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.

By walking off the field freshly triumphant after 13 innings, the Mets continue to provide free advertising for the most relevant blog of them all, and everything is fairly wonderful, but I'm surprisingly bugged that in his six May starts, including last night's sublime pitchers' duel, Pedro Martinez's won-lost record was 0-1.

That's not Pedro Martinez. That's maybe Pedro Feliciano. Or Teddy Martinez in mop-up duty. Pedro should have been Maydro. According to Metsblog, he posted a 2.14 ERA in the merry, merry month. How on earth is that 0-1 material? At worst, it should be 0-0-6 because I continue to be in Pedro's (or K-Dro's) Corner (or Korner) from last Friday night. He said then he didn't lose. He's right. He doesn't lose. At least he hasn't in 2006 from this vantage point.

I don't usually get caught up in pitchers' records because they're subject to so many variables. The only number that ever mattered was 20 and twenty-game winners are an extinct species in these parts; Frank Viola was our last. If starters, almost by design, almost never finish, decisions are bound to be community property with the bullpen. So why dwell on an ND when you can revel in an Endy? Besides, Pedro needn't win another game to gain induction into Cooperstown five years from the minute he retires. But he's entitled to those he's earned on our behalf.

There aren't enough words or awards to shower on this man. What he has done for this franchise is positively Keithish (the fierce first baseman, not the lovably loopy analyst). Yesterday, Lee Jenkins wasted a lot of space in the New York Times picking over the carcass of the Scott Kazmir trade as if we're all donning sea-green armbands every time he starts in St. Petersburg. I'm with the informed dissenters who are convinced that if Kazmir stayed, Pedro never would have come, that the overhaul of this team would have never taken place the way it has. When you consider where we were pre-Pedro, 2005 and 2006 to date have marked a remarkable renaissance for what was, twenty short months ago, a floundering franchise.

That's not to excuse a transaction that even I, who didn't hate it, can't defend any longer. It's just to say I like very much what's happened to the Mets since the end of 2004 and if we had to, in essence, give up a budding stud to get a transcendent one (along with a first-place future to be named not that much later), then I chalk Scott Kazmir up to the cost of doing business.

On the First of June 2006, I'm not worried about departed Devil Rays or decrepit palace intrigue. I'm not even overly overwrought about Pedro officially being 5-1 instead of the 11-or-so-0 he deserves to have next to his name…though his teammates not hitting Brandon Webb a lick is no shame. Like our ace, he was as crisp as a bag of Baked Lays. But Brandon Webb's not my cause.

Mets got the win, right?

Milledge threw out Counsell at third on a speeding bullet, right?

Jose Valentin owned second base on both sides of the ball, right?

Endy Chavez took drama lessons from David Wright, right?

Duaner Sanchez promises to take good care of Pedro's W, right?

Then all is right with the world.

Not bad for a night's work: a pitchers' duel from a bygone era, some pretty defense, clutch relief, a whale of a throw and a(nother) Met walkoff. And 13 innings in roughly the time to play one moderately long game of regular duration.

Brandon Webb was first sighted in this park three years ago, beating us in his first-ever start. Of course, that put him in a class numbering somewhere in the thousands, so it was a shock to realize how good this matchup promised to be. Brandon Webb? He's 8-0? Unscored upon since seemingly forever? Really? Strange things happen out in the desert when you stop paying attention.

The Webb hyperventilating sure wasn't some heat-induced delirium, though: With that sinker of his, it's a wonder he ever loses. Considering he doesn't walk anybody, waiting for the sinker or two per start that won't sink is a pretty tenuous game plan. Luckily, enter Pedro J. Martinez, who's rarely seen an occasion he can't rise to. (By the way, a pox on these interviews with players during the game. Is nothing sacred?)

Other random semi-insights and asides before we head into an off-day:

• I'd pay for a DVD of “Paul Lo Duca's Greatest Tantrums.” When Lo Duca loses it, he gets his money's worth — I'd put him in the Pissed-Off Pantheon with the likes of Dallas Green and Dennis Cook. After Carlos Beltran finished his third minute of writhing around on the ground (eeek), SNY cut over to Lo Duca and found him still trying to make Paul Emmel's hair catch fire by glaring at him. (No way was that a swing, by the way.)

• Oh what a throw from Lastings Milledge! That seed was the defensive equivalent of a no-doubter home run — the moment the ball left Milledge's hand, I let out a little yelp of happy anticipation, much the same sound you make when you see a ball leave the bat at that certain angle and velocity. Seeing Wright's glove pop backwards when the ball arrived on the fly was quite something, too. If Milo can do things like that on even a semi-regular basis, I'll forgive him whatever mustard he wants to anoint his game with.

• What was up with the back of Brandon Medders' head? Does he sleep on the rosin bag? Did the bullpen catcher peg him with it?

• I still don't know why Jose Valentin can't bat without his helmet flap folding the top of one ear over, but he can do everything else. That move to third on the ball hit to his right, after he saw the ball was hit slowly enough that baseball conventional wisdom didn't apply, was the epitome of cagey veteran. The only downside? If he keeps this up, we'll be too patient with apparently washed-up pinch hitters for years, remembering how wrong we all were about Valentin. (Seems like a fair deal right now, too.)

• It's official: Johnny Estrada is the worst bunter in major-league history. And he's a catcher! How many bunts has he seen from two feet away that he can't manage one himself? I'm glad he didn't get it down, but for Chrissakes….

• When Ramon Castro came up, Emily asked what would happen if somebody got hurt, seeing how the Round Mound of Pound was our final position player. I ventured that they'd move whomever could fill in best to the position vacated by the injured player, then stick a pitcher in the outfield and move him between left and right depending on who was up, shades of Orosco and McDowell in the Ray Knight/Eric Davis game. (Morning-after add: A move Davey swiped from Whitey Herzog, who'd sometimes do it just to conserve pinch-hitters.) And, I offered, it would be kinda fun to see. In theory, of course.

It went unremarked upon as far as I could tell that when David Wright had to sit out a game in Florida, Jose Valentin filled in at third and became the Mets' 132nd third baseman. With The David firmly ensconced there, it seems likely (barring everything) that the hot corner will be warm and snuggly for a good, long while.

But second base is a mess. Second base is usually a mess. Nobody counts all the second basemen we've gone through (it's 113). Nobody's written a song, as far as I know, to acknowledge that second base can't be satisfactory filled. One was written about the then-79 third basemen in Mets history. It showed up on An Amazin' Era, the 25th anniversary videocassette celebration. Third base was a lingering Mets joke then. Mr. Wright has at last made it the feelgood finale to an overlong romantic comedy.

But second base gets no love when it comes to earning angst. Second base has almost always been a problem child among Met positions. Well, a problem child whose misbehavior is more “maybe we should get him some help” rather than “YOU GO TO YOUR ROOM NOW!” After all, we won two world championships with four second basemen. Boswell and Weis platooned. Backman and Teufel platooned. Gregg Jefferies manhandled the position for a little while. Jeff Kent stood there for a time. Both would hit a ton, but not for us. We imported some very credentialed talent to play second. Roberto Alomar couldn't be bothered. Carlos Baerga was going through a phase. Second base has never been easily tamed.

There were a few individual success stories. Fonzie, of course, though only after he was yanked off third for Ventura. Ron Hunt early. Doug Flynn primarily with the glove. Felix the Cat could spray hits around and turn the pivot. But while second base hasn't exactly been the sack of shame, it hasn't been the sack of honor either.

Now it's a sack of…

The Mets are proving 50 games into the season that you can build and maintain a first-place lead without a regular second baseman. Conclusion: It's just not that important a position.

My logic professor warned against such inductive reasoning. But honestly, who's on second? And does it really matter?

2006 in brief has brought us this:

• Anderson Hernandez wins the job by default. Everybody's thrilled because he sure can field. Everybody gets a little less thrilled when it becomes apparent he sure can't hit. Then he gets hurt. Everybody takes a deep breath because…

• Kaz Matsui wins the job by default. Everybody's thrilled because he sure did hit an inside-the-park homer his first at-bat (that first AB bit proving most charming once again) and he gets to balls and hangs in on double plays like he never did before, like Willie was working with him behind Petco Park as soon as he returned. He got a few timely hits and the folks got off his back but then he stopped getting timely hits and the equation that worked pretty well for Hernandez — good glove, little bat — began to work against Matsui in popular and practical terms. He's benched and nobody minds because…

• Jose Valentin wins the job by default. He's part of a mix & match, actually, but we haven't seen Kaz anywhere near second and Chris Woodward continues to anchor the bench. Jose Valentin, it will be recalled, was perhaps the most reviled Met since Gerald Williams. But that was all the way back in April. The 99.9% of Mets fans who assumed he was utterly worthless (I'll count myself among the vocal majority) were delightfully surprised by his offensive surge in his outfield cameos and decided they couldn't get enough of him. What's that? He can play second, TOO? Who knew? Put him in! Put him in! He doesn't look particularly comfortable out there and we're bound to pay for it, but he is hitting, so no complaints.

Until the ball that goes under his glove leads to the run that dooms Pedro when Brandonmania kicks into high gear, if in fact Valentin is starting tonight, and I'll assume he is. Pedro deserves every hot Met bat he can get.

None of these fellows is the 2006 answer. Randolph has already ruled out the return of Anderson Hernandez any time soon (though rules are made to be broken). Kaz seems lost. He's seemed lost before only to surge to the brink of being found, so maybe there's a tiny bit of hope there. Jose Valentin has proved himself the moral equivalent of Chase Utley for May; we'll see about June. I think Chris Woodward's still on the team.

Yes, it's a stew. But so were Backman and Teufel. So were Boswell and Weis. Those stews weren't as ingredient-heavy as these, but maybe we can get by. Maybe Jeff Keppinger will eventually be judged to have paid his debt to society and be released from a Virginia prison. Maybe, as suggested somewhere downblog, Mark Grudzielanek, a name-brand second baseman and the assumed December answer to our second base spelling test, will finally get his geography straight and head to New York. Maybe Edgardo Alfonzo, released by the Angels, will come home and…damn, he's already signed with Toronto. And he's batting .089.

Maybe Keith Miller's not busy.

I don't have a solution. I don't have a strong preference, other than for routine competence on both sides of the ball. It's second base on the Mets — I don't think I can expect much more.

If you're looking for highs in the course of a season, you start with wins. But next to those, I can't think of anything more uplifting than the big-time position prospect who makes an unexpected middle-of-the-schedule debut. It's little wonder that we all got fairly excited when Lastings Milledge became the 789th Met Wednesday. He didn't look scared in doing so and he didn't sound scared talking about it afterward. The scary part is wondering what's next.

For a hotshot to get a shot between Opening Day and September 1, it usually means something has gone wrong, often terribly wrong. Appendicitis striking your starting rightfielder would qualify.

David Wright was that rare phenom who got the mid-season call when things were going reasonably well for the big club. The Mets hadn't yet fallen out of the 2004 playoff picture and Ty Wigginton was representing professionally at third. Wright was a case of we can't keep 'em down on the farm anymore. Jose Reyes' promotion a year earlier reflected his readiness but also the dreck that the 2003 Mets had shown themselves to be. Or was anybody particularly satisfied that Rey Sanchez was our starting shortstop?

Neither Wright nor Reyes, for all their advance pub, was the classic franchise-saver, the five-tool power bat we'd been promised since the day we signed on as Mets fans. Wright was going to be a real good hitter, it was said, but I don't remember being guaranteed a classic slugger. He hit more homers last year as a Major Leaguer than he did in any one season in the minors (though his combined bushes/bigs total in '04 was a nifty 32). Reyes was about defense, then speed and then hitting, certainly not power-hitting. Even today, he is patronized after home runs with “you sure hate to see him do that.” Yes, I can't stand the way he drives in runs and matures at the same time.

As you indicated, there was no one whose recall was more hyped than Darryl Strawberry. What had gone terribly wrong to precipitate his arrival was the Mets as a whole. 1983: Seaver starts his emotional homecoming and the Mets win on Opening Day. Craig Swan starts the second game and the Mets win again. Then it was toilet time in Flushing. We were 6-15 when the clarion call to Tidewater went out. Up came Darryl and Tucker Ashford. Tucker Ashford? Yeah, the Mets called up two players to make their debut on May 6, 1983. Ashford was the pack of gum you buy at the CVS so the cashier doesn't think you're some kind of weirdo for buying whatever the other, far more obvious thing is.

Tucker Ashford very briefly took over for Hubie Brooks at third. Darryl Strawberry replaced a vacuum in the heart of the Mets' batting order, one that had been sucking the life out of rallies since 1962. There was almost always a hole there, but in 1983 it was astoundingly noticeable. You could drive the National League East through it. Darryl Strawberry becoming a Met had been a dream since that Sports Illustrated article introduced him to the world. Hey, we have the No. 1 pick in the draft… We had waited almost three full years for Strawberry specifically, let alone all of our lives for anyone remotely like him.

Of course it was a jolt to have him here in the flesh, but the occasion of his promotion was also tinged with sadness. From May 6, 1983 on, there would be no more looking forward to the day Darryl Strawberry arrived. This was it. If he failed, there'd be no “well, at least we still have Darryl Strawberry on his way…D'OH!” I felt a little of that with Milledge Wednesday just as I've felt it with every gonna-be-great Met since Straw. It's a perverse endorsement of the “Me & Bobby McGee” school of scouting: I'd trade all of their tomorrows for one single yesterday of imagining what huge stars they were going to be.

Darryl? Can't say he wasn't a huge star. Can't say he was Ted Williams in any shade either. It's not a wash. He did become the No. 4 Greatest Met of the First Forty Years. He also became at least the second-greatest disappointment among human beings in Mets uniforms whose youths were so promising. I'd rather not go on about this, because Lastings Milledge isn't Darryl Strawberry.

There are some others I sure hope he's not.

I hope Lastings Milledge is not Jeromy Burnitz. Burnitz, like Milledge, like Straw, was a No. 1 draft pick. He wasn't quite as ballyhooed but he did serve as a glimmer of hope amid a present of mud, his future arriving in June of 1993, the world's worst season. Jeromy was a raw rookie, the way I've always read Ron Swoboda was. Very strong. Very unpolished. Like Rocky, you just kind of knew it was never all going to come together for Jeromy. Let's not sell Burnitz altogether short, however. He's had a productive, power-hitting career in distant precincts. His Mets tenures were honorable if ultimately lame. Rumor has it he's still plying his trade in the National League Central.

I hope Lastings Milledge is not Alex Ochoa. Ochoa brought “five-tool player” into our vernacular, almost exclusively as a laugh line. Too bad. Technically, he was a September ('95) callup, but he was tearing up AAA the following summer when he was resummoned for real. As with Straw's '83 and Burny's '93 milieus, 1996 was a Met disaster area. Perfect for a phenom. And Alex was phenomenal. Hit for the cycle in Philadelphia in the eleventh game of his second stay. Was hitting .390 after that. New York profiled him as The Cuban Missile. But the Missile missed most of its targets. Sold to us as the key to the Bobby Bonilla deal (as if Damon Buford and getting rid of Bobby Bonilla weren't plenty enough), Ochoa simply came up short. He didn't work any of his tools all that consistently or superbly; great arm, though. He was sent away for Rich Becker — pretty close to the ultimate insult — and persevered as a helpful spare part on other clubs, eventually earning a ring as a reserve outfielder on the 2002 World Champion Angels. Hasn't played since.

I hope Lastings Milledge is not Alex Escobar. Goodness gracious, I hope Lastings Milledge isn't Alex Escobar. This Alex got his call to glory in May of 2001 for Nadylike reasons. Shorts in the outfield necessitated two shots of Escobar before his time. Neither Jay Payton nor Tsuyoshi Shinjo played Wally Pipp to Escobar's Iron Horse. Alex seized no opportunities. When he returned very late in 2001, he displayed a little pop, just enough to supplement those glowing organizational reports that said Alex Escobar was three matching jackpots on a dollar scratcher. Next thing we knew, he was swapped to Cleveland for Robbie Alomar. It was a trade that helped nobody. Escobar recently resurfaced in Washington. As a National, not a lobbyist.

You can name your own examples of guys we waited and waited for only to be kept waiting. Some, like Payton, had numerous false starts, succeeded for a time and then went away unmourned. Others, like Preston Wilson, never finished their cup of Shea Stadium coffee before moving on (with our slightly reluctant blessing) to tealer pastures. And the Ken Singletons and the Dan Normans and the Gregg Jefferieses and…ah, you know.

But we're not always wrong. We as a people were all over a bonus baby first baseman who debuted to great fanfare on September 22, 1962. Ed Kranepool would come to bat six times in the Mets' first season and get one hit. He was 17 years old. Noted Leonard Koppett amid the luxury of post-Miracle hindsight, “The funny part was, there were Met fans who said, 'This may be our first championship player.'”

Incidentally, Ed Kranepool is 13 years and 9+ months older than Julio Franco. Julio Franco is 26 years and 7+ months older than Lastings Milledge. Ed Kranepool, at 17, was no more than 22 years younger than any 1962 Met (Gene Woodling, whose career ended the same week Eddie's started). The spread between Franco and Milledge is unprecedented on any Mets roster. Warren Spahn, born in April 1921, and Krane, hatched November 1944, set the record, if it can be called a record, in 1965. Julio Franco (August '58) and Jose Reyes (June '83) broke that record* on Opening Day. Franco and Milledge (April '85) set it anew last night.

So what else is old? The last player born before Franco to make a Mets debut was Pat Tabler in 1990. The last Met born before Franco still playing as a Met? Tim Teufel in 1991.

It's 2006.

On the other side of the age coin, Milledge is the most recently born of all 789 Mets, bumping Reyes back one notch. They are two of thirteen Mets to have been born in the 1980s. In chronological order of first Met appearance:

2002: Pat Strange

2003: Reyes, Danny Garcia

2004: Wright, Craig Brazell, Jeff Keppinger, Victor Diaz

2005: Royce Ring, Mike Jacobs, Anderson Hernandez

2006: Brian Bannister, John Maine, Milledge

Three of those guys are on the roster right this very minute. Three have lately seen the DL. Three others are rattling around Norfolk. The other four have scattered to the wind.

It's 2006.

With Reyes and Wright, the team that spawned the Youth of America is nicely making up in quality what it clearly lacks in fresh-faced quantity. Lastings Milledge isn't supposed to stick around all that long for right now, but maybe he'll be our next championship player.

Him and Franco and the 23 other kids who first saw light somewhere between 1958 and 1985.

*I consulted a very helpful spreadsheet shared by Ultimate Mets Database on the Crane Pool Forum to check dates and make assumptions. If I failed to cite an age spread that topped Spahn-Krane before Julio Franco-Reyes did, it's my fault for not being more diligent in looking.

So Lastings Milledge made his Mets debut tonight, accompanied by an enormous wooden cross, enough hype to launch several score circuses and approximately 50,000 mentions of Barry Zito and/or Dontrelle Willis. Collected his first big-league hit, too — a well-struck double off Miguel Batista to lead off the seventh.

Now that we've taken care of the historical record, let's admit that Milledge's debut is the only thing anyone will remember about this game, a listless tropical affair in which Alay Soler ran out of gas after a 10-pitch at-bat and most of the Met lineup looked like it had never filled up the tank in the first place. OK, people who brought dogs to the park will remember it, I suppose. Nothing against man's best friend, but the thought of being seated next to a panting dog on a night in which the stadium already felt like the bottom of an aquarium…ugh. After Milledge got his hit, the cheers vanished so quickly that you'd have thought someone unplugged something. Kid got his hit, it's 7-1 and hot as hell, Willie already threw in the towel by not pinch-hitting for Oliver, we're surrounded by dogs…let's go.

Can't say I blame 'em: I did think of going, but heat, tiredness, parenthood and rumor that Milledge might not make it to Shea in time kept me home. Sorry, Milo — I'll do better by you going forward.

The last big debut I remember swearing I'd attend was David Wright's, and that time I honored my pledge — I grabbed a friend from work and headed out to Shea on July 21, 2004 to see the phenom go 0 for 4 in a 5-4 win for the good guys against the soon-to-be-extinct Montreal Expos, a game about which I remember absolutely nothing except the cheers for Wright. The next day, without me looking down at him (but, if memory serves, with Greg in attendance), Wright would go 2-for-4 and the rest would be recent history.

Had I gone tonight, I would have missed an interesting stat from Elias, passed along by Gary Cohen: When Darryl Strawberry made his big-league debut, he was 21 years and 55 days old. When he took the field tonight, Lastings Milledge was 21 years and 55 days old. Too good to check, as they say in the less-reputable parts of the newspaper biz.

Not that any of us want to be in the business of comparing Milledge to Strawberry. Darryl arrived as “the black Ted Williams” and the savior of a downtrodden franchise, neither of them labels that did him any good. Milledge is, at least officially, just getting a taste until Xavier Nady returns from his appendectomy, and this team doesn't need saviors. (Though another back-of-the-rotation starter would not be turned away.) Straw came advertised as a prodigious home-run hitter; Milledge is still growing into himself, but is more of a contact-and-speed guy. Darryl won a World Series ring for us, but we all thought he'd wind up with more. Milo? Check back in a few months. And then there were worse things for Darryl, none of which we hope to see on Milledge's resume. Oh yeah, and Darryl wound up as a Yankee. Let's not even think about that.

Straw's debut? It was the night of May 6, 1983, at home against the Reds before 15,916 — and unlike tonight, it was a memorable game for reasons beyond personnel. Unlike Milo, Straw would have to wait for that first knock — he got it on May 8, which just happened to be my 14th birthday. On May 6, however, he struck out in the first, popped to third in the fourth, struck out in the seventh and ninth, walked in the 11th, and..well, I'm getting ahead of myself.

Tom Seaver started and went eight, leaving down 3-1. But the Mets tied it on a two-run homer by Dave Kingman with two outs in the bottom of the ninth. The Reds grabbed the lead back in the 10th; the Mets tied it on a solo shot by Hubie Brooks with two outs in the bottom of the 10th. Then, in the 13th, Darryl drew a two-out walk and stole second. Mike Jorgensen walked, and Frank Pastore gave up a walkoff three-run homer to George Foster. The winning run? A technicality, but it was scored by Darryl Strawberry.

Whew! Take a look for yourself — we would have blogged this one to within an inch of its life.

Nady out an indefinite period for an emergency appendectomy. Coming up from Norfolk, according to WFAN, is Lastings Milledge.

Yes, that Lastings Milledge. The guy we haven't traded so this moment could materialize. Not like this (recover quickly Hawk, we need ya), but here he comes. First Xavier, now the Savior. Except we don't need saving, so we'll see how young Milledge, born in 1985 (!), copes.

(Say, whatever became of Victor Diaz?)

It's dizzying to be a Mets fan these days, isn't it? The Tigers are a great deal of fun thus far and the White Sox are gamely defending their championship when Ozzie Guillen commands them to and the Cardinals are in first place with a new ballpark and the entire N.L. West is finding itself, but are any fans having a wilder and, on all counts, more successful season than us?

Comeback after comeback. Walkoff after walkoff. Character heaped upon Character (that's Upper-Case Character). First place and Lastings, too.

If you have a minute, grab the current New York magazine for an insightful profile of the best team in town (that's not the angle, but it's fun to say). Chris Smith, who does one “the Mets are a strange and wonderful thing” Mets piece per year, traces our surge to superness to the trade for Delgado. He is The Man in and out of the clubhouse, according to the article. Carlos D. may be in a slump, but who would argue the greater point?

It's the June 5 issue of the magazine, the one whose cover story puzzles out what the city might look in the next ten years. My guess is it will have a lot of Mets in it.