666 is SO 6/6/06. On June 7, it was all about .667.

Two outta three, two outta three, two outta three. If the Mets wanna do a three outta four this weekend, nobody here would argue the point. But after one hellish night, we'll take our two of three and pack for Phoenix with no complaints.

Win more series than you lose. When you lose a series, as we did to the Giants, pick yourself up, dust yourself off and start winning series all over again the way we just completed doing against the Dodgers. That's a habit to which we had grown accustomed when we were recently routinely (if often dramatically) taking two of three from the Yankees, two of three from the Phillies, two of three from the Marlins and two of three from the Diamondbacks. That's five series out of six. If that's a lifestyle choice, it's a good one.

The 666 thing, the business about omens and demons and whatnot, is the day before yesterday's news. Sure, Rafael Furcal is Satan for certain, but he was only one of nine opposing batters. Tom Glavine, pitching more than badly enough to lose, held up against the rest of the Dodger order just well enough to be rescued by his jury-rigged lineup. Glavine got a win he didn't really deserve? How's that for throwing the change-of-pace?

Any Met win is a great win but any Met win that includes major contributions from the village elder — Julio Franco starts, drives in two and scores a third from first — and the Milledge child — Lastings triples home Julio, homers home two more and guns down Garciaparra at second on a pea from left — eases gnawing concerns that this will be the roadtrip from hell. Or to hell. Hopefully, it will be just another visit to the dry heat of Arizona. 2-1 down, four to go.

One at a time and all that, but would a series sweep be too much to ask for? You know, just for the heck of it.

What's larger than a gully, smaller than a canyon and feels like an abyss?

A ravine.

• Like Chavez Ravine, where Dodger Stadium was built five years after Walter O'Malley bolted Brooklyn for Los Angeles.

• Like the Chavez ravine that opened up in the middle of our lineup last night when a slap-hitter named Endy stepped into a hole created when a slugger named Cliff stepped into a hole in Chavez Ravine, swallowing whole our slugging out of the six-hole and slapping our chances somewhere over a cliff.

• Like the seemingly bottomless ravine that a West Coast night game creates all day and well into the evening back east.

Games like Tuesday night's, battered as they are with bumps, bruises and BS, are horrible at any longitude. But yes Mr. Petty, the waaaaaaiting is the hardest part. I can't believe how wide the chasm is between 7:10 PM EDT and 7:10 PM PDT. This is about as much fun as being told the doctor's running a little behind, it'll be just a few more minutes…three nights in a row. Bring a good book.

There may be entertaining things to watch and productive things to do in the interregnum, but I swear the world slows to a crawl when you're counting down to a California start. The struggle to make it to the first pitch may be more tormenting than the battle to remain awake for the last out.

Right now, it's late afternoon in New York. And there are still more than five hours to go. No game 'til 10. No Floyd 'til further notice. No certainty about Reyes. Just one long noooooo stubbornly ensconced in our collective gut from last night's nocturnal debacle. And miles to go before we sleep.

I hate Walter O'Malley.

So. Did we have fun?

Let's see. There was Jose Reyes getting scratched before things even started, leading to the somewhat odd sight of Chris Woodward at the top of the lineup. There was Cliff Floyd turning over on an ankle and having to be helped off the field, leading to the somewhat odd sight of Endy Chavez in the middle of the lineup. Then there was Carlos Beltran showing the trainers what he'd hurt after landing hard on the warning track, at which point I may actually have blacked out for holding my breath.

I didn't think any of that was fun.

Oh, the non-injury part of the game? There was Pedro realizing he'd come out of the bullpen weaponless and trying to make it up as he went, only to have even his legendary improv skills desert him. (I tried to convince myself that having been lights-out in May with nothing to show for it, Pedro would logically get a win when he didn't deserve one. Guess not.) There was Heath Bell, doing very little to indicate he's about to reward the faith statheads and stathead wannabes keep putting in him. (Imprison Heath Bell!) And worst of all, there was Jose Valentin trying to figure out what to do with a glove that had suddenly turned to stone.

That wasn't any fun either.

Our 7th-inning insurrection? OK, that was fun — I dared to hope after Saito came in and promptly walked Wright, bringing the tying run to the plate. But is it a crime to have wished for more fun? When Valentin came up, I was thinking redemption, atonement, and all those good qualities baseball can provide to the patient and the pure of heart. And then … Martin set up on the outside corner … and Saito threw a fastball that missed. In fact, it had a good chunk of plate … and Valentin popped it up.

That was particularly no fun.

After Valentin's pop-up came down, I was thinking that tomorrow's the rubber game. Because much as I like Milledge, and much as I believe in our team's heart and moxie and can-do spirit, the baseball gods had spoken.

The New York Mets would like to apologize to the Los Angeles Dodgers for taking a series-opening win from them Monday night. It was just, they swear, their way of soothing the hurt feelings of San Francisco Giants reliever Steve Kline who was critical of Lastings Milledge's momentary lapse of accepted decorum and gauche display of a pulse Sunday afternoon.

Lastings Milledge would like to keep on apologizing to all who are miffed by his youth, exuberance and talent. He feels terrible about that run he drove in against Brett Tomko in the sixth. If Tomko was offended that Milledge all but knocked him out of the game, then Milledge apologizes for that, too.

Mets fans who sat down the right field line Sunday have signed a letter of apology to Milledge for sticking their hands out, palms front, for him to slap in the wake of his dramatic tenth-inning, game-tying, career-first home run. They now see they placed a terrible temptation in the young man's path and are filled with remorse that they may have led him astray.

Jose Reyes would like to apologize to the Dodger Stadium scoreboard operator for showing him up by leading off Monday night's game with a home run. It's very showy to put up a 1 right away and Jose feels terrible about it.

Carlos Delgado would like to apologize to his slump for the two-run homer that followed. The slump was shown up something awful by Carlos' swing, and Delgado is a professional and never would have done that had he realized it could be taken the wrong way.

Jose Valentin would like to apologize to Kaz Matsui for hitting and fielding well. Valentin now knows succeeding at second base is really just another way to show up Matsui, who was calmly and professionally batting .205 before giving way to his reluctant successor.

Alay Soler, through an interpreter, says he is deeply sorry that he shut down the Dodgers for seven innings and earned his first big league win. He reserves his most sincere apologies for the Philadelphia Phillies and Arizona Diamondbacks, the two teams that might feel shown up because he didn't pitch nearly as well against them and now they are left wondering if they were offered a true test of his abilities.

Chad Bradford sincerely hopes Billy Wagner didn't take his saving the opener against the Dodgers the wrong way. Chad understands now that it is wrong that anybody besides the designated closer secures a victory. He'll see to it that it doesn't happen again, though he can't promise anything. And for that, Bradford apologizes some more.

Pedro Martinez would like to apologize in advance to his teammates for the guilt and shame with which they will be racked when they won't score for him Tuesday night. He is ashamed already.

Willie Randolph sends regrets to the New York Yankee clubhouse staff for forgetting to return their very long and pointed stick upon leaving their organization to become manager of the New York Mets. It had just been up his ass for so long, he explains, that he forgot it was there.

Bravo! You have thrown around more inside-baseball dance terms in one post than I have in the decade-plus that I've been attending performances of the New York City Ballet. It's one of those things, rather obviously driven by my non-blogging better half, that I've come to appreciate without really learning a lot about. I just kind of know what I like when I see it.

I can't say I liked the date of Sunday, June 4 for our annual visit, but I signed off on it somewhere back in the winter, gambling that missing a few innings of Bondsmania wasn't going to kill me. That I'm still technically alive proves I was right, but while ballet played out in front of me and baseball played on without me, it was touch and go there for a while.

Keeping up on afternoons like Sunday is the luck of the draw, but you've got to work your opportunities. I caught just enough of the game to feel informed and missed just enough to be completely in the dark.

Train ride in: The David homers. We lead 1-0. Plenty of time for pizza at Don Pepi at Penn Station in advance of the 3 o'clock start (or curtain, as Stephanie calls it).

Emerging from the 1 at Lincoln Center: Resume radio contact with too much apparently going on. Trachsel wriggles out of a jam, retiring Bonds to preserve 1-1 tie in the middle of six.

First ballet: An American in Paris, led by the incomparable Damian Woetzel. Why is he incomparable? Because he's the only principal dancer whose name I recognize anymore. But he (and George Gershwin) totally carried the piece. He earns my most sincere applause of the day to this point. DW = David Wright. DW = DW = Damian Woetzel. They're both kicking ass. DW II is the early choice for the evening's headline if things work out.

First intermission: Years of May and June Sunday matinees have taught me where to stand to receive WFAN inside the New York State Theater. On the Third Ring level, it's the picture window overlooking Lincoln Center's famous fountain, avoiding all obstructions if possible. I march to my spot. Long commercial break. Probably means a call to the bullpen. But whose? Ah, crap, Chad Bradford is coming in. The Giants have scored three in the eighth and now lead 4-3. We led 3-1? Bradford does his bit for the arts by coaxing a DP out of Alfonzo Alfonso Alfo… whoever. Inning over, valuable intermission time being used up by more commercials. Let's hear who's up for us in the bottom of the eighth. It's Wright! OK, I'll wait through The David's at-bat, you never know, he might hit another home run. And he hit another home run. It's 4-4! I pump a fist — the best player in town ties 'er up while I'm getting my culture on; what a madcap Manhattan weekend! — and go back to my seat. Anything else the Mets do will be interrupted by those damn bongs that call you back in anyway.

Second ballet: I'm interested in the guest conductor because he has the same last name as a branch of my family that is chock full of classical musicians. I've never heard of this guy, though. I wonder if he's related? A glance through the opera glasses is inconclusive. A later Google search yields no evidence that we share anything but an alibi for why we weren't watching the ninth inning. Fancy Free, I am reminded, inspired the film On The Town, not the other way around. It was first produced in 1944. Sailors on leave, drinking, fighting, chasing skirts. I've been to the ballet enough now that I can say I've seen it before. Stephanie agrees that it didn't seem particularly fresh.

Second intermission: Out onto the patio off the First Ring where the other patrons drink and smoke and perhaps impress one another with their use of balletic terms. I'm unraveling my cord and tuning in, allegro. The game is in the tenth. Nothing happened after DW I hit his second of the day, but he's leading off again…and facing the dreaded Benitez. Tom McCarthy diplomatically explains for all listeners under the age of six that while Armando had many big saves for the Mets when he was a Met, he also didn't several times. Armando retires The David. One out, no chance. Jose Valentin up. Maybe Valentin will do something. He sure as shootin' does. Home run! Of course it's 6-5 and I remember Mike hitting one off Armando when he was a Marlin and Armando still holding on. Bastard. Stephanie, who's bought her annual NYCB t-shirt, and I hear the first set of bongs. I could wait out the intermission to the bitter end, but I don't want to cut it close. Not because I care all that much about the third ballet but because these audiences are notorious for the dirty looks they give you when you need to get by them to find your seat. I swear it's some sort of tradition, like the Bleacher Bums who throw the enemy homers back at Wrigley.

Third ballet: Whoever put the program together screwed up. An American in Paris, specifically Woetzel, was so good that it should have closed the afternoon. Fancy Free was sturdy enough to hold down the middle. But this thing in the three-hole, N.Y. Export: Opus Jazz was a Benetton ad meets Hurray For Everything. And it could have taken bronze in a high school talent show if the competition wasn't too tough. I've seen enough ballet to know what I don't like, too. The novelty has worn thin and I'm wondering what the hell happened after Valentin's homer. Did we go down futilely to Baby Huey? Is it possible there had been yet another danceoff win? Victory or defeat? I must know! Would my pulling out my phone, turning down the sound and fiddling with whatever function gives me scores be ruder than the ladies at the end of the row who gave us the punim as they grudgingly rose to let us through when we got here? Fortunately this unendearing audition for Up With People ends — the dancers milking the curtain all the way; I think it's required — and we race out of our Ring. We agree to meet after we make our respective pit stops (the men's room at the ballet is pretty much a private comfort station while the line at the ladies room likely began when George Balanchine was just discovering his feet). I knew I'd have time to catch up with how the game concluded.

After the final curtain: THEY'RE STILL PLAYING? Yes, they are. It was 6-5 when I left the Mets and Armando to carry out their maneuvers. Tom and Eddie are kvelling about how 48,000 were in attendance and many are still here given all the magic moments they've seen. MAGIC MOMENTS? WHAT MAGIC MOMENTS? HOW DID THE METS TIE IT? Somebody says something about the Mets having been down to their last strike when Lastings Milledge hit the game-tying homer, the first of his career. LASTINGS MILLEDGE HIT THE GAME-TYING HOMER, THE FIRST OF HIS CAREER? AND I MISSED IT? Suddenly, I was the Jimmy Fallon character in Fever Pitch whose night of romantic bliss with Drew Barrymore was rent asunder when he found out the Red Sox scored eight in the bottom of the ninth to beat the Yankees in the first home game he had missed in eleven years. I always thought that portrayal was a little over-the-top, but I now owe it an apology. I MISSED LASTINGS MILLEDGE'S MAGICAL GAME-TYING, FIRST-EVER, TENTH-INNING HOME RUN OFF ARMANDO BENITEZ TO WATCH THE FUCKING BALLET, AND NOT EVEN THE GOOD PART WHICH WAS PERFORMED IN THE SEVENTH, AND I'LL BET DAMIAN WOETZEL HIMSELF IS BACKSTAGE WATCHING THIS ON CHANNEL ELEVEN? “And once again the Mets are down to their last strike,” Eddie, I think, said. Hey, wait a minute…last strike? I assumed it was still 6-6 from Milledge's first-ever home run that I missed. Had the Giants gone ahead AGAIN? Apparently they had. And apparently that would be that. Giants 7 Mets 6. Final in 12.

As we walked down Broadway, I sorted out my emotions while catching up with the highlights. Eddie Coleman's call of Lastings' long shot was the best thing I've ever heard come out of his mouth and as honest a description I've ever heard in a baseball game. He was, to quote Mel Allen, partisan without being prejudicial. Eddie was excited. I was excited and it had taken place like an hour earlier. Gosh, it would have been nice to have waited out that second intermission and heard it as it happened. Would have been even nicer to have won. I'd have leaned over the Third Ring and high-fived every dancer I could. But we didn't win. And I did miss it. Then again, the Diamondbacks swept the Braves. The Phillies were leading the Dodgers on the Coast, but by the time I discovered that tidbit, we had found a Cuban place on Eighth Avenue for dinner. At some point, you simply have to concede that you can neither see nor win them all.

Ah, the ballet. I watched some myself today.

For a while, the matinee between the New York and San Francisco companies seemed hardly worth saving the program. There was a fine performance from Steve Trachsel, who's not exactly a diva but known to like everything just so, and to take changes in his carefully established routine out onstage with him. The other lead, Matt Morris, is most certainly a diva, as was obvious when Barry Bonds was nowhere to be seen as Carlos Delgado's sixth-inning double bounced off the wall: Morris spread his arms out as if to say, “What on earth?” Oh dear: Recent asterisks and clubhouse reputation aside, that's a Hall of Famer out there, and more importantly, he's wearing your colors. The San Francisco company appears to need a little group therapy.

Barry, ugh. There's nothing more cringeworthy than an aging dancer falling out of pirouettes and not being able to stay en pointe. He still fills out that orange and black tutu impressively, but the horizontal Arabesque he essayed during what became an Endy Chavez triple was painful. His replacement, Jason Ellison, was slightly more graceful: Only a hasty en arriere by Jose Valentin prevented Ellison from erasing him as the tail end of a most unlikely 5-4-7 double play. That would have been one to stare at in the scorebook when discovered years hence.

Alas, Bonds wasn't the only one whose art was lacking today. Jose Reyes, normally so reliable, opened the door to horror by getting too cute on a double-play ball. He's still just 22, our Jose, so you have to expect the occasional young-player mistake, but that was a bad time for a casual toss a la seconde. As for Sanchez walking in a run, well, merde.

And that's not even mentioning my favorite move from today's exhibition: The nifty pas de deux between Reyes and Morris with Reyes on third and only Manny Acta for company, thanks to the overshift against Delgado. Morris's look of terror at seeing Jose 40-odd feet down the line was priceless, as was the crowd all but ordering him to steal home. (Too bad it all came to naught.) I would like to know what passed between Acta and Reyes before Jose seemed to shorten his lead; I bet he was told he was distracting Delgado as much as he was bothering Morris. Whatever the communication, Jose looked like a Lab who'd just had the expensive cowboy boot he was chewing on taken away: He seemed to understand, but wasn't going to hide how disappointed he was.

And, of course, the half-inning that had the crowd all demi-pointes. That would be our belated (and ultimately ineffectual) revenge against one Armando Benitez. Yesterday Armando seemed like a lock for a walks-then-a-big-hit meltdown and wriggled free; today he seemed like all systems were go and then inexplicably threw a rod. Confusion reigned in the Fry/Bernstein household, however (or at least in my half of it): We'd had to pause TiVo and so were 40-odd seconds behind with Valentin at the plate when Joshua accidentally changed the channel, erasing TiVo's recording and hurling us into the present, but on some random channel. I flipped back (26? Augghh! Think! Oh! 11!) just in time to see Lastings' drive sail over the fence, which threw me into a paroxysm of rage: Oh these tack-on runs! Now it's 6-5 and Lastings' homer doesn't matter! Second night in a row! Fricking Heilman! And he got got by the guy from Double-A whose name still isn't spelled right on his uniform! Wait, why is the WB claiming it's 6-6? Stupid WB, they can't even get…wait a minute, did somebody else homer? Valentin? Endy? Who cares? YAAAAAY!!!!

(As for Milledge's post-homer oh-no-he-didn't decision to slap hands with the customers along the right-field line, we'll revisit it the first time he faces a Giant next year and immediately takes a pitch in the earflap. For now, let's just say that when the other team's psycho reliever, your own cool veteran and your old-school manager agree you fucked up and tell the press as much, you fucked up.)

All in all, a recital that see-sawed from exhilirating to excruciating, but was never anything less than hugely entertaining. I only wish I could let go of my quarrel with the New York company's choreographer: In the 8th, with Valentin on second and nobody out in a tie game, why was Chavez bunting? The base-out matrix will tell you that's a bad idea, but you didn't have to be a stats geek to hate that call. Bunting there puts Milledge — a rookie who had two big hits but has also looked very overeager — up against a guy who's a ground-ball machine. If the 21-year-old can't get it done, you've got a pinch-hitter coming in with two outs. And, indeed, Milo grounded out and Franco struck out. Ack!

Oh well. We didn't get the win, but I can't say I wasn't riveted. Sometimes you wind up delivering your Bravos to the other guys.

(Ballet terms butchered thanks to Wikipedia.)

There was no orange button on your new blue cap because you had to earn it Croix de Flushing Meadow style. And despite six hours of service time, you came up short. Tsk.

Of course, I get nothing for manipulating television and radio volume controls from 1:20 until 11:00 except maybe a touch of the carpal tunnel and a relatively pleasing case of the warm-and-drys. Though I wouldn't compare it to your battle with the elements, the Giants or the kind of common sense that one is required to check at Gate A for day-day-night doubleheaders, it was a long stretch from my particular catbird seat. Warm and dry, but long.

Nobody knows how to do rain delays anymore. Fox showed an Angels-Indians game that I guess was the only other one they had going. The Braves and Diamondbacks were playing a day-nighter in Atlanta, but the afternoon part was the makeup so I'm guessing it wasn't televised. I don't think we've ever had a day-night doubleheader of our very own (not counting those Skank-induced frauds that we half-hosted in 2000 and 2003). The one you went to last year was as close as I can recall, a 4:00 start and then an invitation to stick around for the 8:00 show. Seeing as how Fanny Pack Nation traditionally makes itself so scarce, I thought day-nighting it at the Ted was a little showy. Unless they were expecting a huge crowd for Fanny Pack Night and had to fight 'em off with a switch.

I listened intermittently on XM to the Diamondbacks defeat the Braves in the daytime, getting myself squarely behind the National League's new premiere closer Jorge Julio. (Didn't we used to have him?) And because it was there, I watched a bit of the Indians unraveling my nominal favorite American League team, though I have to admit I haven't kept up all that closely on Angel affairs of late. Apparently, “we” are not very good this year.

As pleasant at it is to have a baseball game from Cleveland on TV and as necessary as it is to hear one from Atlanta, I would have ditched both for wall-to-wall Rain Delay Theater. The FAN seemed fertummelt by the fact that the game would not start as scheduled and always acts fermisht when the arrival of the first pitch is unknown. How many Mets games have they broadcast since July 1, 1987? It's rained at least a few times.

Wouldn't you think an all-sports station (save for the Saturday mornings when Richard Neer hijacks the format for his crusade against mental health; he campaigned for Glavine to go in the first game so he could get “an extra four hours of rest” before his next start) could line up interviews with interesting baseball people while they're all standing around a baseball stadium with nothing to do? Instead of Ed Coleman fretting that the tarp is on the field and the skies don't look promising and we have no idea when we're going to get underway, can't he grab a beat reporter or a columnist, even one from San Francisco? How about getting somebody from Fox on? I don't want to listen to Lou Piniella do the game, but I wouldn't mind 10 minutes of Lou Piniella on The Game. Surely there's an itinerant scout floating around who could tell us something flattering (or otherwise) about Lastings Milledge.

No, all we learned of a substantive nature on the FAN before it was thrown to Steve Somers in the studio (where I could be assured of learning nothing at all) was Tom McCarthy used to help roll tarps for the ballclub in Trenton where he was assistant GM. Really? I didn't know that. Ralph was famously a minor league GM before becoming a Mets voice for the ages, so maybe Tom's got the right career path in gear.

Around 3:30 I began to compose a full-froth rant about how Fox was obviously going to screw us out of our telecast, that they were going to issue a bland statement about the local market and the limited window and how we were already served by witnessing Los Angeles of Anaheim at Cleveland of Ohio and I checked SNY to see various bouts of sailing or gymnastics or lacrosse and began to get doubly mad that our very own network wasn't going to show our game either, that this was an outrage, that this was disgusting…

And then a Mets game magically appeared on Channel 5 and I calmed down. For 2-1/2 hours they had shown a sunny day in Cleveland and that very nifty Jacobs Field and suddenly it was dark and foreboding and Shea and I couldn't believe how much better it looked here than there. It really does matter who's playing.

Then the game took place and I couldn't do anything about that except turn the television sound down and listen to Howie Rose and Tom McCarthy describe the action five seconds before I could look at it. Time tunnel be damned, I'm not going to listen to Piniella when I can listen to Rose. And I'm never going to listen to Josh Lewin, whom I still haven't forgiven for larding up the ill-fated Brian Jordan II telecast in September 2001 by referring to the Mets as the New York Metaphors, carrying the weight of a nation on its shoulders.

Besides, Fox couldn't spell that “kid” catcher's name correctly in its graphics. I'd never heard of him until yesterday but I could see his uniform said he was “ALFONSO”. I later learned that the foulup was on the kid's back, not in the Chyron. Either the San Francisco Giants or this guy was the culprit. I choose the San Francisco Giants.

But only in this case. I wouldn't choose the San Francisco Giants in anything except a knife fight against the Braves, Phillies or Skanks. Loathsome bunch, and Bonds is the least of their loathsomeness. It's the team of the living dead over there. Is Steve Finley still in the league? Omar Vizquel isn't an Indian? Randy Winn isn't a Devil Ray? Ray Durham? Steve Kline? I don't care for any of these people now if I ever did before. Where do they play their home games…Alcatraz?

And yes, there is the issue of their zombie ex-Mets Vizcaino and Benitez. Viz lost his nickname privileges long ago. And Armando…yeesh. Just yeesh. Stephanie was devoting about 10% of her attention to the end of Game One, but when I pointed out who was closing for the visitors, she emitted a noise normally reserved for discovering that the yogurt in the back of the fridge has an expiration date of AUG 24 05.

I looked forward to a more “normal” second game, flipping over to SNY to hear Gary Cohen, but was surprised at how much he had begun to sound like Howie Rose. Hey! That IS Howie Rose! Gary apparently shared a bad appendix with Xavier Nady so zowie, it was Howie for 18+ innings yesterday.

I welcomed his presence (thought the Dolans would have forbid it considering he calls Islander games on one of their channels), but there was something Proustian about it. Hearing Howie coming from the TV jolted me back to his FSNY gig, a bit too much of which was spent describing bad baseball on either side of the Bobby Valentine era. Seeing the tableau of foreboding clouds and empty orange seats made me think I was watching a game from April 1996 or September 2003. A utility infielder in right? A four-A outfielder in center? A .205-hitting second baseman? Tom Glavine warming up in front of nobody? Is Art starting Joe DePastino behind the plate?

Got over that soon enough, but was a little taken aback when I realized that Howie, every bit the good broadcasting companion that Gary is for my money, has aged right before our ears. Maybe it's just an evergreen sense of fair play on his part that I've never quite embraced, but he's displaying curmudgeonly tendencies that are probably par for someone who's been on the New York baseball scene for the better part of thirty years. I've always considered him a card-carrying member of the New Breed and figured the NB wasn't as relentlessly judgmental as its predecessors.

In measured terms, however, Howie couldn't bash Barry enough, giving off the impression that “that's not how it was in my day.” Willie Mays was his day but it could have been Willie Keeler. It went beyond the reasonable and defendable assertion that the guy's a lousy cheater, et al; the vibe seemed more Dick Young than Howie Rose, and I thought Dick Young was long dead. Then again, Dick Young wasn't always wrong.

It was also interesting listening to Rose attempting to cajole Hernandez. It was good-natured Howiedom at its best, but Keith's such an odd duck that it wouldn't take, not even in the rain. Howie was teasing Keith about him not wanting to play both ends of a doubleheader. There was silence from Keith until Keith, his professionalism as a player somehow impugned 16 years since he last played, explained (you could almost hear him lacing up his spikes) that he wanted five hits out of every doubleheader. Howie was trying to keep it light. Keith couldn't believe somebody couldn't understand why you wouldn't want to get eight to ten at-bats in a single day.

Then Howie, easing into an anecdote about erstwhile Mex backup Dave Magadan, actually placed an event from Bud Harrelson's tenure on Davey Johnson's docket. Howie never makes those mistakes! By the middle of Game Two, we were all getting old.

TBS had the good news, for a while. The Diamondbacks were drilling the Braves. Then the Braves started mounting one of their infernal comebacks, the kind of rally they've been in the middle of since Mags was ducking flying lumber in St. Louis. While the Mets and Giants were literally stuck in the mud, I focused on cheering home the Turner Field visitors. I heard myself calling out “C'MON ERIC!” to Eric Byrnes, a Snake on whom I was wishing several forms of whacking three or four days earlier. The schedule can be a funny thing.

Arizona was withstanding the Atlanta assault; how did Damion Easley not do us in? Meanwhile, we trudged into a 19th inning. Stephanie had long abandoned the couch for her Saturday evening pastime of loading tracks onto the iPod Shuffle she gave me for my birthday. I've refused to learn how to do this since I'm not entirely convinced the audio cassette tape's day has passed; I'm not without curmudgeonly tendencies myself. As has become custom, she'll slip the earbuds on me when she finds a particular song she's sure will strike my fancy and I'll usually leave them on for an hour or two while listening to and watching other things (muuulti-tasking!).

By the bottom of the eleventh, she had gone upstairs and Lo Duca singled and Delgado doubled and Milledge pinch-ran (I also cried overmanaging…geniuses we are here) and as the bases got loaded, the song in my ears was Sultans of Swing, the Dire Straits tune to which Chris Woodward always strides toward the plate.

And who was striding toward the plate mid-song? Chris Woodward!

I love and hate stuff like this. I love the idea that a coincidence (there is no display on this iPod) could foreshadow a walkoff incident. I hate the idea of loving the idea because it never works as I would imagine. Except this time, Woodward lofts an inadequate fly to right and Milledge, resembling a late September callup amid anything but a pennant race — empty orange seats depress me so — dashed in a fashion nobody else available (certainly not Lo Duca) could have, slid smartly and scored. I was clapped a lot and yelled up the stairs, “Hey, I've got an iPod story for you!”

Then I switched back to TBS, rooted for Jorge Julio to strike out Todd Pratt and found myself not having completely wasted a Saturday. A half-game picked up on Philly. A game picked up on Atlanta. A better taste in my mouth to nod off to than seemed possible for most of the previous ten hours. And I was still warm and dry.

Though you are commended for logging unwarranted face time with Old Man Late Winter (a hardy soul who was supposed to be at his condo in Boca by now) and not docked for surrendering to self-preservation and the babysitter's retirement fund (I hear she started planning a trip to Bermuda when Armando walked the first two batters), one demerit for not completing your due diligence — I could have told you Giants @ Mets doubledips are, if not trouble, then almost never wholly satisfying. Hell, I already have.

Now, having staked the nominal historical high ground from the comfort of my couch, you must excuse me. I'm going to the ballet today.

What?

Poster's Note: Asterisks in this post indicate facts/statistics/programs/statements that might not hold up to greater scrutiny.

A few years ago, Emily instituted a sensible rule for herself: No April baseball.

No more freezing through 200-minute marathons with balls dying on warning tracks, pitchers struggling to build arm strength, and long lines for coffee and hot chocolate as vendors proved unable to give away beer. No more announced crowds that provoked horse laughs from anyone lifting their chin out of their coats for a cursory look around the stadium. No more wearing t-shirts and sweatshirts and sweaters and Met gear and a coat and gloves and a rain jacket just in case and then having to run to the clubhouse store for a garish Met towel because it was still too cold.

No more, she said, and I didn't blame her one bit. Since then she's made her Shea debut at a more-reliable point in the calendar. Say, June 3rd. Day game against the San Francisco Giants. Barry Bonds in town, owner of 715 * home runs. Possibly the last chance to see him in the flesh.

You know, June: The trees all have leaves, gardens are bursting at the seams, the water's getting warm enough for swimming, you can wear white shoes. June.

Ha.

We were meeting up with pals Will and Shari, with loge tickets I'd chosen using online ticketing's Best Available * option. That turned out to be the last row in the loge on the third-base side, with the field viewed through a slot between the seats below and the mezzanine above. If you're an old-school fan, you might like it: You can't see the Diamondvision or any of the scoreboards, so you're on your own when it comes to the score, number of outs and the count. You also can't see the upper part of the parabola described by routine fly balls. If I ever have to watch a baseball game through the periscope of a U-Boat, I'll be prepared.

What we could see was rain. Lots of it. Nearly three hours of it, before the tarp came off and baseball could be played. Being so far underneath the mezzanine we were at least dry. We were also cold, victims of a wind funneled through the mesh behind us so as to penetrate the bones. Oddly, later in the game I was standing on the same side of the stadium on the external ramps and there was barely a breath of wind. Who says Shea has no interesting architectural quirks?

Oh yeah, the game. It was unpleasant too. If ever there was a day one would feel sorry for baseball players now that coffee pots marked PLAYERS are officially verboten, this was it. Both the Mets and Giants looked draggy and dispirited, and I could hardly blame them. Alas, the Giants were slightly less draggy and dispirited, buoyed by young Matt Cain and the heretofore-anonymous Eliezer Alfonzo, just up from Double-A, whose first major-league hit was a two-run shot off El Duque that gave the Giants a lead they wouldn't relinquish. Don't tell Eliezer this was no day to be playing baseball. I suppose on some level I'm happy for the kid. I'd be happier for him if his big moment had been Thursday night, or had waited until Monday, or had come when it was 13-3 instead of 4-3. Of our kids, Jose Reyes and David Wright did all they could, but Lastings Milledge looked awful raw.

Survival was Job One today, but the ninth inning still managed to be annoying. As Armando Benitez emerged, my fuming (which began with Oliver letting the Giants tack on an insurance run) quickly escalated to Old Faithful-like proportions, which was probably some desperate attempt to remain warm by being especially irascible. How is it, I asked Emily, that Armando never recorded a single save for us, * and yet since taking off our uniform has been completely and utterly perfect for everyone else? * I've been waiting to engage in some bitter, finger-pointing laughter at Armando Benitez's expense for nearly three years, and it seemed like this finally might be my chance: He walked Valentin, struck out Castro, but then walked surprise pinch-hitter Beltran. And every time he shook out his shoulder or wanted the catcher to run through the signs again or whirled for a lame pickoff attempt at second, I had flashbacks. Yep, that's Armando disintegrating on the mound. Yep, that's Armando trying, in vain, to reset himself by doing something other than throwing the baseball. Yep, that's Armando going down in flames.

Except then he got Julio Franco to foul out on a 2-1 pitch (ugh) and then Reyes grounded out and we were done. And with the babysitter already deep into expensive overtime and my neck windburnt and the weather miserable, I did the unthinkable: I headed home, despite having a ticket in my hand that entitled me to a free baseball game. May the baseball gods forgive me.

If a good excuse is possible, here it is: 363 days ago, the same Will and I stayed for both games of a doubleheader against these same Giants, and afterwards we agreed that despite our adoration for the game, it had come perilously close to too much baseball. Except then it was 25 degrees warmer, and dry, and we didn't have to wait 161 minutes for the actual baseball to begin.

Sorry, I'm not that tough. Emily and I headed home (accompanied out of Shea by a very large chunk of the crowd) to relieve the babysitter, put the kid to bed, and watch the final 2/3 of the second game from the safer confines of the couch. More soggy, draggy baseball, with rain swirling in gouts/sheets/drifts/spirals across the television screen. At this point the mere sight of rain at Shea made us a little tense. I spent the game spitting and snarling at Jose Vizcaino, that vile and traitorous ex-Yankee pain in the ass, and finished it with a fervent apology to Willie Randolph. When Willie sent Milledge in to run for Lo Duca at third I first scoffed, then wondered aloud why he was burning a player we might need in a marathon. Overmanaging, feh. Then I watched as Milledge came home safe on a play where Lo Duca would have been roadkill. Skip, here's a tip of my giveaway Mets hat. (Which, by the way, doesn't have an orange button. Huh?)

So things turned out OK. And the Phillies lost. And the Braves lost not once but twice. So that's even a little better than OK. But after today, my deepest wish is this: Please don't let it rain tomorrow.

The colleges are pretty much done with these, but not all the high schools have let out yet. So, with great respect to Mary Schmich and, sort of, Kurt Vonnegut…

Ladies and gentlemen of the class of 2006:

Wear sunscreen. Especially if you're going to a day game. Even today's doubleheader if, in fact, it is played. It's pretty dreary outside right now.

If I could offer you only one tip for the future, day games would be it. If you can get off from work, you should make it to one midweek afternoon game a year. And if you can't get off from work, call in sick.

Enjoy the power and beauty of our game. Oh never mind; you will not understand the power and beauty of our game until winter comes and you're at that unenviable position between seasons. Then you'll wish you had a lineup or a double-switch or a fifth starter to complain about. Trust me, in six months, you'll look back at comments you posted and wonder what had you so upset.

Don't worry about the future. Or worry about prospects and suspects, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve Albert Pujols with a hanging slider. You never know which of your minor leaguers will make it, so don't take it too hard if they don't.

Do one thing everyday that scares you. Minaya-bashers, see the big picture and realize Kris Benson wasn't traded away because of Jorge Julio's overwhelming potential. Randolph-doubters, study the standings before picking apart the manager's strategy yet again. You'll both be better off for it.

Sing. Anything will suffice, with the possible exception of “Our Team, Our Time”.

Don’t be reckless with other people’s hearts, don’t put up with people who are reckless with yours. Don't listen to sports talk radio to the point where you're yelling at it. It doesn't listen to you.

Post. Post on bulletin boards. Post on blogs. But spell. Spell correctly. If you don't know how, use spell check. Consult a dictionary. For the love of Doug Mientkiewicz, spell.

Don’t waste your time on jealousy; sometimes you’re ahead, sometimes you’re behind…the race is long, and in the end, it’s only with yourself. But keep an eye on the out-of-town scoreboard anyway.

Remember the wins, forget the losses. If you succeed in doing this, tell me how.

Keep your old yearbooks. Don't throw away a single ticket stub.

Stretch. As soon as the last out of the top of the seventh is made.

Don’t feel guilty if you don’t know what you want to do with your life other than watch baseball. The most interesting people I know have no other interests that come close.

Get plenty of calcium. But don’t forget the peanuts and Cracker Jack.

Be kind to your closers. You’ll miss them when they’re gone.

Maybe your team will win the pennant this year. Maybe it won't. Maybe you'll gain memories that will carry you into your dotage. Maybe you'll call this a forgettable season. Whatever you do, don't congratulate yourself or berate yourself either. Only one team in 30 gets a really big parade when all is said and done.

Enjoy your remote control. Don't be afraid of it, or what other people think of it. It's the greatest instrument you'll ever own.

Dance…even if you have nowhere to do it but in the upper deck.

Carry a cell phone, but don't yell into it while waving at a television camera.

Do NOT read the line on the back of the baseball card that indicates age. It will only make you feel old.

Get to know your utility infielders. You never know when they’ll be gone for good.

Be nice to your seatmates. If you get up for them, they'll get up for you.

Understand that kindred baseball spirits come and go, but with a precious few, you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle because the older you get, the more you need the people you e-mailed in the midst of a seven-game losing streak when you were young.

Go to a game in Philadelphia once, but leave before it makes you hard. Go to a game in Toronto once, but leave before it makes you soft.

Travel. Go to a game everywhere.

Accept certain inalienable truths: concessions will rise, politicians will posture with the first ball, you too will get old. And when you do, you’ll fantasize that when you were young, concession prices were reasonable, politicians really did root for your team and kids knew the game.

Respect your elders, your Brooklyn Dodgers and your New York Giants. But eschew their California descendants. They are not who they claim to be.

Don’t expect anyone else to support your team. There will be a chilly April evening when it is you and just you in Section 9 of the mezzanine. Someday, when it is packed butt to gut, take quiet satisfaction that you were there by yourself when nobody else cared enough to join you.

Buy a new cap, but keep your old one.

Be careful whose advice you buy, even if it is that of a well-meaning blogger who peers into soggy Friday night skies and wonders why a baseball game would ever be postponed for something as inconsequential as intermittent downpours. You may not want to depend on me for guidance on the subject of rain.

But trust me on the sunscreen.