Phew. Or whew. Or new.

I'll definitely take new. There was too much old in the atmosphere, and I'm not talking about Ralph Kiner in the booth or Jimmy Carter in the stands or Julio Franco in a beautiful doff of the helmet. Them I like. Everything else I feared.

Whether it was the presence of Roger McDowell and Terry Pendleton in the same dugout or the creaky continuation of Brian Jordan as a Major League player or the unwarranted return of Lawrence Chipstein Jones or just about every late loss in that hot tub of horror engrained deep in my gray matter, I could barely function in the bottom of the ninth. It begged to be lost. It cried to be lost. It was bound to be lost.

Only the Braves in Turner Field could make a three-run deficit seem like a tie. Only the Atlantans could find a way to cancel insurance runs just by coming to bat. Only the 11-for-11 National League East champions could make Billy Wagner look like Braden Looper look like Armando Benitez look John Franco look like a cheap watch.

It was only a matter of time before this one got away. Renteria never hits Wagner, Cohen said. So he gets a hit. Chipstein, he of the two-run homer off Pedro (he never hits him either), strikes out, but there's the more dangerous Jones and Dangerous Jones made his elbow a part of it all; HBP, two on. Some nonentity strikes out but then Jeff Francoeur relives his rookie glory. Somehow Renteria doesn't score on the sophomore's hit. It's the bases loaded and it's Billy Wagner showing this uncomfortable habit of not being quite what we paid for and who is he facing?

Todd Pratt.

Forget Arizona and 1999. Don't forget it, of course, but I didn't think it was relevant. It's not like Todd Pratt could touch Wags last week, but then Gary had to go and remind us that Tank caught Billy for the past two years. I've always assumed catchers who face their old pitchers should be able to own them. Then I remembered that Todd Pratt, for his many, many impressive attributes, isn't really much of a hitter. Never was and he sure isn't now. And Billy Wagner, even a Billy Wagner who is more of a Mad Hatters Tea Cup Ride than a monorail, is never going to be mistaken for Matt Mantei.

Like that matters to the man wearing a Braves uniform in Turner Field against the Mets.

But it wasn't Looper and 2005. It wasn't Benitez and 2001. It wasn't Franco and 1998. It wasn't even Jolly Roger getting taken deep by Terrible Terry in 1987 when everything looked so good. It's when everything looks so good that we're in trouble. I'm back in Shea in my mind to the night the magical comeback was close but so gone 19 Septembers ago. And I'm back at Shea in 2001 when Brian Jordan was Andruw Jones (though Andruw Jones was pretty much Andruw Jones then, too) and he was squashing our spirited surge. I'm in whichever ballpark Franco is coughing up a thousand deaths by nicks and cuts and mixed metaphors. And mostly I'm in Turner Field watching Braden Looper turn to goo a year ago.

Except it isn't last year anymore. It really isn't. It isn't any of those years when Braves are giants and Mets are mutts and Turner Field swallows us alive. This isn't one of those years when we're gasping and grasping and trying to move up. We can't move up because we're already on top. All we can do is bring the hammer down.

And we do. Billy Wagner strikes out Todd Pratt on three pitches.

Game over, you tomahawk-chopping dilettantes. Pedro beats Smoltz again. President Carter gets dragged under by a changing tide again. (Sorry, sir, we have to part ways when it comes to that cap you were wearing. But didja catch the size of that footlong Rosalynn was working on? It oughta be suspended for ingesting performance-enhancing substances, not Iriki). David Wright was David Wright for the first time in a little while and Kaz Matsui was Edgardo Alfonzo for the first time in his life and Paul Lo Duca was taking no guff and as much as we need Carlos Beltran back, I sure like what Endy Chavez is doing. Sanchez was perfect and Reyes was clutch and Carlos Delgado made the most productive out of the year.

But I still couldn't breathe fluidly until the bottom of the ninth was history. This is not an outfit against whom you hatch a single chicken ahead of time. This is the bunch that has made an ASS out of U and ME more times than I am able to count. This was the Braves in Turner Field.

Was.

Mets win 5-2, lead the East by six. It doesn't mean a whole lot when there's another game Saturday night, but it means everything right now.

The latest issue of Baseball America features the Opening Day rosters for every club (major and minor-league) that began play in April, making it a perfect resource for tracking down those who have strayed from the Met fold.

I'm not talking so much about the big leagues: We've accepted that Todd Pratt is a Brave, noticed that Danny Graves is an Indian, shook our heads to imagine Ty Wigginton as a Devil Ray and grimaced (mildly) to find Kelly Stinnett a Yankee. (Though I'd missed that Roberto Petagine is a Mariner and think there's something ridiculous about Jason Phillips as a Blue Jay.) What really interests me is running a finger down the agate type and finding familiar names on AAA rosters, or even AA squads — old vets still holding on, fourth outfielders who came in fifth, drinkers of cups of coffee hoping for a refill, and so on. Ex-Mets all, still playing ball, still waiting for one more chance. (Which they may not get: Witness the quietly tragic career of Blaine Beatty.)

Let's call the roll, with a little help from Ultimate Mets Database.

Esix Snead, prover of the truism that you can't steal first base and owner of one unexpected, excellent home run, now toils for the Ottawa Lynx, earning a Baltimore Orioles paycheck.

Matt Ginter, whose departure paved the way for the arrival of Kaz Ishii, is now a Pawtucket Red Sock.

Hideo Nomo yet lives, toiling for the Charlotte Knights in the White Sox' organization. And one of his teammates is Jorge Velandia.

Brian Buchanan, one of the more-pointless Met pickups of recent years, is still around, playing for the Louisville Bats and dreaming of being a Cincinnati Red. (Which is somehow a nice dream so far this year.)

Brace yourself for this one: Someone is paying Felix Heredia. Fortunately, it's the Cleveland Indians, who assigned him to the Buffalo Bisons.

Jaime Cerda, who broke in as an unlikely Yankee slayer, is now getting used to breaking stuff that doesn't break as a Colorado Springs Sky Sock. Send him $5 and maybe he'll drill teammate J.D. Closser during BP.

This one is not a typo: Bobby M. Jones is in Double-A, pitching for the Erie Seawolves. That's the Tigers' system. And that's incredible.

Sure, the Florida Marlins have a bunch of our young players. But they also have some not-so-young ex-Mets: Momentary third-string catcher Tom Wilson, anonymous outfielder Mark Little and Mike Kinkade, he of the not-proud-to-a-fault home-run sprints, are all at AAA. (For some reason the Marlins' AAA team is now the Albuquerque Isotopes. That's convenient.)

Joe McEwing's grit and guts and other intangibles are now on display in east Texas: Super Joe is making his latest stopover on the way to a long career as a beloved coach and manager with the Round Rock Express, the Astros' AAA squad.

The Mets once took a gamble on speedy Jeff Duncan. Now it's the Dodgers' turn: He's a Las Vegas Sun. Craig Brazell, meanwhile, is back in AA. Ouch. I doubt that being told that the Jacksonville Suns have a link to Met history would be much comfort.

Jason Tyner is now a Rochester Red Wing. The Red Wings are now the Twins' AAA team, which is ludicrous. Shouldn't they be renamed the Triplets or something?

You'd think the Yankees had a crush on us: The Columbus Clippers' roster includes pot-averse Mark Corey, human action figure Scott Erickson and first-Cyclone-in-the-Show Danny Garcia.

Matt Watson, who was only a Cyclone because we were cheating and only a Met because we were desperate, is a Sacramento River Cat (that's the Athletics' AAA team), alongside Moneyball star Jeremy Brown.

Watch out, Clippers! Here come the Indianapolis Indians, whose roster of proto-Pirates includes C.J. Nitkowski, Scott Strickland and Raul Gonzalez — yeah, that Raul Gonzalez. And clinging to baseball life with the AA Altoona Curve is Met-for-a-minute Jason Roach.

Stuck behind some fella named Pujols on the Cardinals' depth chart is Memphis Redbird Brian Daubach. He's now a teammate of Prentice Redman, whose extended family hates us twice as much as they used to.

Whatever happened to Ricky Gutierrez? He's a Portland Beaver, which means he's already tired of opposing fans' funny comments. One of his teammates in Portland is the plucky, ultimately luckless Eric Valent.

Sticking with the Northwest, Kevin Appier apparently isn't done: He's listed as a member of the 2006 Tacoma Rainiers. Wonder if their scoreboard displays an INSANE APE graphic when he strikes somebody out.

We don't have James Baldwin to kick around anymore, but International League hitters do: He's a member of the Syracuse Skychiefs, Toronto's AAA team.

Alberto Castillo remains in the game, donning the tools of ignorance for the New Orleans Zephyrs, the Nationals' AAA club. I hope he still daydreams about beating the Phillies late one 80-degree afternoon in March, because we were there and it was nice. Laissez les bons temps roulez, Bambi!

Oh, and Jose Valentin is now toiling for the Single-A Lake Elsinore…oh, wait. No, he's right where we left him. Rats.

Programming note: SNY's Mets Weekly is scheduled to feature Team FAFIF holding forth on any number of Mets issues this weekend. Tune in and see us there if you can't get enough of us here.

No, they didn't place cameras behind our respective bathroom mirrors while we muttered to ourselves after the 14-inning loss to San Diego (though that would make for quite the reality show). We taped something with them the other day and they say they'll use it unless they have to cut away to the Benny Ayala Windsurfing Pro-Am, live from Waikiki.

Not that we care about being on TV or anything, but Mets Weekly airs at 12:30 pm Saturday; 6:30 pm Saturday; 12:30 am Sunday; 7:00 pm Sunday; 11:30 pm Sunday and intermittently throughout the week. To be on the safe side, just leave your set on SNY, plant yourself on your couch and gaze intently.

I do that most days.

Snigh is airing the Mets 11-inning, 9-7 win from yesterday as an SNY Encore today. And tonight, it's showing Game Two of the 1986 NLCS as a Mets Classic.

Semantics, semantics. This one will see light again if this network is any good. This one was a wonderful affair. Was it a classic?

If it wasn't, your standards are higher than mine. Whaddaya want out of a game?

Amazin' defense? Check.

Hitting from the pitcher? Check.

Adversity overcome? Check.

Production from unlikely sources? Check.

All-time greatness manifesting itself without killing us? Check.

Heart of our lineup showing heart? Check.

Bizarre cameos from our past? Check.

Clutchiness? Check.

Milestones that hadn't occurred to you but they occurred? Check.

A Mets win? Double-check. Mets take two of three at Telecommunications Terrace.

It's a bonus that this uproarious prank call from the Phone Booth (a.k.a. Turner West) happened in broad daylight and didn't rob the adoring masses back home of any more z's. Midweek afternoon games needn't be as entertaining as Wednesday's was. But it's pretty cool when they are.

The bottom line is that when we look in our rearview mirror, we have to squint to see anybody. The Phillies are 4-1/2 car lengths back. They're in front of the Braves, pending their finale with the Rockies. Let's say they win and then sweep their weekend opponent. Let's say, for argument's sake, that we perform to precedent at Turner Field (a.k.a. Phone Booth East) and go down three times.

It would be terrible.

It would be awful.

But we'd be in first place on May 1. It's not the goal or even a goal, but it's better than the four alternatives.

Before trundling down Peach Tree Road and all the standard horrors that entails, I'd like to wallow in how we hung up on the Giants when it counted.

I'd like to come up with a new job description for Ramon Castro. He's not a scrub, he's not a sub and to label him a backup doesn't do him justice. Alternate catcher seems more apt. Other than run like Heinz Ketchup, is there anything he can't do? Not yesterday.

I'd like to know how Jose Vizcaino continues to be a force in this man's game. Of the five* 1994 Mets still active, he's as vital as any of them (take that, Kelly Stinnett). He lost his N.Y. privileges where we're concerned in the early hours of October 22, 2000, of course, but I have to admit I always liked him as a Met and he's never stopped being a solid contributor to whatever team will have him. Bastard.

I'd like to know where Brian Bannister came from. Yeah, I know, the loins of Floyd Bannister, but was there a scouting report that said he could hit? Two doubles? And did dad give him a magic kit for his birthday? How does he keep escaping jams of his own making.

I'd like to know when Brian Bannister is coming back. Yikes, but it hurt to watch him limp home. But he did and that's a gamer. I'd also like to know who'll take his next turn and like the answer to be Darren Oliver, who continues to be a small revelation in a bullpen brimming with good news (though I did shiver when I saw Jorge Julio warming up in the top of the eleventh).

I'd like to advise David Wright that Cal Ripken as role model only goes so far. If you're achy, find a seat. This grit your teeth and drag yourself out there when you're not 85% is not admirable unless it's crunch time. It's not. It's April. Your mobility is limited, you're hurting yourself, you're hurting the team. You're so good that you delivered a clutch blow somewhere amid an array of clutch blows anyway. But don't be Braden Looper and gut it out when you're gutting isn't gritty, just foolish. Be Carlos Beltran for a couple of days at least where caution is the issue. Whatever's bothering Diamond Dave held him back not just on the error on Alou's ball but his inability to get to Vizquel's leadoff hit. Sit a bit, Dave. You're young. The game will still be there.

I'd like to kiss Carlos Delgado on his awesome pate. But I always feel that way.

I'd like to get us some more Blue Jays. Delgado is delightful. Woodward is wonderful.

I'd like to find out why we can't kick Armando Benitez in his fragile psyche like so many teams did when his head was our affair. Load the bases on Armando as we did in the tenth, you should send him home in Baby Huey tears. We don't seem to do that.

I'd like to thank Billy Wagner even if he did not protect the ninth-inning lead for the second time in a month. Thank you for not being Benitez or Looper or any number of Mets relievers past. You'll be fine.

I'd like to wear a baseball cap, but I can't when I watch the Mets play the Giants. Usually I wind up tipping my cap to Barry Bonds. After the last two days, I had to toss it into the ring like a bouquet to a bullfighter. Damn he knows how to hit. I don't know what he is or isn't shot up with, but what a shot he delivered in the ninth. Off the end of the bat!

I'd like whatever Julio Franco's having. A dozen egg whites? Year-round training? Deal with the devil? I'll just stick with Julio doing whatever it is Julio does and I'll simply marvel. Whoa. Not just the pinch-hit RBIs but the stolen base. Oldest player to swipe a bag in just about a century? I wasn't surprised that he stole it. I was surprised that someone older once did.

I'd like an investigation into why the Giants didn't sign Julio Franco. He meets their age requirement.

I'd like another look at Xavier Nady diving, grabbing and robbing in right field. Did we know he could do that?

I'd like to see less of Endy Chavez just because if he's playing, it means something is wrong with somebody else. But I could watch him chase down fly balls 27 times a day.

I'd like to see more of Jose Reyes breaking out and Kaz Matsui staking claim. Have they ever served in tandem at the top of the order the way they were supposed to like they did yesterday?

I'd like the first base line to widen a smidge for Cliff Floyd's sake. He deserves some hits for all the ferocious fouls he's pulled. (Like the Monsta, I'd pull my uniform shirt out of my uniform pants as soon as I was allowed, too.)

I'd like SNY to air this game again not just soon, but later, when we haven't seen it in a while and we say to each other, “Hey, that game against the Giants is gonna be on! You know, the one where Bonds pinch-hits the two-run homer with two outs in the ninth off Wagner but the Mets come back in extra innings and Franco got that hit and that stolen base and Nady made that catch off Vizquel and Delgado blasted a home run into McCovey Cove and Bannister, he had the two doubles before he got hurt, and Castro got three hits and Chris Woodward drove in the winning run and Darren Oliver held on even though Bonds came up again and hit another one deep to center but not as deep as in the ninth and with nobody on so it was the last out! What a great game that was! What a great year that was!”

Yesterday's replay is finishing up. Mets vs. Astros from twenty years ago is on at seven. Imagine that: Two Mets Classics in one day.

*In addition to Kent, Burnitz, Stinnett and Vizcaino, all of whom I mentioned at the end of Spring Training, it occurred to me watching the Braves that Remlinger is also from the Class of '94. He doesn't like us, I don't think.

Beyond the fact that we survived Barry Bonds taking umbrage at uppity bloggers, endured a horrifying error by poor frazzled David Wright, thought Brian Bannister's leg might actually fall off, and then walked away realizing that hey, we took two of three from the Giants to finish the first leg of California Tour '06 at a we'll-take-it 4-3, consider this: We won a game on Getaway Day at Phone Company Park.

Whether it was the small bit of the game I caught between duties at work or the smaller bits I caught on the radio when snarled lower Manhattan subways allowed (which wasn't often) or the tense parts I saw in the mirror or by craning my neck at our beloved Waterfront Ale House during dinner with Emily and Joshua or the last moments I heard on the radio again walking home, I felt like I should have my hands clamped over my eyes, with maybe a sixteenth of an inch of space reserved for peeks out. Getaway Day in San Francisco, I kept thinking with a shiver. Bad things, man.

But c'mon, was my paranoia really justified?

Well, yes. I checked. Beyond our horrible overall record at Phone Company Park, consider this chronicle of Getaway Days gone awry:

May 4, 2000: Not a good start. We were up 2-1 in the eighth when all hell broke loose. Walk. Single. Strikeout. Single ties it. Exit Rick Reed, enter Dennis Cook. Balk. Hit batsman. (Marvin Benard, whom Cook felt compelled to call a “fucking midget,” sparking a near-brawl.) Exit Cook, enter Armando Benitez. Oh goody. Triple. Pop-out. (Bonds, somehow.) Home run. We lose 7-2 to complete a Giants four-game sweep.

May 13, 2001: We manage four hits against the immortal Chad Zerbe, lose 6-3 to complete a Giants' three-game sweep.

August 22, 2002: We lose 3-1, completing a (wait for it) Giants' three-game sweep.

May 18, 2003: Holy cow, we win! 5-1 behind Glavine for a four-game split. On the other hand, this is the series in which Piazza tore his groin, ushering in the then-exciting, now faintly ridiculous Jason Phillips era.

August 22, 2004: August 21 was the great Barry Bonds game recently extolled by my partner. August 22 wasn't. It was a 3-1 loss behind Matt Ginter. Giants took two out of three.

August 28, 2005: This was the West Coast trip we opened by shellacking Arizona four straight, then continued against the Giants with Steve Trachsel returning for a 1-0 win. We dropped the second game but thought, Hey, can't win 'em all. On Getaway Day we took a 1-0 lead in the sixth, after which Kris Benson gave up home runs to J.T. Snow and Pedro Feliz. We lost the rubber game, went home, and beat the Phillies two days later, not knowing it was the high point of the season.

So. Nice win. Put some ice on Bannister's leg, put soothing music on Wright's iPod, and let's get out of town before further annoying Barry Bonds or otherwise tempting fate. We've escaped the house of horrors! And with a win! How cool is that?

Say, fellas…where are we going next?

Whew.

There are lots of baseball games like tonight's — taut little affairs that are closer than the final score indicates, not a lot of scoring, good pitching performances but not anything that leaps up and demands to be counted as brilliant, a long ball to admire, a managerial decision (of the non-fatal variety) to scratch your head at, most plays made, a couple not, most calls made properly, a couple not. Just a baseball game, in other words — one not much to be remembered beyond a moment or two that will become detached from the narrative and later need to be reaffixed to the proper date, but one for the lifers among us to enjoy as a fine use of two hours and change.

The first moment that will endure is Clifford's attempt to launch the world's first cowhide satellite; it was marvelous to see a week's worth of frustration and buzzard's luck vanish in the time it took to say Ohmahgawd, which is more or less the sound I made seeing that ball seeming to pick up speed as it exited stage right on its way to McCovey Cove.

The other? It was Bonds (it's always Bonds) just trying to remain upright, whether it was dragging his way around the bases on one of his final homers, or leaping the approximate height of a medium-sized city's yellow pages in his failed attempt to steal Nady's home run away. Watching Bonds struggle from Point A to Point B, I didn't say Ohmahgawd; I just kind of muttered and stared lemon-faced at the screen, not quite sure what to think, because I was thinking everything at once.

The normal reaction watching a professional athlete passing from twilight to night is a mix of pity that he (or she, for that matter) doesn't know his time has passed — athletes are almost always the last to know, betrayed in the end by the willful disbelief that let them become stars in the first place. To that, add in amazement that his time is finally gone, that he's at last been rendered mortal. And then comes, usually, some mix of appreciation (there he is, for one of the last times) and disquiet (my goodness, I remember when he was young — I must be getting old too).

And I did feel some of that strange mix for Bonds. But I also felt other things. The pity alternated with a determined refusal to feel it, for Bonds knows exactly what's happening to him, and on some level must grasp that it's his fault, that he and nobody else did the things to his body that grotesquely reshaped it and in doing so ensured its sudden, shocking ruin. There was anger at baseball for this whole terrible mess, for its shameful efforts to conceal what was happening from itself and for whatever stumblingly pathetic attempts it will make in an impossible effort to put things right. And there was sadness, once again, that Bonds could ruin his own name and numbers and legacy so thoroughly, and for whatever bottomless insecurity lies at heart of him and drove him to cheat when he didn't need to.

Bonds is like a man who lives alone in the penthouse of the tallest building in the city, and in his solitude becomes consumed with rage that he doesn't live at an even loftier height. And so he tears apart his own house to built some rickety contraption reaching ever higher into the sky, as the neighbors watch in horror through their binoculars. Now it's popping bolts and rivets and coming apart, and all you can do is look away.

Ah, enough gloom. We won. Cliff hit a monster shot. Everybody else in the East lost. And we're done with these post-midnight endurance tests for a bit. Life ain't so bad.

I hold no brief for Art Howe. Art Howe was the worst thing to happen to the Mets' manager's office since Jeff Torborg ordered new carpeting. Art Howe dimmed a room. Art Howe looked lost and did nothing in his actions to dispel that impression.

But I've always admired Art Howe for one thing:

He didn't intentionally Barry Bonds when he didn't have to.

Perhaps the greatest game of Howe's Mets tenure (you can eliminate about 318 from consideration right away) took place in APacSBellBCT&T Park on August 21, 2004. If you remember it, you'll remember it primarily for Todd Zeile lifting a fly ball into the rightfield sun and Dustin Mohr not seeing it. It led to the Mets' tenth and eleventh runs and, at last, a twelve-inning 11-9 win over the Giants.

But you should remember it tonight for what Barry Bonds did in that game.

6 Plate Appearances

4 At-Bats

3 Runs

1 Triple

2 Doubles

1 Single

2 Bases On Balls

1 Run Batted In

NO INTENTIONAL WALKS! Of course Bonds took the measure of the opposing pitchers, but Art Howe did not give in. He let Tom Glavine, Ricky Bottalico, Mike DeJean and Braden Looper give him their best shot. They both failed miserably (he was on base six times in six chances) and succeeded brilliantly (he did not dial long distance even once at a park named for three phone companies in seven years). It was exhilarating to watch Bonds be Bonds and Bonds be stopped to within an inch of the Mets' life.

Art Howe could have found a spot to issue him a free pass. Goodness knows Willie Randolph did Monday night. Twice.

And how did that work out?

The Mets won on August 21, 2004. The Mets lost on April 24, 2006, mostly at the hand of the man who followed Bonds in the Giants' order.

This round goes to Art Howe. It may be the only one he gets, but he deserves plaudits if by nothing else but very recent comparison.

I hope Barry Bonds hits six more home runs after the Mets leave San Francisco and none before then. I hope he hits 715. I hope he compiles more than George Herman Ruth. Then I hope he slinks off to wherever a Barry Bonds slinks off.

No need to pile on. He's a large, large worm. We all get that. But let him beat the Babe. Let's pound the architect of the House That Ruth Built one slot lower on the all-time chart. It's not like anybody's going to let us forget Babe Ruth. Just the fact that there's cachet to somebody “chasing” the man with the second-most career home runs is evidence of that. Not taking away a damn thing from the Damnbino. Saved baseball, et al.

But let's not kid ourselves. Skank's a Skank, 'specially Skank One. Let me know when we start making exceptions.

Let Bonds pass Ruth. Let's inject Sosa and Palmeiro and get them back on the path to 715. If we can get McGwire rolling again, I say let's do it.

Barry Bonds? Great player. Absolutely great player. Enormous ass, literally and figuratively. Deserves no empathy. Belongs in the Hall, right there with Pete Rose and Joe Jackson. Just as nobody's ever forgotten Ruth, nobody will forget the crack in their plaques. We don't need bloody asterisks or — and this is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard — the erasure of his stats. Like his homers didn't happen? Do we lower the pitchers' ERAs while we're at it? Do the Pirates and Giants still win their various division titles if we delete Bonds' contributions? No, he can have his figures. The black mark we all want to slap him with will linger long after the ink on his numbers dry.

Baseball has a long memory, at least for stuff like this.

I'm more concerned with another outfielder, one of ours. Carlos Beltran, do like the Eagles suggested and take it easy. Don't feel the pressure. You've got a very valuable hamstring, don't mess with it. Don't listen to anybody but your trainers and your body and your instinct. If we have to miss you for a few more games to have you for the long haul, we'll deal with it. Endy Chavez can put down a bunt or two in your absence.

There's great stuff on hammies from a man who saw his share of 'em, '86 Mets assistant trainer Bob Sikes:

I must take my old friend, Steve Phillips, to task after he said on ESPN's Baseball Tonight that Beltran's reluctance to play was motivated by not wanting to play hurt again this year and feel the heat from Mets fans. He should know enough to know he cannot possibly know the whole story. He's not there and not part of the staff who's advising all parties concerned. An MRI can't serve as the end all here.

If caution is good enough for Bob, it's good enough for me. (And I'm always for taking Steve Phillips to task.)

Speaking of trainers, how about the most famous massage therapist in baseball, Kelly Calabrese? Keith Hernandez's bug-eyed comments on the presence of a — gasp! — female in the Padre dugout Saturday night were fairly Neanderthal, somewhat amusing and, ultimately, plain misinformed. She's working, and there's no reason to diminish her professional status. If it's OK with Bruce Bochy and whoever hired her, then big deal.

But I'll cut Mex slack, and not just because he's Mex. He's a ballplayer from what has become a long time ago and his was an honest reaction to an unorthodox sight. If we value Keith for his truthfulness, we can't fume too much when his idea of the truth doesn't jibe with ours. I just happened to tune into Mike & Mike on ESPN Radio Monday morning and they tut-tutted him big-time. The Mike who used to play football said there's nothing unusual about a woman taping up players at Notre Dame. He knows, he was there for spring practice over the weekend.

Good for Mike Golic. I'm guessing Keith Hernandez, who has since apologized, wasn't chilling in the Padres' clubhouse Saturday afternoon while Calabrese rubbed one too many knots out of Josh Barfield's villainous shoulders. You can argue that Keith should have been doing his homework, but homework's for mere mortals. Keith Hernandez's job is to detect what pitch is coming, compare Nick Johnson to George Hendrick and be the guy who was the ideal No. 3 hitter 20 years ago. Coach Sikes has the take of experience on this, too:

I feel that I know Hernandez well, and feel his comments were based on the fact he indeed has respect for women. A baseball dugout is a harsh place with rough language and men say things and do things that in my opinion can never change. I believe Hernandez is indeed a gentleman and doesn't feel women should be exposed to this. I agree and feel that here is a place where baseball cannot be feminized.

I don't particularly buy Bob's argument that Kelly Calabrese making a living is another symptom of creeping…here it comes…political correctness; and I don't think rough language is much of a barrier to service for our men and women in Iraq. But I respect Bob's perspective as one who worked in Major League dugouts (and worked with male and female student trainers in an academic setting), so I recommend you check out what he has to say. His blog remains, like Keith's announcing style, unique and a treat for all serious Mets fans.