Feel better?

Before tonight's game, I told Joshua “Tom Glavine is going to throw a no-hitter tonight.” Emily rolled her eyes. Joshua wanted to know what a no-hitter was. (See, he's already a Met fan.) So I told him, and then I decided to offer a twist on my usual no-hit ritual. Normally, each inning a Met pitcher completes without allowing a hit, I blithely (i.e., I affect what I imagine is the tone of a fan who's used to no-hitters) announce: “[# of outs] to go!” Tonight I decided I'd do that at the beginning of the game. “27 to go!” I chirped as Glavine got set on the rubber. And I decided I'd count the outs down one by one, something I'd figured I might do if a Met pitcher ever took the mound after I got to say “three to go.” Unless that happened and I was convinced changing would jinx things. (Probably doesn't matter: If we ever get that far I'll undoubtedly be huddled in a ball behind the couch, unable to speak.)

Anyway, it didn't work. Though Glavine did get to 16, which isn't bad. And don't tell me that was tempting the baseball gods, because all the superstitions of millions of superstitious Met fans haven't been worth a damn for 40+ years.

But nearly everything else worked. Glavine pitched exactly the way you'd want a crafty old pitcher with a big lead to pitch (and hit like a lithe young power hitter), the boys hit doubles and home runs and took advantage of errors and kept the hammer down. And I'd say the leather got flashed, but we were even better bare-handed: I'd barely gotten over oohing and ahhing over Reyes' flip to Matsui's bare hand and nice turn to Delgado (Kaz apparently rehabbed his knee under the tutelage of Bill Mazeroski) when Wright made that stunning bare-handed grab of a ball pinwheeling off the third-base bag. (At the time, that one looked potentially significant: It got Glavine to “21 to go.”)

Whew. It's nice to relax from a third inning on. Rubber game tomorrow, weather permitting.

And at least there's something that makes it OK: We get another one tomorrow.

The smoke shooting out of my ears when Heilman threw that ball away cleared sometime this morning. Your promise that another Mets-Phillies game would eventually arrive didn't make me feel any better, but since there's nothing I can do about last night, I'll take it.

Mets-Phillies games suck until further notice.

“Baseball is a lot like life. The line drives are caught, the squibbers go for base hits. It's an unfair game.”

Typical of the early Mets that Hot Rod Kanehl's greatest contribution to the game of baseball would be a quote. Still, it's a pretty good quote. Kanehl would have liked tonight's game. Well, not liked it — not if he retained any of his orange-and-blue loyalties — but nodded his head at how it unfolded.

Pedro Martinez was ridiculously dominant — except for that second inning. Other than that second inning, he didn't give up a hit. What did he get to show for it? Nothing. Brett Myers? He was pretty good too. Nothing to show for it. The winning pitcher? Tom Gordon was rocked for three hits, including a line drive by Carlos Delgado that did get caught — only it was by someone who bought a ticket. The squibber? It made a losing pitcher of Aaron Heilman, not long after he got victimized by a ball that landed on the line and then somehow didn't bounce into the stands. Kaz Matsui got penalized for not adjusting his batting eye to Doug Eddings' suddenly itinerant strike zone. And poor Julio Franco got ejected without even getting to play.

From the heart-into-throat whooosh! of Delgado's home run to the ya-gotta-be-kidding-me glower of losing on a fricking spring-training play. Ugh.

It's an unfair game. But then Hot Rod told us that a long time ago.

And at least there's something that makes it OK: We get another one tomorrow.

Deep breath.

Coming next, nine games on the road: Philadelphia, Milwaukee, St. Louis.

Another deep breath.

After that, home: the Skanks, the Phils.

Fifteen games that won't make or break the season — we are 21-10, none of those opponents is looking forward to hosting or visiting us — but a real, extended test of what we are and who we might be. It would have been an “interesting” enough stretch if our rotation was intact. It will be that much more revealing because it isn't.

But before we take on four very good teams for the next two-plus weeks, might I recommend another deep breath.

Go…now let it out.

Think about where we've been recently. San Diego, San Francisco, Atlanta. Amazin' enough. Home for Washington and Pittsburgh. Nothing routine. A season within a season.

Now one more. Breathe in, breathe out. Think lately, very lately. Specifically, think about that weekend we just witnessed.

When will we see another weekend like the one we just saw against the Braves? Will Shea ever see another weekend quite like it? Has this franchise had a more entertaining, more intriguing, more portentous three games at once? Certainly not in this century.

Think about all we have to remember from this series. It was breathtaking.

Think about the re-emergence of Carlos Beltran from mediocrity to top tier. Hit a home run in each game. Ran around the bases and the outfield like my kitten tears through the living room. Made that note in Sports Illustrated that reported MLB players voted him one of their most overrated seem utterly catty.

Think about the resilience that has a team come from behind four times on a Friday night and once more on Saturday. It wasn't until Francoeur flustered Fortunato that I was more or less convinced the Mets wouldn't sweep. It was 8-1 in the top of the sixth. By the bottom of the ninth, down 13-2 with runners on first and second, I was joining in the “Let's Go Mets!” chants. I wasn't serious…or was I?

Think about Jose Reyes and his barrage of base hits — his singles, his doubles, his triple. Started Friday batting .242, ended Saturday batting .280. Think about him and a reheated Wright manning that left side not just for the next [fill in reasonable number of] years but doing it right now. Quietly, they've been here forever and they're still nowhere close to 25.

Think about Cliff Floyd and then go light a candle for him. Even in a slump without end, he hit a patented Monsta shot to keep Friday night going.

Think about Gary Cohen and Keith Hernandez turning their SNY baseball caps inside out to spark a 14th-inning rally. And that it worked!

Think about Jorge Julio, winning pitcher Friday, saving pitcher Saturday. Did you ever think you would without at least three derogatory adjectives?

Think about Darren Oliver. The last time I did before 2006 was when I was in Texas nine years ago. Nike had a commercial starring Ken Griffey, Jr. smacking the ball off some pitcher in a Rangers uniform. I picked up the Dallas Morning News and the TV sports columnist noted that the pitcher in the ad was Darren Oliver. “That's who we got, the guy from the Nike commercial?” was my reaction to his invitation to our spring training. Saturday he proved himself our best long man since Pat Mahomes, bailing us out of a pretty impossible situation. Bonus points for his quote in Sunday's paper about a day game after an endless night game not being as arduous a task as imagined: “That's why they have coffee and Red Bull.”

Think about the crowds. Better than 47,000 on Friday night. Better than 48,000 Saturday and Sunday. Shea, she doesn't look so bad when nearly filled and very loud. 144,189 Mets fans can't be wrong.

Think about Billy Wagner. Think pleasant thoughts. They're bound to get validated before too long.

Think about Xavier Nady running back to the fence to make a catch and Kaz Matsui giving the Mets the lead and Carlos Delgado fielding better than we'd been led to believe and Heilman and Sanchez frustrating Brave after Brave and Jose Valentin shaking off those Jerry Martin comparisons my friend Richie and I were making with such certitude a few weeks ago.

Think about even the unhappy stuff. Losing a starting pitcher for the duration the way we did, losing a catcher for the afternoon the next day. Not pleasant, but the sequences of events surrounding them are already indelible. It's all part of baseball's rich pageant, for better or for worse. We've had a lot of better, we can handle a little worse. (Get well, Victor; keep your head on, Paul.)

Think about Jose Lima showing up in a Mets uniform. I mean, why not? If nothing else, he'll add to the retelling. Oh, and remember when we had to use Lima? He was blonde!

Think about the Braves, but not as much as you used to. Famous last words and all that, but honestly, did they look like the Braves to you? Me neither. They're capable, they're dangerous, they're accomplished…they're eight games out, five games under .500 and 2-4 in their last six against the Mets. You can argue that if a few things had gone right for them, they could've won maybe all six. You can counterargue that since when do the Braves need breaks to break the Mets' hearts? I won't stop monitoring their activities but the Phillies are four games closer and, until further notice, of greater concern to our fortunes. They're also who we play next.

Finally, think about this. We get caught up in baseball for a thousand reasons and, on a weekend like the one just past, divine a thousand rewards from our entanglements. We also let it drive us nuts, willingly or otherwise. But once in a great while, somebody reminds us what it's all about. One of my Mets e-mail buddies, Joe Dubin, told our little group on Saturday what this particular weekend was like for him and his wife Mary Jane. I asked him if I could share it with all of you and he graciously consented.

This was a rough week for us because my dad, who is 91, had to be rushed to an emergency room for what turned out to be a urinary infection. During the week a hospital doctor told us he was in the last stage of his dementia and it would now only be a matter of time because he is not digesting enough food and liquids. TO OUR GREAT RELIEF his nursing home staff told my mom today this is not the case, hospitals have said the same about so many other patients and we should relax and not worry. He's back at the nursing home and even though he gives them a hard time, they are able to get enough nourishment into him (seems only my mom is the only one able to get him eat a full meal). He also wears a pacemaker which helps to keep his vital signs strong.

That's the beauty about baseball and being a Met fan in particular. Even during the rough times the game will always be there to help us make it through the times of sorrow and grief when we are ready. It's good to know that as some things change, others don't. Being a family of Met fans really helped us all last night (and again this afternoon). Just too bad my Dad sleeps through most of the afternoon games!

“I've been waiting to say this to you for a long time. … Deep down in my stomach, with every inch of me, I pure, straight hate you. … But goddamn it do I respect you.” — Wes Mantooth.

In other words: Nice game, Smoltz.

If the Braves lost today, they would have been 10 out. Sure, only May, and Atlanta has a habit of snoozing until summer and then laying waste to the league. But still, one imagines there would have been a hint of panic in the air — double-digits behind a team that doesn't appear in the least bit scared of the Braves anymore? So could Smoltz step up? Three hits over six innings. On three days' rest. Yeah, he could step up.

Still, while the brooms didn't get to wave, we all feel like it would be an excellent idea to hide our five starting pitchers (whoever they may be at the moment) in an armored car and we discovered we actually can hate Angel Hernandez more than we already did, not a bad weekend of baseball: Did we really think we'd take two out of three with Trachsel, Zambrano and TBD pitching? And while that certainly wasn't the way even the most rabid Zambrano detractor wanted to see his Met career end, we did witness what I bet was Kaz Matsui's Beltran Moment and saw definite progress (however scary it might have been) from Jorge Julio, who could wind up in a lot more critical role for us when the pitching gets sorted out.

So. A much-needed off-day, and then it's time to fix the Phillies' wagon. If there's a hole in Ryan Howard's swing, Pedro and Glavine will find it. Homecoming of sorts for Billy Wagner. Pat the Bat, inevitably. The oddity of a Phillies game without a Vince Piazza sighting or talk of Mike growing up in Norristown. Those close fences whispering to Beltran and Wright and Delgado and Floyd. Third base whispering to Reyes after he rifles one up one of those deep alleys. Should be fun.

We may come back for the sweep (after the last couple of days I won't put anything past this team) or we may wind up dropping the finale, but one thing's for sure: We'll still be talking about that top of the second.

Even before the zaniness began, we'd seen one of the rarest plays in baseball, the kind you can win bar bets on: What's the only situation in which a baseball team can, in effect, decline a penalty? When a ball is put into play on a balk: The team at bat can either take the balk or the outcome of the play. The Braves did no such thing, but if Jordan had hit the ball up the middle, they certainly would have. So much for our double play (nicely turned, too), and a sure sign that we were entering Goofyland.

I doubt Paul Lo Duca knows about the spring night David Cone became too occupied with screaming at an umpire to consider that runners were continuing to circle the bases. Of course that was against the Braves, on April 30, 1990. I also doubt Lo Duca remembers the hideous summer day that ended with Michael Tucker gouging Mike Piazza's thigh and getting a ridiculous safe call from Angel Hernandez, the worst umpire in the major leagues. Also against the Braves, natch.

A demented mash-up of those two infamous calls? Well, it would have to be against the Braves. And Angel Hernandez would have to be manning home plate. So there was Lo Duca and there was Brian McCann being called safe — it pains me to say that it looked like the right call. There was Lo Duca firing a live ball into the earth (Coney just held it while Gregg Jefferies tried desperately to get his attention), so mad you could almost see the cartoon lightning bolts zipping out of his head, with Ryan Langerhans taking advantage of his largesse to take third. Who was at the plate? John Smoltz. Who was the opposing pitcher on April 30, 1990? John Smoltz. Who pays Michael Tucker's salary these days? The Mets. If they'd panned up to a luxury box and found Mark Lemke, Dale Murphy, John Franco, Cone and Jefferies shaking their heads, I wouldn't have been a bit surprised.

Baseball: It's even crazier than you think it is.

It was the elbow, all right.

His teammates knew, his manager didn't. Once again, when you want to feel empathy for Victor Zambrano — and he deserves it, based on Michael Morrissey's account in the Post — you're at a loss. You credit him with sucking it up and pitching better than he ever has as a Met (he made Andruw Jones look completely foolish) and for going out and being determined to do his job, especially on an early afternoon after a long night when six-sevenths of the bullpen got work.

But you're a pitcher and your livelihood is in your elbow and your ultimate value to your team is in that elbow and you come back to “man, what are you thinking going out there?” How could you not let your manager know you're hurting? (Come to think of it, how could Randolph and Peterson not know something that Pedro Martinez and Darren Oliver did?) How could you go out there and, according to David Lennon in Newsday, end your season by tearing your flexor tendon when you had to sense you were in danger of doing yourself perhaps irreparable harm?

Of course Victor Zambrano doesn't occur in a vacuum. I imagine if I were a soft-spoken sensitive soul from another country who has never gotten anything close to an even break from the fans of the team that I pitch for, I'd feel compelled to show them. If that was his motivation or it was the natural instinct of an athlete to compete and not let the guys down or an underestimation of how much pain he was in, then it's understandable if not exactly excusable. Lisa Olson in the News lays out the “heartbreaking” particulars in chilling terms:

Blame the snarky media, the impatient fans, the organization that might not have done its best due diligence. In the end, there's a man who once had great promise — “best stuff I've seen in a long time,” said [Cliff] Floyd — who may never pitch again.

Since we all tend to take everything Pedro does or says as the Gospel Truth, I think we owe him the courtesy of considering his statement on his friend Zambrano as reported by Morrissey:

Martinez said Zambrano has been hurt all year and opted to pitch yesterday “because of the damn pressure you guys put on him. Before you guys really hurt a guy, you need to do a little research,” Martinez said. “We're human beings, and we're trying to do a job.”

The media has a job to do but they, too, don't do it in a vacuum. Victor Zambrano has pitched badly more often than not. He's also been hurt on more than one occasion since he's been here. It's easy for me to sit here and type that guys should sit if they ache, but that's apparently not how it works. They all have guaranteed contracts but they force themselves out there. Beltran did. Wright did. Zambrano did. Some hurt more than others. When Beltran recently took a few days to get it together (because he nearly fell apart last year by pushing it), the “whispers” start over how tough he is. Ludicrous.

Anybody who's watched Victor Zambrano since August 2004 could have ascertained that this was not a pitcher performing up to his ability. Anybody who saw him leave the mound late in Spring Training and then read that he had such a bad case of the flu that they had to tend to him intravenously could figure that this was not somebody at the top of his game. Yet there he was, pitching in Washington on April 13. Not pitching well, but pitching. The rationale, that perhaps his injury and his illness had taken a toll on him, was eighth-paragraph stuff for most of us. Oh, it's Victor again. How's Kazmir doing?

Let's not pretend he was going through life as Walter Johnson before waking up with an owwie. Victor Zambrano could be maddening on the mound, as maddening for losing the strike zone as for our could-having-sworn he had such great control of it just an inning or a start or a week ago. The Are you there God? It's me, Victor persona stood in dispiriting contrast to the confidence of Pedro, the steeliness of Glavine, the matter-of-factness of Trachsel, the determination of Bannister, the effortlessness of Benson, the emotion of Seo. C'mon Victor! We care! Don't you?

He did. He cared about pitching, he cared about contributing, he cared about not letting down people who didn't care all that much what happened to him if he was going to go three-and-oh on yet another batter. Now he's headed for the Disabled List and surgery and when or if he'll be back, who knows? The same people who were so upset to see him take the ball every fifth day will be angered by his inability to do the same.

As human beings, we'd feel sorry for a guy in so much pain that he pushed himself until he was crying. As Mets fans, we don't feel anything for a Met in that position until it's too late.