No, not a fantasy of 8-1 or 21-1 or 161-1, though I'm happy to indulge in those. And no, we're not talking about '80s cheese-rock hits, though if you now have Aldo Nova stuck in your head, I apologize. (Unless you're now air-guitaring up a storm, in which case you're welcome. And I'll now avert my eyes.)

I'm talking about fantasy baseball, which sucked me back in last year after 14 years in recovery. Fantasy baseball is a lot easier than it was in 1989, when as commissioner I would lose every Wednesday night (In New Orleans! In the summer! When I was 20!) to compiling stats using USA Today's stats. Now it's all done at the speed of light, with no arguing about whose waiver-wire claim made the answering machine first or who jumped the gun on that pitcher just called up from the minors.

But for all that, one thing hasn't changed: I'm still a ridiculous homer when it comes to assembling a fantasy team. And because of that, I'll never win. And I don't care.

In 1989 my sole mission in our $260 league was to have Gregg Jefferies, whose MVP rookie season for the Mets was assured and obviously destined to be followed by his presiding over the peaceful dissolution of the Soviet Union and helping us all ascend to Heaven. I don't remember how much I paid for him, but we all can guess it was too much. Oddly, I don't remember which other Mets I had on that team — I have vague recollections of a bidding war for David Cone, one I probably lost because I'd already blown my money on Jefferies. The rest of the Jaison D'Etres? I enjoyed Jeff Bagwell's rookie year and got decent production out of a young Luis Gonzalez, but my roster was mostly given over to the likes of Luis Salazar and Randy Tomlin. Long season.

I played for the rest of my college career, something I came to regret for the usual youth-is-wasted-on-the-young reasons. Those were years I could hang around with my friends eating long, extended lunches and dinners, with youthful metabolisms keeping us from ballooning to truly Vaughnesque proportions and an ever-shifting cast of pals — including smart, cute women — coming by to chat. And when they did, we'd be saying things like, “Von Hayes went 3-for-4 last night, but the rest of my lineup went 3-for-36 with only 2 RBIs!” Which is basically like spraying girl repellent in a 20' radius.

For years after college, I'd make signs to avert evil whenever anyone mentioned fantasy baseball. But last year I got sucked back in when a new friend of mine invited me to join a Yahoo league. I felt like Rip Van Winkle. In this league you had a galaxy of stats and news at your command and moved players on and off the bench daily, a level of activity I wasn't used to. Ours was a mixed league, meaning there were twice as many players available and really no place on a sensibly constructed roster for part-timers and scrubs, no matter how gutty or admirable they were. And it didn't help noting that Jeff Bagwell, that fresh-faced rookie I'd ridden to mediocrity in college, was now a gimpy veteran hanging on. Christ had I gotten old.

I did OK, but my roster strategy hadn't changed one whit since 1989: I was eager to believe the hype about rookies, and I had to have Mets. Fortunately, most of the Mets I had to have turned out to be good bets: David Wright anchored the new-look D'Etres quite nicely, Cliff Floyd had a terrific year, I was a surprisingly good predictor of when Victor Diaz would have a good game and when he wouldn't, and my faith in Mike Jacobs was rewarded. (On the other hand, I traded Tom Glavine a week before he started down the road of Eventual Metdom, and it took me a while to realize that middle relievers are essentially useless. Adios, Heath Bell.)

There's no retaining players in our league, so this year I had to start from scratch. I wound up with the #2 pick in the draft, and so had to field friendly questions from rival players: Would it be Pujols or A-Rod?

Neither, I said. I'm taking David Wright.

Judging from the reaction after I did what I'd said I'd do, nobody believed me. (Other notable members of the 2006 Jaison D'Etres: Tom Glavine, Xavier Nady, Mike Jacobs and Scott Kazmir. I cut Anderson Hernandez, whose defense doesn't translate to fantasy baseball, and got beat on a waiver claim for Brian Bannister.)

So far the Wright pick is working out just fine. And it's let me formulate my rules for Playing Fantasy Baseball Without Being a Godless Sellout:

1. Don't make your head and heart play tug-of-war. I wouldn't be aghast even if Wright were hitting .158. Having him on my team ensured I'd never have to experience that weird Rotisserie double vision — “Wright just hit a three-run homer for the guy whose team I'm playing this week, I am so screwed. Oh yeah, we won. Wheee.” He's my favorite player, and when he does wonderful things, there's a tiny bit of extra happiness involved — an extra spoonful of caramel on the sundae.

2. That said, don't overdo it. My #2 pick wasn't Steve Trachsel. Being loyal doesn't mean you have to be silly.

3. No Yankees. Ever. Last year, I weakened and traded Jim Thome for Chien-Ming Wang, and when Emily found out she almost divorced me on the spot. A few hours later Thome's elbow fell off. A few days later it turned out Wang's shoulder was hurt. I didn't need God (or Emily) to hit me with a thunderbolt to wise up. This year, I even excluded all the Yankees from the players in the draft pool, ensuring there was no way Yahoo might auto-draft some minion of Satan if I got called away from my PC. I also excised Clemens, Chipper, Braden Looper, Kaz Matsui and Victor Zambrano. In this forum I don't think I need to explain any of those. (OK, I did take Jeff Francoeur.)

4. Keep your priorities straight. Dontrelle Willis is on my fantasy team. When Wright's little bloop triple fell in last week, denying the D-Train a W, I was leaping and whooping like a lottery winner. There are no exceptions. None of this “Well, of course I hope we win but I hope we win 1-0 and Dontrelle strikes out 10 and the lone run is a homer by Wright, who also goes 4 for 4 and he's the only guy to reach base.”

Will I win? I sincerely doubt it — if you're anything other than ice-cold and ruthless, you're not going to win most fantasy leagues. Will I finish the season without having given in to divided loyalties or acquiring another Yankee? You'd best believe it: In my book, they call it a fantasy league so you don't get it confused with the one that matters.

So. Glavine, put those Brewers in their place. And Derrick Turnbow? I know you're a member of Jaison D'Etres, and I appreciate the saves so far. But should you somehow find your Cabbage-Patch-Kid-looking self on the mound in the ninth tonight, my team's coming to get you. My real team. And you'll hear me cheering.

We're not quite in THERE ARE NO WORDS territory, but Karl Ehrhardt's sign from '69 works just fine until further notice.

To happily, nay giddily, recap:

• 7-1, tied for best start in franchise history with just 1985 now.

• First place maintained, positively; no backing in here.

• Lead of at least 3 (3-1/2 at the moment) also maintained.

• Best record in baseball, amateur-draft order be damned.

• 2006 prorated to 162 games: 142-20 — and numbers don't lie.

• Six-game winning streak, matching last season's best, which was executed in the desperate wake of an 0-5 start, whatever that is.

• Home runs produced by those who batted in the 3, 4, 5 and 6 slots, just like we drew it up in St. Lucie.

• Starting pitcher didn't collapse when given the opportunity.

• Darren Oliver sound as a pound all around.

• Importantly, it was a divisional win, which gives us the tiebreaker should we finish with the same record as Atlanta, though point differential will come into play if Dallas beats Washington on Christmas night…sorry, RFK Stadium played tricks with my mind.

Just like it did with all those fly balls we hit that went out and those they hit that didn't.

RFK was a senator from New York, you know. And we're 7-1.

Before the advent of Retrosheet, I mostly depended on my memory which is reasonably reliable. Once the Braves lost to the Phillies Wednesday night, the Mets opened up a three-game lead in the National League East — and I had no problem remembering the last time the Mets were in first place by this much.

It was October 2, 1988, the end of that season. We led the Pirates by 15 that day, and I was all but certain we hadn't held an upper hand even 20% as large over the field from then until April 12, 2006.

Just in case you were wondering why last night was different from all other nights, this was why. It may not be 40 years in the desert, but it's been far too long since we've passed over the divisional aggregate of the Braves, Phillies, Nationals and Marlins (and/or Cardinals, Cubs, Pirates and Expos for that matter) by so much.

Thanks to Retrosheet (and a handy stash of Mets media guides), I was able to confirm my memory. We've barely been in first place by ourselves at all over the past 17 seasons; a day here, two days there, the Braves everywhere. Since we don't hang out in the penthouse, we never seem to get comfortable enough to kick off our shoes and kick up our lead.

We really should. Maintaining a first-place margin that's unassailable from one night to the next is as sweet as I remember it being 18 years ago. Shoot, as a fan whose first sip of Metsoh ball soup was 1969, this is where I came in…I'm home.

Going into Pedro's cagey mastery of the Nationals, which continued our best start ever (shared with '84 and '85, which is okey-dokey company to keep), we held our first two-game lead since August 4, 1999. And that had been our biggest gap to the good since 1988.

So if this doesn't feel familiar to some of you youngsters, hope that it will soon. Hope — don't assume. To assume makes A Second-place-or-worSe team out of yoU and ME. On Wednesday, the marketing department thought it was actually doing somebody some good by sending out e-vites to “see the first-place Mets” while we were clinging to our flimsy two-game advantage. How we ever got it to three with kamikaze karma like that, I'll never know. You wanna sell tickets? Sit back, shut up and we'll find ya.

It'll be easy. We'll just look at the top of the standings and follow the Mets' lead.

“Happy baseball teams are all alike; every unhappy baseball team is unhappy in its own way.”

The noted baseball scribe Tolstoy wrote those words sometime back, long before the DH, and they're as true for bloggers now as they were for newspaper men with lots of agate to fill with minute analysis then. (Anna Karenina also has Vronsky's great disquisition to Levin to “hit 'em where they ain't,” but that's another post.)

But you know what? A lack of material isn't such a bad thing.

Pedro fits his pitching to whatever park he's in. Put him in a stadium where anything hit 20 feet up would land in a net for a home run and he'd conjure 23 or 24 ground balls. Put the fences 110 feet from home plate and he'd find 23 or 24 strikeouts. Put him in RFK with its deep fences emblazoned with vaguely accurate measurements and he'll let Nationals hit loud but harmless drives into gloves. And he'll demonstrate that where Jose Guillen is concerned, having a player waiting to be hit with a baseball replaces the need to actually hit him with one.

Anderson Hernandez hangs in on the double play better than most native second basemen. David Wright's glove has gotten a lot better, and his bat remains above reproach. Billy Wagner will find a way. Carlos Beltran healthy is a marvelous thing to watch.

There will be time for agonized appraisals of whatever bad things will befall us. There will be losing streaks and slumps and injuries and better teams to face and double plays not turned. For now, there aren't. If you're thinking this will not last, you're right — it won't. It can't. But that's no reason for poor-mouthing. Just enjoy.

Now we're really in an exclusive club, as in Best Six-Game Starts in Mets History.

1984: 5-1

2006: 5-1

Those '06-predecessors were good clubs. Darn good clubs. Wild Card clubs an era too early to cash in. Division-champ clubs if geography had been Warren Giles' strong suit back in the day. Division leaders they were, from time to time, in '84 and '85. Division leaders we are now and what we'll remain tomorrow and what we'll stay 'til the weekend, at the very least.

But this season is not about leasts.

This is about a staff surging from a much-needed injection of youth. Plus the kid hits.

This is about a lineup in which everybody's favorite No. 2 hitter is doing a pretty convincing impression of a No. 3 hitter; surprised the Secret Service didn't confiscate Beltran's bat given the shot he blasted in the ninth (or that Cheney didn't ask Carlos for pointers on shooting).

This is about an infield featuring, with staggering and delightful regularity, two of the most dynamic offensive players in the world on its left side. I don't think I'm exaggerating.

This is about a bullpen that's surviving quite nicely despite the worrisome inconsistency yips of its allegedly Sandmaniacal closer (the finger, gotta be the finger, it'll get better, it'll get better soon…it had better get better).

This is a team that beats whom it has to beat, namely whomever is on its schedule. I like that in my team.

And I really like this 5-1 club.

Who hit more home runs in New York City than anybody else? If you said “David Wright,” I admire your prescience. But to learn a little more about someone else with an even longer track record of success and belovedness, check out Gotham Baseball.

The air that we breathe got more rarefied yesterday as the second-greatest beginning to a Mets season got that much greater.

1973: 4-1

2006: 4-1

Prorating, we're up to 130-32. Mathematically, it's in the bag I tell'sya.

Boy, ain't life grand with a big start? It's so the opposite of a bad start, know what I mean? The sky hasn't fallen, the earth isn't quicksand, the spring has actually sprung — regardless of temperature. Can't account for the future (foolproof prorating aside), but it makes for a lovely present.

As do the Marlins. Boy, are they not ready for prime time — especially their tantrumic manager; a single season as bench coach, even if it's as Yankee bench coach, is not necessarily adequate preparation for running a team (Girardi '06 behaves like Bowa '87). Don't take this as Fish-taunting and fate-tempting. I've lived through enough ill-timed stumbles to supposedly undermanned teams from Miami to understand that anybody can give you fits on any given day. Marlins sting…just not that much right now.

I'll withhold any further analysis of the National League East for fear of riling up our sure-to-be snippy opponents tomorrow. Inside pitching won't be a lost art in D.C. this week. One wonders about who we're throwing out there. Will Bannister continue his awesome career? Will Pedro be loaded for Nat? And thereafter, does anyone remember Zambrano? He's gotta pitch sometime. Looked real good in Florida before sabotaging himself. Will Trachsel descend into Stevie Snit mode because Glavine stays on schedule and he has to go on seven days' rest? It's really too early for worrying about this sort of thing, but at 4-1, ya gotta have something to worry about.

The Mets fans of Connecticut actually do have a legitimate issue on their plates if not in front of their eyes. Their cable non-provider is keeping them in the dark, depriving them of the almost daily wonders of Gary's PBP and Keith's spot-on analysis and Bill Webb's direction, to say nothing of the Dean Martin Roast infomercial. Thanks to one diligent would-be viewer, there is a place to take their valid complaints.

Hang in there, NutMet State brethren. There's plenty left to see here.

No matter which team was your team today, you came back with a DWI — intoxicated by the performance of Dontrelle Willis or David Wright.

Yes, we finally beat the D-Train (8-1, 1.85, in case you missed it). Or, more properly, we no-decisioned him to irrelevance in the final accounting. Of course Dontrelle wasn't exactly starting with the man in the mirror after this one: He was as good as advertised, from the kinetic leg kick to the absurd movement on his pitches to the intensity he fairly radiates on the mound or in the dugout. He's even terrifying at the plate.

We finally broke through in the seventh thanks to some wonderful at-bats — Lo Duca's leadoff, 10-pitch gem that ended in a single (the offical pitch count on that one is 11, but I think one of them didn't count because Dontrelle got charged a ball for blowing on his hand), followed by a stubborn six-pitch at-bat ending in another single for Beltran. But let the record show that this was the inning in which the D-Train's cars unlatched themselves to go sailing off the tracks into ravines: Beltran's single trickled past Hanley Ramirez's glove and could have been a fielder's choice; Dan Uggla ugghed a double-play ball from Delgado into a de facto sacrifice; and against Wright Jeremy Hermida played what should have been a nice but not hosanna-worthy catch into a ghastly triple. (Ghastly for them, I mean.) Tough day at the office for Dontrelle, but he's going to have a few more of those as these under-the-limit Marlins grow into their fins.

Not to take anything away from the sublime Mr. Wright, please note. Keith and Gary say this virtually every at-bat, but it bears repeating in every medium and forum: Not since Edgardo Alfonzo has an 0-2 count meant so little. Wright looks like he can control an at-bat from any count. (Witness the final at-bat, in which Wright saw he could lift the first pitch to the outfield and so calmly ended things.) Is David Wright really 23? He hits like he's 33 and an eight-time All-Star.

One should beware of falling in love with teams that start off the season 4-1. (A year ago we were 0-5 and had our heads in the oven.) One should also beware of projecting from a week of playing rivals who can't seem to get out of their own way. But caveats noted, why shy from what's right in front of us? This looks like a very, very good baseball team.

Wright is Wright. Delgado is Delgado. Xavier Nady ain't this good, but I'll happily take half of his current output. Jose Reyes looks like a different player, taking walks and working better counts, but as importantly showing a much-improved sense of the strike zone that's given his aggression some focus. Glavine demonstrated once again today that his '05 second half was no mirage. Anderson Hernandez's defense is pinch-me good. Duaner Sanchez looks like he has terrific stuff and plenty of guts. And while Pedro and Billy Wagner have hit some bumps, they're at least present and accounted for.

Beyond that, it's the intangibles that have me pacing around at 6:30 or 12:30 wishing the next 40 minutes would have the decency to step aside. It's pitchers pitching inside, no matter what the Jose Guillens of the world think of it. It's Lo Duca gathering the infield and coolly handing out marching orders — no insult whatsoever to a recent much-beloved Hall of Fame catcher, but I don't remember seeing that in recent years. It's Hernandez and Reyes practically jumping up and down in the dugout because they're getting the chance to play more baseball, yippee! It's Beltran exuding confident determination ever since standing up to the fans, in his ultra-quiet way. (And, in a rare note of Shea sanity, since that moment there's been barely a boo.) Julio Franco isn't the only player of recent vintage hailed as a great clubhouse guy, but in his case he's provided ample evidence he's a great dugout guy and field guy, too. Not to mention that something tells me he'll outhit Ice Williams.

This team has a swagger and strut I haven't seen in a long time, and the way they go about their business gives you the definite impression you'd be a fool to quit on them. As evidenced by today: Come 7th-inning-stretch time, the D-Train had thrown a mere 67 pitches and held a 2-0 lead, and I found to my bemusement that I wasn't worried. Really? Dontrelle? Low pitch count? Insurance run on the board? Not worried?

Nope. Not in the least.

Those who expressed sentimentality over Shea's impending demise won a trip to sit inside its condemned walls for an hour this afternoon until postponement rendered the visit moot. Second prize was to sit there all day and all night.

Alas, rain, wind, generally glacial conditions and uncommon sense knocked off my first game at Shea for 2006 before it could materialize in earnest, though not before I spent $10 on a yearbook, $4 on a program, $5 on a slice of square high school cafeteria pizza, $4.50 on the worst French fries to ever bear the Nathan's imprimatur and $4.00 on a pretzel as cold as the weather itself.

Getting the bleep out of there before I caught the flu? Priceless.

It was supposed to be Kids Opening Day, which was appropriate because children who think they love the Mets better start learning right now what being a baseball fan entails. It ain't all sunshine, green grass and Guy Conti tossing you a souvenir. It's sitting outside on April afternoons disguised as January at dusk as much as it's anything. It'll still be that, incidentally, when Sheabbets Field opens in all its roofless grandeur. There'll be more places to take your money while you wait (and more of your money to take), but come 4/09 it will still be early and it will still be freezing and rain will still come down as wet as it did when Robert Moses decided to stick us all out in Queens.

The theme of the day was also appropriate in that I wrapped myself tight in an orange hoodie, anxiously eyeballed two unidentified Marlins loosening their fins down the left field line with a game of catch and wondered when I would get too old for sitting, shivering and hoping against hope that baseball would be played, no matter how steep the buckets that were coming down. Hasn't happened yet, so I guess it was Kids Opening Day for me, too.

Except they didn't hand me anything but a bill.