Before moving ahead to the Pirates, a look back — and a question.

So we're done with the Yankees. Three games at Shea, three games at Yankee Stadium, huge gates everywhere. Same as it's been since Lance Johnson stepped in against Andy Pettitte on June 16, 1997. Same as it'll be as long as they play baseball in this town.

While I don't like interleague play, never have and likely never will, I've discovered something I dislike even more: Interleague play that doesn't settle anything, at least where the Yankees are concerned. Last night's public undressing of Alay Soler let the Yankees emerge with a split: three games for them, three games for us. Same as it was in 2005. (We won the series, 4-2, in 2004; 2003's Subway Series, starring such notables as Jason Phillips and Jeremy Griffiths, is not discussed in polite orange-and-blue company.)

Three games each. A tie! And ties, as a wise baseball man once said, are like kissing your sister.

So here's a modest proposal to avoid future sister-kissing: Give us one more Mets-Yankees tilt. Make the Subway Series a seven-game affair. And bring back the Mayor's Trophy.

We used to play a Mayor's Trophy Game in this town: It was a Yankees-Dodgers affair in the 1950s, though if you want to get super-historical it first reared its head with the City Series, a seven-game set played by the Giants and the Highlanders after both finished second in 1910. (The Giants won, 4-2: Take that, MF-ing Highlanders!) The Mets took over the Dodgers' role in 1963, and for years the Mayor's Trophy Game was the exhibition that wasn't an exhibition. George Steinbrenner hated it: The Yankees would bring up minor-leaguers for cover and still be threatened with torture and pain if they didn't win. The managers hated the distraction and fuss of it — there's a famous tale about Billy Martin and Joe Torre exchanging secret messages negotiating who was going to end an extra-inning Mayor's Trophy Game with a squeeze — just like they hate the distraction and fuss of intracity games that count. The players hated it too — until they got out into the bowl of Shea or Yankee Stadium and saw the place had been packed with rabid fans. (And then they still sort of hated it.)

In other words, except for the minor-leaguers and the secret messages, it was pretty much the way it is now. Only then there had to be a winner, and that winner got a trophy. So what happened to the Mayor's Trophy? Was it in Giuliani's bunker? Did Steinbrenner melt it down to pay Howard Spira? Did we trade it to the Devil Rays for a painted plastic one that our on-staff trophy experts didn't notice had been Superglued? Whatever the case, can't we get it back or get a new one?

Play one more game, and subtract one game from a truly pointless interleague series. (Was there a Met or Blue Jay fan who really needed a third meeting this year?) Home-field advantage alternates, the way the World Series used to. Winner takes home the Mayor's Trophy, to be displayed proudly until the next go-round: The Yankees could do what they like with it (not limited to taking it and shoving it straight up their collective ass, to plagiarize Tanner Boyle). We could built it a nice shrine in the new stadium, and until then keep it on a dais made out of escalator parts and Pepsi Party Patrol t-shirts.

Yes, there's a baseball world outside of New York, and no, not every team has a natural rival. But there are a fair number of good or at least natural matchups that could support seven-game showdowns with attendant hype and some kind of shiny award: Cubs/White Sox, Giants/A's, Dodgers/Angels, Nationals/Orioles, Cardinals/Royals, Astros/Rangers (they already play for the Silver Boot, in fact), Brewers/Twins, Marlins/Devil Rays, Reds/Indians. Elsewhere the pickings are slimmer, but gin up something historical-minded out of Braves/Red Sox, then fill out the spread with Phillies/Blue Jays (heck, have the Phillies wear Blue Jays throwback unis) and Pirates/Tigers, and let the Padres and Rockies and D'Backs take turns against the Mariners. Those teams don't have perfect rivalries anyway (though there has been some agitation for Pirates/Indians instead of Reds/Indians), so what do they care if two three-game series become a two-gamer and a four-gamer?

We had a Mayor's Trophy back when the games didn't count. Now that they do, where has it gone?

If your eye wanders down and to the left a little, you'll notice we've realigned some of our links, most notably the seating chart for BLOG PARK @ FAFIF YARDS (formerly The New Breed). You'll find a lot of good and great Mets bloggers in the house on every level. There's one site you have to visit immediately, though. That's not a matter of opinion, it's an obligation.

Go to the Loge section, where the perspective is unique, and click on Metstradamus. And when you get there, take part in the second annual election for the Metstradamus Hall of Hate.

Metstradamus makes hate a beautiful thing.

Readers like myself love how Metstradamus expresses his hate. Every night he offers up a new hate list pertinent to the most recent Mets game or just stuff that's eatin' him. It's some of the most touching vitriol going. But the Hall of Hate is even more special. It's hallowed hate ground.

As no strangers to bile (by all means, revisit Faith and Fear's Met Hell, further down our sidebar when you get a chance), we take the subject of hate as it relates to our passion very seriously. That's why I respect what Metstradamus is doing so very much. It's a great public service.

Metstradamus' first Hall of Hate class, as chosen by The Seer himself, was inducted as an all-time detestment team. Much like the initial Cooperstown honorees — Cobb, Ruth, Wagner, Mathewson, Johnson — there could be little argument with the likes of Coleman, Bonilla, L. Jones, Clemens, Rocker, Harazin and the 1993 Mets home uniforms (“the official wardrobe of failure”).

If Metstradamus had left it at that, his work would have been monumental. But he saw greater things. He opened up induction to a second class of first-class jerks last August and left the decision to his readers. Five more mopes, morons and murderers (of franchises, anyway) were tapped on their shameful shoulders by immortality.

It's time again for the rest of us to choose.

It's time again for the rest of us to choose who belongs in the Metstradamus Hall of Hate.

It's time again for the rest of us to choose who belongs in the Metstradamus Hall of Hate because Metstradamus is going on vacation and he had to leave something on his blog to get us through what will be a long and winding week without him.

I've already voted. In the best tradition of self-important Sunday baseball columnists who walk you through their Cooperstown ballots every January, I will tell you who I voted for and why and who I didn't vote for and why.

Pete Rose: DIDN'T. Can't get worked up over Pete Rose after more than 30 years — and I'm pretty good about holding a grudge. He was just playing the game hard and all that when he slid into Buddy Harrelson. Too hard? Yeah, I suppose. Maybe if we had lost that NLCS or if Buddy had been damaged in some severe fashion. But it seems to have done wonders for Buddy's longevity on the public stage. He's the guy who stood up to Pete Rose.

Jeff Torborg: DID. I'm sure the reason the Braves have spiraled to the second division is they have hired this hollowed-out windbag as an analyst on Turner South. Likewise, the Mets became big-time turners to the south when he took over as manager in 1992. I hear his voice and the little hairs on my arm stand up on end. That's not because he's making excuses for Brian McCann in 2006. It's because he brings back that entire disgusting year of 1992 and the memories of how he piloted our ship to the bottom of Flushing Bay. How is he not in already?

Joe Torre: DIDN'T. Oh, he's awful and all that. And I understand there's a very basic crime where he's concerned, managing terrible Mets teams from 1977 through 1981 and doing what he's been doing since 1996. I didn't think the first part was really his fault and there have been so many others I blame first for the second part. I wish he'd go away, though.

Richie Hebner: DID, DID, DID. From what I can tell by reading his comments section, Metstradamus' demographics skew younger than Faith and Fear's. That's a problem where votes like this are concerned. It's the same reason a Gil Hodges doesn't make the Hall of Fame because after a while, those who didn't see him play make up a majority of the deciders. If you were around in 1979, you know “Hebner” should be a synonym for “Hate” in all manners Met. We have done what we can do to set the record straight by devoting the entire Sixth Circle of Met Hell to Richie Hebner. I can only ask you read the harrowing tale of the Windsor Hotel again and then go vote to condemn Richie Hebner to the Hall of Hate. He deserves it, trust me.

Jim Duquette: DIDN'T. On paper, he traded Scott Kazmir. But that's only because somebody else was grabbing his hand and forcing him to sign the dotted line. Jim Duquette did all he could in a very straitjacketed era of Mets general management to make Shea a marginally better place. I'm frankly surprised that he's on this ballot at all.

Tony Fernandez: DIDN'T. Considered by some a jaker for the way he was suddenly hurt when he came to a very bad Mets team and suddenly wasn't when he was sent back to a very good Blue Jays team. I'm not one to doubt one's claims of ill health. Maybe Tony Fernandez really did spend his two Met months passing a stone. Even if he didn't, Dallas Green intensely disliked him, and you know what they say about people Dallas Green intensely dislikes…they can't be all bad.

Eddie Murray: DIDN'T. For all his choruses of The Duke of Surl while he was here, he did manage to hit now and then. Maybe he was, as Bob Klapisch recently recalled, the instigator of the antisocial tendencies of the Worst Team era, but I've gotta think you bring a surefire Hall of Famer in here, it's you (Harazin, Torborg, Bonilla) bringing him down to your level.

Anthony Young: DIDN'T. Aw, that's just mean.

Gene Walter: DID. Great insight by Metstradamus to put him in this elite company. Gene Walter was the single most depressing relief pitcher this team has ever had, and that's going a ways. Maybe he'd slip into the abyss of decidedly unspecial lefty specialists with the Paul Gibsons and Lee Guettermans and Eric Gundersons except Walter came with a label. The front office, delighted with itself for ridding the organization of troublemaker (and future MVP) Kevin Mitchell for talent (and future sack of potatoes) Kevin McReynolds, hyped throw-in Gene as “death on lefthanders”. Geno still needs to work on his grim reaping.

Alejandro Peña: DIDN'T. Was effective against us. Was ineffective for us. Was traded and became effective for somebody else. When we start Hating players for that, we start being mad at caterpillars for evolving into butterflies.

Guillermo Mota: DID. A close call. I almost didn't vote for him because he hardly seems worth our disgust, but he did throw at our most important player and then run and hide like a…well, like a Guillermo Mota.

Mel Rojas: DIDN'T. Mel Rojas seemed more pathetic than hateful. We know his pitching was disastrous, but I don't remember him beating his chest à la Armando or hiding an injury like Looper or coming here of his own free will like Billy Wagner (who's great, of course; why even bring him up in this conversation?). He was supposed to be better than he showed. He wasn't. Bobby Valentine used him a few times too many and learned from his mistake. I'm willing to abide by deploying Mel Rojas as an example, as in “Jorge Julio reminded me of Mel Rojas except Julio straightened out some,” but that's as far as I'll go.

Steve Phillips: DID. The Steve Phillips Wing of the Metstradamus Hall of Hate must be erected at once to dishonor all arrogant, self-loving, two-faced, creepy slimebags who actually got to make personnel decisions that adversely affected millions of loyal fans.

Mike Francesa: DID. I'm not sure if he goes in for his nearly two decades of patronizing, condescending, ill-informed anti-Met cage-rattling or his two innings of dreadful play-by-play. I think it says something that the Blowhard is on the ballot but his partner, the Retard, is not. It shows that Francesa is seen as the brains of that outfit, and if you've listened to a single segment of Mike & The Mad Dog, you know that's a pretty hard slap at Chris Russo.

Dick Young: DID. I think we've got another demographic gap working against the historical record here. As with Hebner, Metstradamus' readers may not have been sentient in '77 when this once-vital, then-vile columnist was doing M. Donald Grant's dirty work and running Tom Seaver out of town. He attacked Seaver every day in the Daily News. He attacked Seaver's wife, the beautiful Nancy. He attacked Seaver's motives. He attacked Seaver's priorities. He attacked the man who brought more pleasure to more Mets fans than any man who has ever drawn breath. It was a concerted effort to cleanse the clubhouse of intelligence and free thinking, something Young had taken up as his wider cause from the late 1960s on. If you are a Mets fan and you have it in you to hate at all, you must hate Dick Young.

Independence Day is at hand. Our forefathers did not put themselves on the line just so we could barbecue and complain about the Pirates on Tuesday. Voting is a sacred obligation all Americans and all Mets fans are blessed to possess. Go then to Metstradamus and cast your ballot.

As John Adams declared in 1776, it's your duty, damn it.

Now vote.

Yes, I finally agree with all the naysayers and killjoys. The Subway Series is boring. Take today's ho-hummer for example.

Just another 8-3 win over some run-of-the-mill opponent from wherever.

Just another well-supported Steve Trachsel victory, his fifth in a row. He says he's fine despite the talk about his groin; I'd prefer not to talk about his groin at all.

Just another angst-free Billy Wagner 1-2-3 ninth. He says he's fine no matter what his ankle looked like at the end (and you can always trust a pitcher to tell the truth about his anatomy).

Just another cacophony of clutchy clouts from the Castros, Lo Ducas and Marreros, the heart of our clever tri-catcher attack.

Just another day of All-Star play from our, at last check, All-Star left side of the infield.

Just another cleaners–taking of Randy Johnson. More starch for his collar, please.

Just another afternoon of heads-up baseball, replacing this week's unfortunate heads-up-their-asses version of the sport. Of course it helps to face more Melky and much less Coco.

Just another triumph over the Yankees, our ninth in the last fourteen contests against them, clinching, for a third straight year, nothing worse than a tie in the six-game Subway set.

But who cares about such a detail? No, nothing interesting about beating the Yankees, nothing at all. Just business as usual.

Good business to be in, though.

OK. Deep breaths. You out there on the ledge, don't make any sudden movements. I'm not coming out to get you — we're just going to talk.

I know things seem bad right now, but let's try to maintain some perspective.

We knew this was going to be tough road trip, and it's turned into one. The turnaround was a bit sudden, but not really a surprise. Every team has down periods when everyone stops hitting at once — you didn't think we were going to put first-inning runs up every night until the end of October, did you? You knew Jose Reyes wasn't going to hit .600 for the rest of the year, right? We spent much of June insanely hot; we're cold right now, but average it out and we're pretty warm.

Yes, I know the starting pitching's seemed a little suspect of late, with Pedro hurt, El Duque old, Soler young and Trachsel Trachsel. But we have time to fix that, whether it's from within (Pelfrey, MacLane, Heilman, Maine, Bannister) or without. And while El Duque wasn't particularly inspiring tonight, you can't argue with his line. Two earned over seven innings? I'll take that every time out, thanks very much.

Yes, we've been doing some dopey things out there in the field, whether it's pitch selection or getting picked off every freaking night. Willie warned all of us not so long ago about the dangers of getting complacent — well, this is what he was talking about. While Willie may make some questionable calls strategically, he's shown himself to be a terrific clubhouse manager. He's not going to let this get out of control. I wouldn't be surprised by a little clubhouse chat about bearing down and playing every game like it's No. 163 and the loser goes home.

Of course, it's a marathon and not a sprint, and marathon's are tough on the body. The team's beat up now, no way around it: Lo Duca's thumb, Pedro's hip, Cliff's ankle, Nady's wrist, Delgado's ribs, probably a host of other bumps and bruises we don't know about. That's part of the long season. We'll come through it and find it's happened to one of the clubs chasing us.

Oh, and let's remember that chase: The Marlins are 10.5 out, and while they're not to be dismissed (great story, in fact), they've got neither the horses nor the experience. The Phillies are hurtling downward in flames, the Braves just finished a 6-21 month and the Nationals have cratered. As my co-blogger likes to remind me, there's no extra credit for style points. If you finish first, nobody remembers how many games up you were on the last day or that your lead had been bigger earlier in the summer.

We're 10.5 up on July 1. If we could have looked in a crystal ball in March and seen that, we'd have redefined ecstatic and formed the world's biggest blue-and-orange conga line. And if we'd looked in the crystal ball and seen that we were all in the dumps despite that rather astonishing lead, we'd have concluded that we'd all gone insane.

10.5 games up on July 1. Deep breaths. Don't look down. Take my hand. Everything will be fine.

Are we out? Everybody make it onto the bus? Left Massachusetts airspace? Good.

KA-BOOM!!!

The Red Sox are an awesome team. They remind me of us from a couple of weeks ago, maybe more so. They outpitched us, they outhit us, they Crisply outcaught us and they surely outplayed us. If that's the third-best team in the American League, then I'm steering clear of the Tigers and the White Sox until absolutely necessary, should we somehow be called upon to face them. My cap's off to Boston after a decisive three-game sweep, including the last third that wasn't nearly as close as the 4-2 score would have us think.

So it's a shame that we have to, you know…

KA-BOOM!!!

And The Wall comes tumblin' down.

Geez, I hope Lastings wasn't just standing there staring at it.

KA-BOOM!!!

That one seat in right painted red? Well now it's really far away.

KA-BOOM!!!

Those narrow aisles and those narrow concourses and those narrow streets? Plenty of space now.

KA-BOOM!!!

There used to be a ballpark there.

Fenway Park 1912-2006.

Rust In Pieces.

Sorry, had to do it. Said it had to go if we didn't win Thursday night, and we didn't win Thursday night. Consider it a public service for Mets fans who couldn't stand to look at Fenway Park ever again. Ninety-four-and-a-half seasons of occasionally glorious history notwithstanding, the last three days were so dismaying that we simply had to dismantle.

What an honor to be the final opponent to dress in the visitors' clubhouse. We'll cherish that memory forever. Just like the Pesky Pole, the Legal Sea Foods clam chowder stand and that ladder that serves no purpose.

Served, I mean. It's not there anymore.

KA-BOOM!!!

I don't know where the Red Sox will play their home games the rest of this season. The Huntington Avenue Baseball Grounds? Braves Field or what's left of it? Pawtucket? Foxboro? Seems a shame that such a good club will have to become a truly regional team now, traveling throughout the six New England states and alighting for a series at a time here and there before taking off for actual road games. But ya gotta do what ya gotta do. They had to sweep us, we had to destroy the evidence.

Well, Red Sox Nation is a state of mind, so it won't be that big a deal that we did away with Fenway. It couldn't be allowed to stand, not after what happened there this week. Seems severe, I know, but it no longer served a purpose for the likes of David Ortiz, Manny Ramirez and their teammates.

No single ballpark could possibly contain them.