Hey! We beat the Cardinals today!

No, it didn't matter worth a hill of beans, except for the fact that while it was snowing, sleeting, spitting freezing rain and otherwise offering a thorough overview of vile weather up New York City way, down in Florida guys in Mets uniforms were beating guys in Cardinals uniforms. Numbers were being put up. Notes taken. Impressions gathered.

And Day 1 of the spring-training season brought the first of many “Oh yeah, that's what that feels like” moments to come: As the score zoomed from a happy Mets 9, Cardinals 0 to a less-happy Mets 9, Cardinals 4 and then to an even-less-happy Mets 9, Cardinals 7, I had that thought you only have in spring training.

I hope nobody important gave up those runs.

This feeling has a near-twin we'll meet later this month, namely I hope that just means this is his dead-arm period. But in the regular season things are not so cavalier. The closest thing in the regular season is I hope that means we finally get of Useless Pitcher X, but that one's cold comfort when it accompanies an L on the ledger. (And last year Omar let Useless Pitcher X, in his various disguises, rack up a heckuva lot of roster time.)

Anyway, final score Mets 12, Cardinals 7. Steve Trachsel, this year assuming an importance he probably never had before, walked the planet and gave up a three-run dinger in a bad inning and a no-credit remainder. (He had the flu; he gets a mulligan.) Someone named Juan Perez gave up a three-run shot to Albert Pujols — everything was unearned, but that's just silly. Rule Five dreamer Mitch Wylie worked two hitless innings. Xavier Nady went 4-for-4 with 6 RBIs; Victor Diaz, perhaps soon to be known as Victor Diaz Who Has Options Remaining, went 1-for-5. (And with that little bit of math, we know what the story in every New York paper will be tomorrow.)

Isn't it nice to talk about these things, instead of the phrenology of those first couple of gameless weeks? Never mind how Xavier Nady looked, let's talk about how Xavier Nady hit a grand slam off enemy pitching.

And it gets better: Tomorrow night's game is on WFAN.

Why, it's enough to make you imagine a world with actual games. Games that count. That are shown on TV. That are played in New York. And there are leaves on the trees. And light after 5:30 pm. And warm breezes. And tinny-sounding radios on the beach. And ice cream on a stick.

You know, life as it's supposed to be lived.

So much for appreciative cries of BOOOOOOOOne making Shea a deceptively supportive place this season.

Bret Boone, non and future Met, hung 'em up this morning. Word is it was quite the emotional ordeal. For him anyway.

No offense to a guy who just realized that his 14-year Major League career is over, but I'm sadder to realize the Mets will be without Juan Padilla and his bag of tricks for the duration of Puerto Rico's participation in the WBC. Padilla will return in a couple of weeks. Boone was never really here. Sure, he put on a Mets uniform, fielded a ball in it and then said goodbye to it, but what's that? That's Bret Boone playing a Met, not playing for the Mets. That's County Stadium and Camden Yards dressing up as the home of the Cleveland Indians in two Major League movies. It's like he rented out the Mets for a fantasy camp of pathos.

Veterans sign and don't make the team every year. Fine and honorable. Spring training is the time for the Terry Puhls and Mariano Duncans to give it their all one more — possibly one last — time. But what's with the guys who get this far and decide the last thing they want to do as Major Leaguers is stiff the Mets? The Boone, as I'm told he was known when he was hitting home runs for other clubs, didn't even bother to show for the intrasquad game yesterday. Perhaps he was playing catch out in the swamps with Todd Van Poppel and Kevin Stocker, two others from recent springs who never made it over the business end of the Tradition Field wall.

Yeah, they're people and they're entitled to make people decisions, but how could any of us possibly understand this kind of decision? In our minds, a baseball player strives all his life to one purpose: wear a Mets uniform in Major League competition. Only 771 such men have earned that highest privilege. And Bret Boone would rather abandon that opportunity and shed that uniform than attempt to reach the pinnacle of his profession?

Shame on the Boone.

While he debuted as a Red and excelled as a Mariner, Bret Boone was, almost imperceptibly in memory, a member of the dreaded 1999 Atlanta Braves. With all the unsavory characters on that squad, I don't hold it against him, especially given that after his single year of ineffectual contribution to their institutional torture of the Mets, he signed with San Diego and declared, “now I can go back to hating the Braves.”

If he had shown that kind of pulse during his mysterious “analyst” stint with Fox during the 2003 ALCS, he might now be finding a home behind a mic. I never heard somebody say so little for so long as Bret Boone did across those seven something-to-talk-about games. The lingering image of him, however, did say a thousand words: his brother Aaron mobbed at the plate after homering to win the pennant (for which team, I don't recall) then a cut to the booth where Bret stared stunned at the field. Bret Boone never won a World Series. Now he never will.

Regards to Van Poppel.

Baseball fans bundled up against the cold are sometimes the worst people to ask to write about baseball. Sure, we need it the most, but we can't see past the breath in front of our face to get to why this thing we call Spring Training — with its repetitive profiles in the papers, its unsatisfying satellite standups on the TV news, its lack of substance, its endless tease to Opening Day — is perhaps the greatest thing there is.

The best person to ask to write about it? Let's try somebody who just got back from it. My buddy Dan, whose companionship can make a muggy evening in September seem springlike, has just returned from the Promised Land, a full-blown pilgrimage to Port St. Lucie. He took his three kids: his son, his daughter and his inner child.

Here is Dan's report from the scene of the sublime. The whimpers at no longer being there have been edited out for all our sakes.

To start with, it's true: It's all free.

Best moment was definitely within the first 15 minutes. While I was walking with my kids along the side of one field, a coach — the name escapes me for the moment, but it was No. 56 — saw Asher (all of 8 years old) wearing his mitt and Mets gear and barked, “Hey Lefty!” When we stopped, he told Asher if he could catch the ball he was tossing him, he could keep it. It only took Asher three times to make the catch.

I wonder how many day-of-travel flights to West Palm Beach Dan just sold.

History's all over Gotham Baseball today. First, an examination of all the non-Mets New York third basemen David Wright will render irrelevant in no time at all. Then, a little something on Mrs. Effa Manley of Newark, New Jersey and Cooperstown, New York.

The Hall of Fame is making something forever wrong at least a little bit right by inducting 16 deserving men and one deserving woman this summer. Their election was announced today after the Hall was good enough and smart enough to convene an expert committee to figure out which players, executives and owners (like Mrs. Effa Manley, co-proprietor of the Newark Eagles and now the first lady in the Hall) had been overlooked for too long. Murray Chass explained the process in detail in Sunday's Times.

So congratulations to the Hall and congratulations to all those whose memories (each induction will be posthumous) are at last being honored properly. Congratulations as well, even if he didn't gain election, to Buck O'Neil — as good a man in person now, according to Dave Murray, as he appeared to be on camera with Ken Burns a dozen years ago. Nobody alive has done more to keep the flame glowing on behalf of the Negro League legacy, namely that great baseball was being played in shadows of the institutionally racist Major Leagues.

This is a proper tribute to a corps of baseball people whose contributions can never be properly measured, can never be adequately appreciated, can never possibly be put in a context that reasonable people of the 21st century could ever, ever rationally understand.

Induction into the Hall of Fame for those who built and maintained the Negro Leagues when the Negro Leagues were the only option for a significant portion of the baseball-playing population of this country is clearly merited, and it doesn't make a single one of us who reaches that conclusion heroic or enlightened for endorsing the obvious.

The Hall of Fame is a fitting tribute for greats of the game. What I saw on ESPN Classic on Sunday afternoon, on the other hand, was merely creepy. Well-intentioned, to be sure, but creepy.

Didja see it? Somebody had the idea that it would be a lovely homage to Negro League history to re-create a Negro League game, circa 1948…sort of. There was a team calling itself the Birmingham Black Barons (from whence our own Willie Mays, who threw out the first ball, sprung) and a team called the Bristol Barnstormers (Bristol…ESPN…will they ever get over themselves?) and they played in vintage duds in historic Rickwood Field in Birmingham, Ala.

Harmless enough, I guessed, and did I mention well-intentioned? The announcers (including celebrity Mets fan Chuck D and the always excellent Billy Sample) used the occasion as a history lesson. The managers were two likable old-timers, George “Boomer” Scott and Jim “Bulldog” Bouton. And it was baseball in late February.

Still…

A faux-Negro League team taking on a faux-barnstorming team that appeared to be pretty darn white? It was creepy. Presumably patrons could sit wherever they wanted and use whichever drinking fountains they wished (probably bought bottled water) and ride in any seat in any transportation conveyance, public or private, that they chose. So it was a re-creation of a 1948 game involving black players on one team and white players on another team in Alabama in a way that never could have taken place in 1948 Alabama and in a way I don't think any of us would prefer it take place anywhere anytime. (Oh, unless it's the World Baseball Classic and we need to prove my country or heritage is better than yours.)

I watched for an inning and gave up. It just bothered me. I revere history, but I don't go in for re-enacting the Battle of Antietam. Gimme a book, gimme a documentary, gimme flash cards. What purpose does putting on a black vs. white baseball game serve exactly? Raise awareness of a mostly lost slice of baseball's past? Well, OK, but do you really want to go about it by segregating the teams? I read in a Daily News preview that the Barnstormers would be “mixed-race,” but I didn't observe that to be the case (to be fair, I could've missed it), but who wants to use phrases like that in this day and age? Who wants to think like that? If we're trying to make younger generations aware of the evils of what kept blacks and whites from fully competing together at the highest echelons of organized baseball until 55, 60 years ago, how does, shall we say, whitewashing the reality of it into a Sunday picnic long after the fact do that?

There seemed to be excitement about it, a couple of surviving Negro Leaguers enjoyed the attention that accompanied it and if everybody who was there and everybody who watched on TV got a kick out of it, then I'm just a wet blanket on a cold day. Yet I'm reminded of one of my favorite books ever, Douglas Bukowski's appropriately cynical Baseball Palace of the World: The Last Year of Comiskey Park. His entry from July 12, 1990:

Wednesday afternoon was “Turn Back the Clock Day” for the White Sox and Brewers. The Sox wore “Shoeless” Joe Jackson uniforms and the score was kept manually, all in an effort to recreate a game from 1917, but I don't know. The ushers wore “straw” hats made of Styrofoam, and both teams used their black ballplayers. So much for authenticity.

I'm all for throwback unis and wearing baseball romance on one's sleeve, so I suppose there's a connection to be made between the heritage represented by the Negro Leagues and the ongoing efforts to address the relative paucity of African-American baseball players in 2006. Indeed, one of the Black Barons from Sunday, Jimmy Williams, told the News' Christian Red that he hoped an event like the Birmingham game would lead to firing up more African-American kids to play ball.

This issue gets a touch more notice every year, but I've been hearing, I'm sure, for closing in on two decades that…

• the sport that served as meta-metaphor for the American experience…

• the game that Jackie Robinson rectified and delivered from richly deserved damnation by his mere participation…

• and the national pastime that wasn't truly national until he and Mays and Henry Aaron and Larry Doby and Monte Irvin and Minnie Minoso and too many others were no longer denied access by “gentleman's agreement” to it…

isn't attracting many black kids to its ranks. Certainly not like it used to.

I don't know what to do with that information.

The traditionalist (post-1947 traditionalist, that is) instinct is to call it sad and bemoan it. It is sad and I do bemoan it. I'm a post-1947 traditionalist in that sense. The next tack to take is to endorse the encouragement of athletically talented African-American youth to take up baseball. The Majors have been doing this in an institutional fashion since 1989. I remember writing a brief story in '92 about how Fred Wilpon, Nelson Doubleday and George Steinbrenner were joining forces with the company that was then Major League Baseball's soft drink sponsor to jumpstart the New York leg of a program called RBI, Reviving Baseball in Inner Cities. The Mets and Yankees contributed resources to rebuild a ballfield in Harlem (albeit not the Polo Grounds). It certainly wasn't either team's last charitable and, it could be argued, self-sustaining gesture in this direction. You want to run a baseball team in New York, you best maintain the interest of New York kids.

(And let's not pretend that baseball needs revival only in the inner cities or that those are the only locales where you'll find nonwhite children in the United States. For that matter, African-American children aren't the only children not playing baseball like we did when we were awkward but determined youths doing our best John Stearns impressions.)

There seems to be a steady flow of what could be very loosely termed affirmative action at baseball's grassroots level, and I'm all for any action that is affirmative where baseball is concerned. The go-to line about why baseball needs to do this is it hasn't kept up with professional football and basketball as the aspirational sport among African-American youth. Anything that can be done to close the gap…huzzah! In my judgment, every potential athlete should choose baseball. Every potential sports fan should choose baseball. Every media outlet should cover baseball first, last and just about always.

It can be argued if MLB has done enough or has done what it has done successfully. The fact is the percentage of ballplayers who are African-American continues to shrink. The 2005 National League champions had hitters, pitchers, fielders and runners, but not a single American-born black player on their roster. And I just read, courtesy of John Harper in the News, that Cliff Floyd is the “Mets' only established African-American player” and that Lastings Milledge is a rarity in terms of race among blue-chip baseball prospects.

And I still don't know what to do with that information.

There is no evidence to suggest that the '05 Astros were composed in any manner other than to win as many contests as they could. Until they got to the World Series, the plan worked. The 2006 Mets? I'm assuming the idea is to get as far as Houston did and then win four more games. We've been through the nonsense about Los Mets already and I'm not going through it again. The only kinds of guys I want to see on my team are the best players who are decent people and who are the best players. Their DNA or their grandparents' mailing address or what music they listen to on their Willie Randolph-mandated headphones is of no concern to this fan.

I'd been rooting for the Mets a couple of years, I think, when I read somewhere that the Mets had a quiet quota system for black players. Up until then, I hadn't noticed. So, curious kid with math skills that I was, I counted. There's Cleon. There's Agee. There's Clendenon. There's…uh…I got the idea. I didn't think much about it, though, because Cleon and Agee and Clendenon were no different to me from Seaver and Koosman and Buddy and Tug and Teddy Martinez. They were Mets.

That's been pretty much my rule ever since. You're a Met and you play well and you're not an embarrassment, I think of you as one of me and me, by Walter Mittylike delusion, as one of you. I think most of us look at our team that way.

Are restrictions, formal or casual, being placed on any young athlete who desires to enter baseball? If so, remove them at once.

Are opportunities being provided for the talent pool at large to excel at baseball? If not, create them and present them.

Is everybody from everywhere of every background being given an equal shot at playing baseball? Produce those shots by any means necessary.

That's information I can deal with.

If, as a prevailing trend, Latinos and Asians (and, for lack of a better construction, Euro-Americans) are more likely to go out for baseball than African-Americans after everybody throws their best pitch at the shrinking percentage, well, it doesn't feel right, but I don't know what to do about it. Are we supposed to be upset that members of one group have stepped in to fill a vacuum created by the absence of the members of another group? If African-Americans or any young men from anywhere are given every legitimate opportunity and reasonable enticement to play baseball and choose not to, what then?

All I ask of my team is to get me 25 players of skill and character and determination and all that good stuff that builds champions. Build a champion and let it perform like a champion. That, too, is information I can deal with. I don't really know what do with the rest.

Perhaps you've heard of a book and a club called the 12 Black Aces. It's a project started by Jim “Mudcat” Grant to honor the accomplishments of a dozen — now 13, thanks to Dontrelle Willis — pitchers who have won 20 games at least once in a season. That's one of the qualifications. The other one is that you be black. Well, African-American. The group includes Grant, Doc Gooden, Don Newcombe, Bob Gibson, Vida Blue and Ferguson Jenkins. It doesn't include Cuban-born but dark-skinned (and, thus, discriminated-against when he was coming along) Luis Tiant, who told Street & Smith's Baseball, “I don't even want to see that book. They can go and throw that book in the toilet.”

Well, if the criteria is American, then maybe Tiant should be more understanding. Except, as Street & Smith's Mike Beradino points out, Fergie Jenkins isn't a U.S. citizen. He was born in Canada. That doesn't make him American, unless you want to include North American…which is what a Cuban would be if I've read my maps correctly.

Identity politics can be split so many good-hearted ways that the resulting shavings can get downright ugly. Telling one guy he's a member of an unofficial club because he looks like this even if he isn't from here but the guy who also looks like this and isn't from here surely isn't what Grant was thinking when he came up with what sure must have looked like a nice way to romanticize a little history.

Say, when Doc Gooden was winning 20 in 1985, did you think, “there goes our black ace”? Me neither. If you had to place him right now in a special group besides the 1985 Mets, would you choose Mets' 20-game winners and place him amid Seaver, Koosman, Cone and Viola? Me too.

The ethnic gymnasts of the WBC who twisted Mike Piazza of suburban Philadelphia into Italy's catcher practice the same pointless categorizing. When Mike was a Met, he was a Met. Now he's a beloved ex-Met until he takes a current Met deep as a fleetingly disliked Padre. Whether he's Italian or Italian-American or reconstituted-Southern Californian falls outside my own sphere of relevance.

Cliff Floyd, David Wright, Jose Reyes, Pedro Martinez, Billy Wagner, Carlos Delgado, Carlos Beltran, Tom Glavine…who ya wit'?

When it comes to baseball, I prefer to stick with my own kind.

At 9 o'clock tonight, give yourself a treat and visit the Crane Pool Forum for a live chat with Adam Rubin, Mets beat writer for the News and author of the immediately forthcoming Pedro, Carlos & Omar. He's already answered a few advance questions which make for fascinating Met reading.

And if you think no Mets fan should have to set himself on fire on the front lawn of his or her local cable company, consider signing this petition to get SNY onto Charter Digital Cable. None of us is free to watch every Mets game until all of us are free to watch every Mets game. (Free is just an expression in this case. Cable costs.)

To elaborate on a great metaphor offered by one of our esteemed commentators a few days back, the commercials are finally over and the house lights are going down. It isn't time for the movie, not quite yet, but the previews are about to start. And thank goodness. Yes yes, I know where the receptacles are and am aware trash goes in them. I have silenced my cellphone. I understand that a generation of no-smoking laws weren't repealed this afternoon. Could we please GET ON WITH IT?

Well, no, not quite yet we can't. But come next weekend, we will have actual (though still meaningless) games to discuss. We will have WFAN broadcasts with Howie to dissect. Gary won't be along just yet, but apparently (news via Bloomberg via Metsblog) when he arrives Greg and millions of others will be able to see him, meaning I don't have to worry about my co-blogger setting fire to himself on the lawn of Cablevision headquarters.

In the meantime, because we're antsy, some bits and pieces to tide us over before the previews arrive, which will satisfy us for approximately 30 more seconds before our case of the fidgets returns. (I'm so tired of playing the Dodgers! I'd do anything to see a game without pitchers running in the outfield! I can't sleep until I know if the 25th guy will be Endy Chavez or Tike Redman!)

Think of these as some Milk Duds stuck in the box before we tear into the popcorn in earnest:

In the Daily News, Adam Rubin discusses Jose Reyes, including how hard Reyes worked to teach himself English and how he did his first interview without a translator just five days after his debut. No one knew Rey Ordonez spoke English for years, and we learned when he told us we were all stupid. Reyes's nicely colloquial get-thee-thither to David Wright: “Beat it. Why do you have to be like that, man? Geez.” I love Jose Reyes. (And it being a new year, I'm struck once again by his eerie resemblance, one obvious characteristic aside, to Ziggy from “The Wire.”)

Willie joked that he's giving Brian Bannister an extra look because “I used to own his old man.” Actually Willie hit .188 off Floyd Bannister. Like I told you, Skip ain't one for stats.

Bobby Bonilla came to visit. Isn't this why Boondocks Field or whatever it's called has security guards? Arm them. Give them dogs. Do what needs to be done.

The other day David Wright told John Harper that “you see so many guys get caught up in the work aspect of [baseball], like they're coming to work every day. It's not that tough. Both my parents worked nine to five. The worst day on the baseball field is better than any day off it.” The more I read about David Wright, the less convinced I am he actually had parents. I think he strolled out of the cornfield after Kevin Costner showed his faith by sitting on the bleachers half the night. God bless David Wright.

Then there's Cliff Floyd, who's allergic to dissembling or being dull, in that great Keith Hernandez/Wally Backman tradition. Here he is on starting spring training facing lefties, unredacted since this isn't a family newspaper: “It sucked. But what the hell? It's good to see what those lefties look like. I sucked vs. lefties last year anyway.” God bless Cliff Floyd too. May He keep Cliff healthy, out of rehab assignments in “that hole,” and arrange that any astonishingly expensive earrings he happens to drop be swiftly found.

And that's that. In another week we'll have in-depth analyses of why Henry Owens must make the team and how Jeremi Gonzalez's two-inning stint reminded us of our childhoods and/or particle physics. Hang in there, baby. We're almost home.

Jose Parra is going to have Tommy John surgery to repair damaged ligaments in his pitching elbow.

I know, no big deal: Despite having a fairly inoffensive cup of coffee for us back in '04, it wasn't likely Parra was going to find a spot on our club this year. And it's not like he's Philip Humber, whose Tommy John surgery came as a punch in the gut. He's a 33-year-old right-handed reliever with a 6.09 career ERA, a commodity that pretty much does grow on trees.

But, a moment's reflection before we hurtle on with the business of Port St. Lucie and 2006: He's a 33-year-old right-handed reliever with a 6.09 career ERA.

Read that from Jose Parra's perspective. When that description fits you, nobody's going to give you much of a look even without a year on the shelf. The man has all of 82 games in the big leagues in parts of five seasons with five teams. He got one bubble-gum card an age ago when he was young and might conceivably amount to something. He's gone to the Mexican League to get the pilot light on his career to flicker back on; last year he was an Orix Buffalo, and got sent home in June with damaged ligaments. (Apparently the rest cure didn't work.)

From spare part to injured spare part with his 35th birthday in sight. That's it for Jose Parra, even in this age of medical marvels. I hope he invested his money wisely.

OK, moment over. Back to Jorge Julio and Chad Bradford and Duaner Sanchez and Juan Padilla and Heath Bell and Royce Ring and Pedro Feliciano and everybody else still in the mix. But as we figure out whatever fate awaits them, it's worth remembering that even though the major-league minimum is a paycheck we'd love to collect, this is a tough business.

Toe? Toe? How are you, toe?

¿Cómo está, dedo?

It's hard to think of anything else, what with one tiny fraction of a pitcher playing the biggest role imaginable in a Met spring training since Doc Gooden's nose inhaled a repeat in 1987. This whole thing is beginning to sound like Trachsel's back a year ago and how it was going to require an extra day of rest, maybe two, and then he'd be throwing off a mound.

Say, why do pitchers throw “off” a mound? Not from a mound and not on a mound, but off a mound. That's a construction that dates back to Doc's days as well, specifically his rehab trail back from Smithers. I know what Pedro is (or isn't recovering) from is nothing like what Gooden contracted, but this whole toe business…well, let's just say it's mighty Dwight of him.

We need a distraction from our diversion. We need other stories, but we're not getting them (though, as you boldly forecast, Carlos Delgado is happy to be here. I suppose that's not so bad. Stories — real stories — in spring training tend to involve St. Lucie's law enforcement community and spare outfielders too impatient to find a loo. So there are no stories, but there are storylines.

Shoot, I recognize a malleable idea when I co-opt it.

Guy Whose Outstanding Work Last Year Suddenly Never Happened: Have you heard Juan Padilla's name enter the bullpen conversation at all? Wasn't this guy the New Reliable in the second half of last season? Did he do anything wrong at all? I seem to recall Bartolome Fortunato having the same fraternity Gaslight prank pulled on him in camp in '05. OK, so he got hurt, but he wasn't mentioned after a solid '04 just like Padilla isn't now. While we're diddling around with projects and rejects, I'm guessing the guy in the glasses has options left. That should be delightful (who among us wouldn't want options?), but it's really a predicament. Some dude who posts an 0.14 ERA or an .833 batting average in spring always seems to be getting screwed in favor of a John Hudek/Brian Rose type who just can't be lost to waivers. (Only here do we have not just John Hudek and Brian Rose, but John Hudek/Brian Rose types; seriously, sometimes I think we retain too much.)

Thing Most Everybody Else Is Clucking Over But I Can't Muster The Slightest Damn About: The World Baseball Classic is this year's steroids hearings. This has…what to do with the Mets? Yeah, I know, Pedro will get his shoe and trip over himself playing for the Dominican Republic trying to field a line drive off the bat of USA substitute third baseman David Wright…who will trip over himself on his way to first. It could happen. And lightning could strike Tom Glavine on the golf course (oh crap, now I've gone and done it). Putting aside the Pandora's Box aspect of baseball players playing baseball games and god knows what will occur next, what will all this prove? That guys with some sort of similar background thrown together for a couple of weeks can beat other guys with some other sort of similar background also thrown together for a couple of weeks? I'll still take my Metropolitan-Americans every time.

Mets Book I Have To Have As Soon As It Comes Out: Somebody wrote a book about the 2005 Mets? Really? 83 wins and a tie for third? Well, ya know what? Point me to the checkout counter. I've read an excerpt from Adam Rubin's upcoming Pedro, Carlos and Omar and am clearing space in my head to learn more Bad Stuff 'Bout The Mets. To make room, I'll try to forget trivia like how in 2004 the Mets were such laughingstocks they couldn't lure Henry Blanco or Craig Counsell to New York. Wait! That's what I learned from Rubin, the dependable Daily News beat writer, in his excerpt. He's got lots of fun minutia, to say nothing of a ton of bad memories from less than two years past, including the disastrous details that led to the Minayanizing of the Mets. Gads, I'd all but forgotten about Art Howe and had — no kidding — completely put out of my mind the way he was fired without being fired that September. It's like finding out last week's grocery list has been published by HarperCollins. But my appetite has been whetted. It's out in a week. Act now.

Petition Circulating In Order To Secure Mets Telecasts For All: I'd never heard of the Patriot Media cable company until recently, but you've heard the parable: First they came for Patriot Media and I did not speak out because I was not a Patriot Media subscriber… Well, Patriot Media, not unlike my very own Cablevision to whom I pay blood and Sopranos money every month, does not have a working arrangement yet with SportsNet New York, impending television home of the New York Mets. All who like to watch the Mets should sign on so all can watch Gary, Keith and Ronnie sign on next month.

Dirty Little Not-So-Secret I Feel Compelled To Disclose: I'm thisclose to being in SNY's pocket. They hosted me and four swell fellow fans with blogs and had us tape a segment for Mets Weekly, the successor to Fran Healy's scintillating New York Mets Inside Pitch (quite a legacy to live up to; it should take 'em about a second). It was a great deal of fun and I left imbued with confidence (if not cahn-fidence) that these people will put on a good show and be part of a fine network. That, besides the airing of Mets games, is why it needs to be on every cable system in the New York area and everywhere else for that matter. New York Mets, America's Team…New York Mets, World's Team…New York Mets, A Universal Point of Pride. Yeah, that's more like it. C'mon Snigh and Cablevision and Patriot Media and the rest of youse — get it together. (If you're wondering what it would take to get me all the way in their pocket, those SNY baseball caps look pretty snappy.)

Idiotic Exercise In Projecting By Idiots: On the heels of Eddie Coleman's report that nothing whatsoever was going on down south, the afternoon hosts of the Mets' flagship radio station gave three minutes of spontaneous thought to the Mets. Between them, they dithered over how many wins Pedro and Glavine would have to have for the Mets to have a good season. Then they dithered over how many starts they'd have to combine for. “65, 66,” said one. “62,” said the other, definitively. Yeah, that's the fortune cookie right there. Good job, boys. Come back after commercial break with your figure skating analysis. It's almost as useful.

Sad Sign For The National Pastime: USA Today Sports Weekly, which used to be known as USA Today Baseball Weekly until it added football coverage, now includes NASCAR stories. It's a sad sign for all of us, really, but coming in February, when you'd think baseball could handle its own newspaper, it's especially harsh. And NASCAR? It's just fumes, dust and a lot of crashes. I'll bet Rubin has plenty of that in his recounting of the Art Howe years.

Unprecedented Endorsement Of A Baseball Team Blog Outside The Family: Referring you to great new Mets-oriented blogs like Lone Star Met or Metphistopheles is something we do proudly and not infrequently so you the Met-oriented reader can benefit. This, however, could be a first — why don'tcha give a click to Cubs Curmudgeon? Yeah, I know, the Cubs, but it's well done, one of its two bloggers is a reader of ours and, it turns out, a co-worker-in-law of mine, twice removed. That is to say he is employed by the company that now owns the magazine for which I used to work but not for the same magazine, and I haven't worked there in some time, certainly not since the company he works for bought it. (Got that?) Or as another Cubs fan who stumbled upon us the other day remarked, “Shawon Dunston…87th best Met ever? I think that's hilarious.” Of course our pal Shawon made the list and a lasting impression for his role in securing one of the greatest postseason wins ever, an accomplishment with which Cubs fans under the age of a hundred and eight may be unfamiliar. (My, but that turned ugly quickly.)

Just-Discovered Startling Detail Regarding A Possible Met Who Wasn't A Met: I was in a discussion regarding the upcoming release of the 1986 World Series on DVD with a friend who suggested it would be a hoot-and-a-half if the '69 Fall Classic got the same lavish treatment. Absolutely, I agreed. He, in turn, wondered whether such a splendid set would include that footage of, oh you know, the bit in To Mets With Love when Ralph Kiner interviews a celebratory Jim Bibby. This stopped me cold. Jim Bibby? Jim Bibby the tall Mets farmhand who never played for the Mets, was traded to the Cardinals with Art Shamsky and others for Jim Beauchamp, Harry Parker and others and won 19 games and lost 19 games in the same season for the Rangers? That Jim Bibby? Henry Bibby's brother Jim Bibby? Yes, I was told, Jim Bibby was in a Mets uniform in the champagne-soaked, division-clinching clubhouse on September 24, 1969, identified by name, by Ralph. This strongly implies Jim Bibby is one of the non-Mets Mets, part of the Gerry Moses, Terrel Hansen, Mac Suzuki, Justin Speier cabal of guys placed on the active roster but never inserted into a game. Maybe he was the first. I haven't seen To Mets With Love in more than a quarter-century, and I can only hope the new network unearths it or that it shows up on a future DVD. What I do know is that in 1969, the Mets came from way behind to storm past the Cubs and win the East. But you already knew that.

Guy Who Should Stick To Managing And Nothing Else: Willie Randolph, regardless of batting order, facial hair policy or contempt for the ladies and gentlemen of the press. I caught a glimpse of yet another from-hunger Subway commercial in which he and Joe Torre are apparently lounging on some sort of Caribbean honeymoon while bickering over a sandwich. Get a room, you two. And give up the act. Vaudeville is dead. Every ad you film is another sale for Quiznos.

Wednesday's Featured Met About Whom All Must Write was Carlos Beltran, with a side of Bret Boone. (Thursday's will be Carlos Delgado, which ranks as the single least-far-out-on-a-limb prediction I'll make all year.) Meanwhile, the first week has provided another old story in a new bottle: Willie being Willie.

The first-day ritual for every player returning from trials and tribulations is that the player try to make sense of last year. The last week of February is the time for admitting things that couldn't be admitted last year, a confession that always begins with having had an offseason to reflect. Add in a columnist or two to echo this confession and you've got conventional wisdom — which swiftly hardens into the foundation for whatever will be accomplished in the new season.

Exhibit A: Carlos Beltran and 2005. Now Beltran admits plenty of things: He was pressing in New York, he and his wife couldn't settle down (they moved four times), and most important of all he hurt his leg badly at RFK in late April and should have gone on the DL instead of playing hobbled for months. Now (here comes the conventional wisdom, and the turning of the page to '06) he and his wife have settled into a house they've built on Long Island, he's more relaxed, his pal Delgado is here, and this time if he hurts himself he won't try to be a hero.

All according to the script, except Willie Randolph decided to ad lib: “All great players play with pain and play hurt. So you really can't look at it and go, 'Well, we should have maybe put him on the DL,' because I want players who want to go out there and scratch and claw and get the job done. I think it's great that he understood his responsibility.” (That's to Don Burke of the Star-Ledger.)

And earlier in the week we got another case of deja vu, this time over what the Mets' default starting lineup should be. Everybody from stat geeks to amateur psychologists seems to want Beltran to hit second (where he had such success in Kansas City and Houston) and Wright to hit third. Except Willie seems determined to hit Lo Duca second and Beltran third, with Wright in the fifth hole between Delgado and Floyd.

Willie isn't one for stats (more on that in a bit), and the case has been made that it's important to have the right-handed Wright breaking up the lefties Delgado and Floyd. But earlier this week Willie offered a counterargument that seemed stunning. He didn't argue for Beltran hitting third. Instead, he argued against Wright hitting third, intimating that he might not be ready to carry that load.

“I guess I'm a show-me guy,” he told Bob Klapisch. “I want to see that David can keep making the adjustments.”

Making the adjustments? The kid hit .306 and drove in 102 runs last year! You can just hear Met fans wondering if Willie will go back to musing about hitting Wright eighth.

I'm not a Randolph hater by any means. Sure, last year I moaned about everything from the lineup to the starting rotation to the bullpen to the bench at various points, wondering all the while how many misdeeds should really be laid at Omar Minaya's feet. But at the same time I didn't think Randolph got enough credit for proving a solid clubhouse manager, one who did a good job bringing the kids along, keeping the veterans motivated and playing hard and in general staying calm and keeping the team pulling in the same direction. But I confess there are things about the man that baffle me, and that apparently are going to keep on baffling me.

The least-baffling thing is that Willie's just not a stats guy. Much as I'd like to be a stats guy myself, I think this criticism is a bit overblown. Infuriatingly, I now can't find the blog post I'm thinking of, but some stalwart among our blog brethren (I think it was one of the Metsgeeks) crunched the numbers in the offseason to see how many wins Willie cost us by hitting Wright too low in the batting order and found it really didn't make much of a difference. I can appreciate the statistical case for Beltran/Wright/Delgado/Floyd, but I wonder if when wins and losses are tallied, the difference between that and Lo Duca/Beltran/Delgado/Wright/Floyd will really be worth getting worked up about. And anyway, I don't think it's Willie's allegiance to the latter lineup that gets people so mad — it's that he's so Flat Earth about it. Talk to him about splits (let alone OPS or VORP) and you half-expect to see his elbow pumping.

Which brings me to Willie and the beat reporters.

What is it about Willie and reporters, anyway? The man's Cheneyesque in his disregard for them — obviously not interested in letting them into his thinking, and apparently not above misleading them for his own purposes. As the season was dying last year I wrote that I thought I'd finally figured out what Willie was up to with Reyes and Wright. Reyes' continuing tenure in the leadoff spot and the idea that Wright might hit 8th were Met media firestorms last year, and I decided what Willie had been doing in both situations was distracting the press, making himself the story so he could teach Reyes better pitch selection and take the pressure off Wright, respectively. As it turned out, Reyes did have better at-bats in the second half (though thank goodness that hasn't stop the Mets from importing Julio Franco and Rickey Henderson for further tutoring), and Wright didn't need the coddling, though Willie didn't know that in March.

So is that what Willie's doing again? Maybe. If so, I suppose that's vaguely defensible (if awfully conservative) with Wright, who is just 23, after all. But it doesn't make any sense with Beltran — why stir things up about the leg and whether or not he should have let it heal when everybody else is trying to stop talking about it?

So now, with Willie saying odd things again, I wonder if the truth isn't simpler. Maybe Willie simply has no use for the whole circus of media and fans that surround a New York ballclub, doesn't care what their opinions are about him, and doesn't hesitate to send them off on any number of wild-goose chases so he can get about what he sees as his real business.

Which will be fine — if we win.