket plan.”

“That's right. I want to buy them so I'll be able to purchase tickets for the playoffs.”

“I can't let you do that.”

“I'm sorry?”

“I can't allow you to buy those.”

“I can't buy tickets?”

“Well, we don't mind if you come to a game or two the rest of the way. We have a big lead and that allows us to try different things. For example, we might not be able to rest Pedro Martinez or give Mike Pelfrey a shot if we were in a tight race.”

“Yeah…”

“With a pretty substantial double-digit lead, we can afford a loss or two and it's not going to hurt us too much, y'know what I mean, Greg?”

“I guess. But what does that have to do with me buying tickets?”

“Greg, like I said we keep pretty close tabs on our biggest fans.”

“Yeah, you said you read my blog.”

“We do that. We also monitor your emails.”

“You do? How do you do that?”

“It's a matter of security, Greg. I really can't discuss it.”

“What do you mean you can't discuss it? Is this some kind of NSA thing?”

“Suffice it to say I learned a few things coming through the Texas Rangers organization when Mr. Bush owned the team. Let's let it go at that.”

“You're comparing running a baseball team to the 'war on terror'?”

“Greg, baseball is a big business and we can't be too careful. Thus, when we become aware of our biggest fans, we stay on top of their activities: their blogs, their emails, any bulletin board postings, really any evidence.”

“Evidence? What do you mean by evidence?”

“Greg, our operatives have obtained a copy of your Log.”

“My Log? You mean my steno notebook where I write down the result of every Mets game I go to?”

“Yes.”

“How on earth did you get that?”

“We have our sources.”

“What the hell kind of answer is that?”

“It's the only one you're getting.”

“I demand to know who gave you my Log!”

“I'm not at liberty to say. But I am at liberty to tell you cats are not very loyal animals.”

“You mean?”

“I mean we can do wonders with a can of tuna.”

“Hozzie or Avery?”

“I'm not at liberty to say.”

“OK, you got to one of my cats. But I still don't understand why you needed my Log.”

“Greg, I'm sure you'd agree this is a big year for the Mets.”

“Of course.”

“And we want to go as far as we can.”

“That's what I want.”

“I'm glad to hear you say that. You understand, then.”

“Understand what?”

“That we don't want you at Shea Stadium in the postseason.”

“HUH?”

“Greg, this Log is terrible. We're 20 games over .500, but when you're here, we're 3-7.”

“And you're blaming me?”

“We've done our due diligence. Our conclusion is there's no reason beyond your presence as to why one of the best teams in baseball intermittently becomes one of the worst.”

“I respectfully disagree.”

“Greg, you were here Sunday, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“And how would you say we were doing before today?”

“Great. The Mets had won eight of ten coming into this game.”

“How many of those ten were you at?”

“Uh, none.”

“And now?”

“Oh come on! It's a coincidence!”

“Greg, I'm looking at our copy of your Log. You were here in April after we had won seven in a row and we lost. You were here the night after Pedro won his 200th — one of the most exhilarating nights at Shea in a long time — and we fell flat. You showed up the Sunday after we won back-to-back thrillers against Atlanta and we got stomped.”

“You can't blame me for that! You started Lima!”

“That's another thing.”

“What's another thing?”

“Because you keep track of which pitcher starts each game you go to, it was easy for us to detect a pattern.”

“What pattern?”

“The last nine games you've attended, we've had to start nine different pitchers.”

“So?”

“Greg, does that seem likely?”

“I suppose it isn't, but…”

“We've had one of the most unstable rotations in the league, and it seems highly unlikely that it's coincidental that every time you show up, somebody else is pitching: Zambrano, Lima, Glavine, Soler, El Duque, Pedro, Maine, Trachsel, Pelfrey. We consulted with our SABR people and they say it's a statistical impossibility that one team can go through that many starters in consecutive games that one particular fan attends.”

“But it's not like we lost every one of them. Pedro, for example…”

“Against the Reds?”

“Yes, against the Reds. He got his…”

“Last win?”

“Uh yeah, I guess it was his last win.”

“Greg, after you watched Pedro win, Pedro went to Boston, had his worst outing and hasn't pitched since. We came home from that tremendous road trip — how many of those road games did you travel to?”

“None.”

“Yes, you came to none and we won eight in a row. Anyway, we came home on an eight-game winning streak to play Baltimore and what happened?”

“We lost.”

“Yes, Greg. With you in the house, we lost to Baltimore. For that matter, you went to Baltimore last week, and who lost?”

“Baltimore.”

“And who was the losing pitcher for Baltimore?”

“Kris Benson.”

“You show up somewhere and even an ex-Met pitching for the home team loses. See what I'm talking about?”

“You're going to tell me you've analyzed the attendance data and discerned the only fan who's had this kind of impact on your won-lost record is me?”

“I can't reveal that. But yes, it's your fault.”

“It was my fault Sunday?”

“Greg, didn't Pelfrey look great for an inning or two?”

“Sure did!”

“What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that maybe this would be…”

“You were thinking no-hitter, weren't you?”

“I didn't say that!”

“It doesn't matter. We know what you were thinking. We monitor that, too.”

“YOU MONITOR MY THOUGHTS?”

“Greg, you write like a jillion words about the Mets every 24 hours. You're not that hard to figure out. But yes, we monitor your thoughts and we know you were already thinking about Pelfrey pitching a no-hitter.”

“And it's my fault he didn't?”

“No. But it is your fault he lost.”

“How do you figure THAT?”

“Greg, in ten games you've attended at Shea, we've scored 3.3 runs per game. And our opponents have scored 6.7 runs per game. Hell, the Pirates scored 11 in one night with you here. Face it, you're bad news for us.”

“I knew my record wasn't that good, but…”

“It's not that it's not good. It could be detrimental. We're looking at playoff games. World Series games if we're lucky.”

“I was hoping to go.”

“I know. And we were hoping you simply wouldn't be able to get tickets. But then we made this big ticket-selling push and somebody didn't check all the variables and we got your call.”

“You have to keep me out?”

“We're trying to do everything we can to limit our liability. For example, remember the All-Star Game?”

“You mean the way Trevor Hoffman blew home-field advantage for the NL?”

“That was no accident.”

“It wasn't?”

“Let's just say certain arrangements were made.”

“How come?”

“One fewer home game means one fewer chance you'd get in.”

“Wow.”

“Now like I said, we feel secure enough for you to use the tickets you already have the rest of the year. There will be games against Washington and Florida we'll probably be able to permit you to see.”

“But the NLDS?”

“No.”

“The NLCS?”

“No.”

“The World Series?”

“Greg, what is your fondest dream?”

“For the Mets to win the World Series.”

“That was a rhetorical question. We monitor your dreams. We know you want more than anything for the Mets to win the World Series.”

“How do you monitor my dreams?”

“We know how you dress. We know you wear only Mets t-shirts. We know you obsess on which Mets cap to wear. We know that you leave your cable box on Channel 60 every night just in case there's a day game the next afternoon. We don't really have to monitor your dreams. But we do.”

“OK, so you know I love the Mets.”

“We also know you love the Mets so much that you wouldn't want to get in the way of our success.”

“I guess not.”

“So you'll just drop this request? I mean you could probably publicize what we're doing and bring a lawsuit, but that would just distract your favorite team from the business of winning a championship.”

“I wouldn't want that.”

“I know you wouldn't. You're a good fan. You're just not a very successful one.”

“But I wanna see the Mets in the playoffs! And the World Series!”

“Greg, I'm going to reconnect you to Astrid and she's going to take care of you.”

“What does that mean?”

“We're going to set you up with one of those Dreamseats, you know the ones I'm talking about.”

“Those cushy chairs you put down the left and rightfield lines? With the Mets logos?”

“Yes. And we've arranged with your local P.C. Richard for you to have a new flat screen delivered to your home.”

“Really? It'll be connected to the cable and the DVD?”

“So you can watch Mets Fast Forward by 9 AM.”

“Can you make it 5 AM?”

“Sure. Your fridge will be stocked with all the beverages you need, you can have every giveaway item we're giving out the rest of the way…”

“Even the Wright bobblehead? That's only 14-and-under.”

“Even the Wright bobblehead. And Willie will even consent to read one of your rants about how Aaron Heilman should be starting.”

“Oh, I'm off that now.”

“But you'll be back on it soon. We monitor your future thoughts as well.”

“Of course.”

“Greg, we recognize you as one of our most loyal fans in the world and we will do everything we can to make this the most special season and postseason you've ever imagined.”

“And all I have to do is…”

“Stay the hell away from us.”

“Omar, I want us to win. I really do. But I'm a Mets fan. I go to Mets games. It's what I do.”

“Did I mention you get to vote on who goes into the Mets Hall of Fame?”

“I've never been to a World Series game.”

“You get to design the Mets Hall of Fame in the new ballpark.”

“The one thing I've always wanted is to be there for the big moment.”

“You get to BE in the Mets Hall of Fame.”

“I do?”

“Yes, you'll be enshrined as the fan who was selfless enough to NOT buy a season-ticket package that gave him postseason purchase rights and, by staying away, ensured that the New York Mets won their third world championship in 2006.”

“All right, then. I'll do it! If it means that much, I won't try to attend a playoff or World Series game. I won't even drive on Northern Boulevard between now and November. You don't have to give me the chair or the TV or the plaque even. You just have to go out and try your best to win the World Series! That'll be reward enough for me!”

“Greg, that's wonderful. You really are our biggest fan.”

“Thank you, Omar.”

“Just one thing.”

“What's that?”

“You owe us a $7.50 surcharge per every ticket that you're not buying.”

If simulation equals stimulation, consider me titillated.

Pedro Martinez, who threw 80 pitches to bat boys who stood statue-still after Saturday's game, pronounced himself as havin' it goin' on, and Willie Randolph seconded that assessment. Facing kids with VICTOR 06 on their backs may not be the same as mixing in offspeed stuff to Marcus Giles, but as with everything that regards Pedro Martinez, we'll have to take his word for it.

Chances are we'll be aces up by next weekend. One ace, anyway. The second needs to countenance the third out of the seventh inning one of these days. Really, the guys we need to front the rotation when it counts more urgently than it does now are Pedro Martinez and Tom Glavine from April 2006. If they're not available, I'll settle for healthy autumnal variations of themselves. They haven't gotten this far in their careers without being able to fake it now and then.

As for the rest of our pitching, geez, what are we gonna do? We obviously need lots of other guys. I've made a wish list:

• We should get an extraordinarily crafty righthanded vet. I mean one who's been through the wars, especially late in the year. A guy who can, I don't know, look like he's going to shrivel up and blow away in the first inning and then right himself and give you at least seven solid. Momentum like that is priceless in a big game.

• Maybe another veteran, one who's pitched in New York for at least five years. He doesn't have to be flashy. In fact, he needn't be that at all. He should just be dependable and have the right combination of guts and guile to grind it out. If he can lull the opposing batters into a hypnotic trance, all the better. If he has a recent track record of overcoming difficulties and posting wins, that's a great sign.

• We could use a hard thrower with these guys. A young gun. Not a raw rookie, but one who everybody agrees has a live arm and has begun to show it on a consistent basis. Works fast, slings it, isn't afraid. Keeps improving would be a nice touch.

• And it would be nice to have an X-factor, someone who's really coming on. Few have seen him yet, not really, but what he's displayed is dynamite. All he needs is to get a little comfortable and the hitters will be contorting themselves more than we can imagine.

Those would be the ideal pitchers from whom to choose to place behind Pedro and Glavine. Boy, for the chance to acquire a quartet like that, I'd give up…

…absolutely nothing. Because we have them already.

You're NUTS! if you think I'm endorsing the trading of Lastings Milledge for anybody in July. I mean anybody, and that includes summer rentals, projects, innings-eaters, certified third starters and the almost certainly unpryable Mr. Willis of Florida — a fine, fine, fine, fine pitcher, to be sure, but is he a dead, solid lock to:

1) put us over the top, which would be the only reason to trade our bona fide best prospect?

2) not flail around while becoming accustomed to the pressure of pitching for a New York team with much/all on the line?

3) not go into one of his Dontrellesque funks that he's been known to fall into for starts at a time when he's not particularly effective?

I believe in Dontrelle Willis. I just don't believe in him enough to be the Dontrelle we all envision exactly when we need him to be on short notice. Almost nobody is that pitcher. Frank Viola, as sure a bet a lefty stud as a contender ever brought in at the deadline (defending Cy Young winner, Long Island native, St. John's alum, World Series MVP), wasn't when we got him in 1989. There's an adjustment period for everybody. The Diamondbacks got Schilling in 2000 and he wasn't a differencemaker until 2001. The Blue Jays won having hired Coney in 1992 but he had his struggles, and I'd argue they might very well have won without him.

The other half of this equation is the future. Would Dontrelle Willis, theoretical Met starter in 2007, be awesome? Probably. But would Lastings Milledge blossom as a Marlin and torture us 19 times a year for the next five years if indeed there are Marlins? Probably. Do you really want to watch him and his mates do that to us? I don't. I want to watch more of him here, if not now, then next year. It's taken us a zillion years (and that's an exact measurement) to not only sport an overwhelmingly talented outfield but to have someone ready to step into it.

Milledge showed me enough to make me believe in his long term more than I do Willis' near term. He's our leftfielder for '07 and beyond if Cliff says goodbye or, if sentimentality gets the best of everyone and Cliff stays but Xavier is moved in the offseason, our rightfielder. This is not “ohmigod, how can you even think of trading Alex Ochoa?” This is the guy who showed more tools than True Value Hardware and continues to be 21. Was he up here only to be showcased and dangled? That I don't believe.

I've just spent several paragraphs swatting down a trade that's on the outer edges of hypothetical. I can't see Jeffery Loria sending away his only proven and beloved player when everybody else on his roster is making $5.15 an hour. If I were Loria, I wouldn't do it, but that doesn't mean I'd do it from our end. We're not the Marlins.

We're the Mets. We got here not on a wing and a prayer but via a fairly spectacular assortment of talent and personalities that has served us to near-perfection. While Pedro has been hip checking and Glavine's been crashing into the fifth-inning boards, the rest of our starters, even when changing on the fly, have been reasonably good skates.

Sure, Stevie Somnambulant bores the green off of the grass (have you ever seen a single, solitary Shea patron representing TRACHSEL 29 on his back?), but save for the rain delays that drown him, he accounts for himself quite nicely. Maine we saw as capable of marching through New Hampshire and annexing Vermont Friday night. Pelfrey is 2-0 and a potentially exciting antidote to Roy Oswalt (a.k.a. Cliff's bitch, I hope) Sunday afternoon.

And on Saturday, Orlando “El Whatever He Wants To Call Himself, I Still Don't Care For The Lingering Associations With His Past Employer” Hernandez demonstrated exactly the kind of stuff in innings two through seven that you'd want on your side when the leaves turn brown and the stakes pile high. He's had his sweaty Wrigley Field moments but he's more than compensated for them with icy outings that render managers like Phil Garner clueless. Or cluelesser.

I like a good Metropolitan improvement project as much as the next fan, but I'll take them in a) December and b) when we desperately need improving. As July 31 approaches, let's remember we're in first place by a time zone or two because we already have the players and the pitchers who got us here. I'll take my team the rest of the way as well.

Way to complicate things, El Duque.

Of course this is good complicated — better complicated would be Mike Pelfrey following El Duque's fine effort with one of his own, leaving us with three viable candidates for two spots. (And Brian Bannister not far away.) And with Pedro having pronounced himself good to go, what next? If I were playing GM, I'd send Pelfrey down to Norfolk with a taste of the Show and a return date in September, unless something happens between then and now — which it probably will, starting pitchers being starting pitchers.

(Of course if I were GM, Jose Valentin would have been unemployed by mid-May. I know nothing.)

I'll leave deeper analysis of this one to my co-blogger, as I was out of action for most of it. (After catching a snippet of the Fox broadcast, I did note that as baseball games go, this wasn't a hard one to sum up: El Duque settled down after a rough start, Nady hit a three-run homer.) Anyway, Emily and I were at a party on Rockaway Beach, boy in tow, and keeping close tabs on the game had to wait until we left for the subway. Which we did in the bottom of the 7th inning, Mets up 4-3.

Since we were starting from Beach 94th, I had hope that I could hear the rest. And, indeed, the long wait at the elevated station at Beach 90th for the Shuttle and at Broad Channel (another elevated station) for the A worked in our favor, at least as far as hearing a good chunk of a baseball game was concerned. The Mets were batting in the 8th by the time we were settled in on the A that would take us back to Brooklyn Heights. That meant time was short, but the A runs on an elevated track until Grant (if memory serves), so there was still a chance.

Except Phil Garner had to use EVERY FRICKING PITCHER IN HIS BULLPEN, wasting precious time as the A kept on rolling. (And before you ask: With a fractious three-year-old who hadn't napped, stepping out to hear the rest on a platform wasn't an option.)

Aqueduct Raceway: Inning change, here comes Wags. C'mon Billy, an out per station and I'm golden.

88th Street: Preston Wilson is no more. Crap, not going to make it. Maybe Luke Scott will hit the first pitch.

80th Street: Luke Scott not cooperating. And it's raining.

Grant: And underground we go. But wait! Provided I turn my little radio to ear-bleeding levels and jam the earbud practically through my skull, I can still kind of hear the FAN every few seconds!

BZZZZZZZZZ pitch to scott WHIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNNEEEEEEE fouled back SKKKKKKREEEEEEEEEEE WOWWWWWWWWWWW 1-2 on scott HOOOWWWWWWWWWLLLLLLLLL KZKZKZZZZKKKKKZKZKZKZKKZKZKZKKZKZKZKKZKZKZKZKKZKKKKK!!!!!!!!!!!

(Oh, this is ridiculous.)

My timing may have been lousy, but the Mets' was just fine.

When the rains finally stopped, the reign began: John Maine was terrific tonight, though it took a great catch by Cliff Floyd (who should be sick more often, apparently) and a nifty block of home by Paul Lo Duca to elevate him to terrific from just very good. Rookie pitchers, particularly ones being rebuilt after a falling-out with their previous clubs, tend to follow the one step forward, two steps back model, but Maine's seemed to grow in confidence with each gradually better outing, and it seemed obvious from the gun tonight that he had good stuff. Which was good for all sorts of reasons: Who knows what awaits our bullpen this weekend, between El Duque and another rookie in Pelfrey and rain expected at least through Saturday?

The breather was appreciated. So too was the possibility that we might do just fine at the trading deadline by keeping all current hands on deck. I'd trade Milledge and Heilman for Dontrelle Willis in a heartbeat, but that's unlikely to happen; I wouldn't trade anything for Livan Hernandez. (OK, maybe Jose Offerman and Michael Fucker. And Jose Lima too, to ensure Omar can't bring him back in September.) I'm well aware of the dangers of falling in love with a current team and seeing beloved players' fundamental flaws as quirks, but it's not a wild leap of faith to think that there's a 2006 keeper among Maine, Pelfrey and the soon-to-return Bannister — maybe even two. Shake things up for an obvious upgrade? Sure — our current rotation isn't exactly scary in a playoff situation. Trade away chips for a different maybe? Let's be careful, please.

Oh yeah, the cranes. It didn't get a lot of notice, but the IRS signed off on the city's plans to sell $1.6 billion in bonds to pay for new stadiums for us and some other local team. Which means the heavy equipment out there in the parking lot should soon be doing more than testing landfill — and Shea has just over 800 days left of life, as marked by Merengue Nights, rain delays, grand slams, complete-game shutouts, visits from trainers, right fielders lost in firework clouds, and all the other bits and pieces that go into baseball games satisfying and un-.

What do you think?

I think it depends who shows up. If it's Uncle Fluffy, we've got problems. If it's the President, in his last campaign, his last debate, for the last job he'll ever have…if the President shows up, I think it'll be a sight to see, I mean a sight to see. What do you think?

I think you're going to enjoy yourself tonight.

—Toby and C.J., “Game On”

Just like that, the Mets are a sight to see again. They are the main attraction, to say nothing of the Maine attraction, of the National League. They are bigger than Merengue Night (against which I no longer carry a grudge, at least not from my couch). They are 10-4 since the last time they were spectacularly inept. They're 20 over for the first time this season. They're 13 ahead of nobody in particular. And they're not coasting. If anything, they're rounding into that montage — you need a montage! — portion of Major League in which they do everything right…except they're already in first place.

It won't get aired as a Mets Classic, but given the choice, wasn't this the kind of game you'd like to see over and over again? Most years, you only see it in your dreams. This year, we see it right in front of our eyes on a fairly recurring basis.

What's not to like?

You like pitching? You have to like quasi-emergency mudder John Maine, who in his first three starts had surged from outta his league to outta gas to outta luck. Friday night, fourth start, outta this world. Great command. Very good stuff. The Astros, who have a nasty habit of waking from first-half snoozes, remained asleep at the plate. If the Maine trajectory continues as such, it'll be Orioles fans cursing the Kris Benson trade as useless and uncalled for.

You like defense? Jose Valentin made an early excellent play up the middle to dampen Houston's expectations before they could be generated. Cliff Floyd scaled a wall and nabbed a homer off legendary no-hit spoiler Chris Burke. Carlos Beltran and Paul Lo Duca (with an assist from Carlos Delgado's bowlegged stance) teamed to nail Eric Munson on one of the dopiest (down 0-7 with two out) tagups I've ever seen with one of the funnest throws, blocks and tags the sport has to offer.

How about hitting? Valentin has mastered the bases-loaded home run. Reader Sean Quigley points out Jose was born* on October 12, 1969 — the same day the Mets won their first World Series game ever. I guess, then, we can stop being surprised that we became his destiny; he was clearly meant to be a Miracle Met (even if there's no truth to the rumor that his full name is Jose Koosman Clendenon The Glider Valentin). And Mr. Delgado, he's emerging from slumpdom one powerful swing at a time.

It was a night for little things to happen as they should. A neighborhood play that was too blatant to be allowed wasn't, which set up Valentin's grand slam. The run that didn't score on a homer was the result of littlish ball: double, efficient groundout, liner to center. Just before Delgado's dinger, Beltran put his head down and hustled to third when other Mets in other times would have stopped at second. The manager was either brilliant or intuitive enough to keep El Duque out of the rain. That might not pay off Saturday, with more moisture in the forecast, but it sure cashed out handsomely Saturday. And Maine was allowed to finish what he started, and he finished with flair. The game was over around 10:15, which is astounding considering rain stopped it from starting until after eight.

Last year, I blanched every time the Mets strung together two wins because the temptation to read into it a roll was too overwhelming. The Mets of 2005 along with any of the hopeful editions that preceded them had a way of tentatively teasing then decisively disappointing. The Mets of 2006, at this juncture, clearly lack that capability. It is such a joy to partake in a baseball feast like tonight:

• We demolish the barely defending National League champions.

• The Braves get tangled up in the Phillies, though I confess I have a hard time telling them apart.

• E-Rod provides more enjoyable highlight reel material; the Blue Jays should designate Shea Hillenbrand for assignment more often.

If Maine and Pelfrey are as pitchy keen as they seem to be and if Pedro recoalesces into one piece and Omar doesn't do more than check his caller ID for the next ten days…well, I think I'm going to enjoy myself for many nights to come.

*Weirdly, Orlando Hernandez's birthdate, which nobody believes, is October 11, 1969, the same day the Mets lost their first World Series game ever. And Hernandez's replacement as starting pitcher on July 21, 2006 was John Maine, born May 8, 1981, making him the third Met to enter the world on a day when I attended a Mets game. The other two are Richard Hidalgo (July 2, 1975, recently immortalized with the help of another loyal FAFIF reader) and the last player Art Howe will ever manage unless someone can't hire Dave Bristol, Joe Hietpas (May 1, 1979). Some slow night, I'll weave all of this together, but right now it weaves well enough alone.