A while back I earmarked this three-day weekend for taking the boy down to Virginia to see his grandparents. I noted it would be the first weekend of spring training, hesitated briefly, then booked the trip. Because, honestly, the first few days of every spring training are exactly alike, down to the beat writers mysteriously picking the same subjects for Day 1, Day 2, etc. No matter which paper you start with, flipping through it will tell you with great accuracy what today's big feature will be in every other paper: It's Mike Pelfrey Day! It's Diaz/Nady Day! Etc. And that's without even mentioning the latest on The Toe.

Ah, The Toe. We'll have that to, um, kick around all spring. I'm good for following your lead and writing assurances 100 times on the board. I'm also hoping it's all a big conspiracy to keep Pedro from expending innings we'll need later in the World Baseball Classic. The WBC will certainly be a new wrinkle — I'll be interested to see if I'm thrilled by it, or resent it as a disruption of the usual dull but comforting spring-training rhythms. An unwelcome undercurrent to Life in Port St. Lucie so far: The Nobody Misses Mike Piazza stories.

My favorite part of the first week of spring training? It's that there aren't players in camp so much as there are roles in camp, waiting for new players to fall into them. Names change; archetypes not so much. Time to check out last year's list and see who fits the bill this time around.

Guy Who's About to Burst Onto the Scene: Anderson Hernandez is getting groomed for this, though Xavier Nady might steal it from him. (Nady shouldn't count, but San Diego may as well be Kamchatka as far as most Met fans and writers are concerned.) There'll be the usual write-in vote for Pelfrey or Lastings Milledge before they get reassigned to minor-league camp.

Guy MIA Because of Visa Problems: Jorge Julio and Anderson Garcia are missing in action. Honestly, why does this happen every year? Is the holdup on our end or theirs? Do the players who are missing half-ass things and file paperwork in early February, proving you can get jaded about anything?

Journeyman Who Just Might Stick: Look for one of the situational lefties, since we've got about three camps' worth. Does Tike Redman count? Important thing to remember: In this case “stick” means “get put on waivers in mid-May.”

Minor Leaguer in Awe of It All: Given to Mike Pelfrey by default. Hopefully things go better for him than they did for Phil Humber.

Minor Leaguer With Interesting Story: Usually this goes to a backup catcher never to be heard from again, but the New York Post just filled this slot with Henry Owens, who has a bachelor's degree in biology, was headed for med school, and can hit 100 with arm action that makes the ball look like it's coming out of his Adam's apple. I stopped being cynical when I got to that last part.

Guy in the Best Shape of His Career: Last year it was Heath Bell, rollerblading dervish. This year? Nobody's offered admiration for a slimmed-down Victor Diaz, alas. I guess it would be nice if it were Jose Valentin or Jose Lima. Hey, Lima's wardrobe is certainly hitting on all cylinders….

Comeback Feel-Good Story: Darren Oliver would like it to be him. Ditto for Valentin or Lima. I guess Alay Soler wouldn't count. And what if Rickey picks up a bat?

Guy Enjoying His Last Go-Round: TBD. Sub “Enduring” for “Enjoying” and I'm afraid we have Kaz Matsui.

Guy Who's Just Happy to Be Here: This slot usually goes to some tortured soul who's overcome injuries, agita, a bad reputation, or some other albatross necklace to Take 'Em One Day at a Time. Lima? I'd like it to be Victor Zambrano, a.k.a. His Own Worst Enemy, but absent a frontal lobotomy that's unlikely.

Guy Who Works Harder Than Anybody: Last year David Wright and Carlos Beltran walked off with this one. This year it's already been handed to Billy Wagner.

Guy in New Surroundings: Wagner, with Paul Lo Duca as the understudy and Xavier Nady as a walk-on. Until Carlos Delgado arrives.

Guy Going Back to His Roots: Sometimes this one doesn't get cast — the difference between it and Guy Who's Just Happy to Be Here is GGBTHR goes to a veteran who takes a number north of 50 to remind him of what got him to The Show in the first place. If Bret Boone had any brains, he'd be trying to lock this one up. He'd also be in camp already.

Guy Who Doesn't Take It Too Seriously: This is the guy who shrugs off bad stats or minor hurts to say he'll be there when the bell rings, skip. Probably Cliff Floyd or Tom Glavine, though you'd like them to be lean and hungry.

Guy Who Knows He'll Be Elsewhere: Matsui. Poor Matsui. I keep clinging to the thought that he'll relax, hit eighth, succeed and wind up as well-liked in the stands as he seems to be in the clubhouse. But outlook not so good, sayeth the 8-ball.

Guy Swearing You'll See Him in July: Humber? Bartholome Fortunato? Being this guy guarantees you won't in fact be heard from.

Guy Who's Making This Team, Dammit: Oliver? Soler? Someone from the Lefties Anonymous group? This guy often gets screwed by a dog-and-cat trade made to get the roster down to 25.

That was last year's list. New ones for this year:

Guy Who's Buying a Suit Because He's Headed North: I'm betting on Anderson Hernandez.

Guy Under the Microscope: Aaron Heilman. The annual Locker Placement Kremlinology story (a perennial favorite of mine) noted Heilman had been assigned a locker in a row with Pedro, Glavine, Steve Trachsel and Victor. Here's hoping Aaron can handle it — and things go better for Beltran now that he's escaped this role.

Guy Who Is Just So Damn Selfless: One look at the photo of Lo Duca carrying in a box for young Henry Owens (uniform number: 68) and this one was cast.

Guy Who Doesn't Know Why the Hell He's Here, Either: Dae-Sung Koo. I mean, what on earth? It's like an outdoor version of Office Space. Still, better Mister Koo than Danny Graves, last seen being mistaken for a water buffalo on his tour of Vietnam.

Guy Who Would Like to Remind You He Is NOT, in Fact, Armando Benitez: Jorge Julio. Let's hope he's correct.

Guy Who Does Not Want to Hear Your Insensitive, Unfairly Sweeping Generalizations About Previous Experiences in This Vein: Yusaku Iriki.

Guy Who Already Went to New York for an MRI: Jose Parra. Ack. At least it wasn't Pelfrey. (Wood is being knocked.)

Ah, spring training. Where have you been all my winter?

The rites of spring are in full swing, everybody kind of having the same story, all our hopes being raised by the same scant evidence, all our lives being ruled by one particular toe.

I'm not going to worry about Pedro's little piggy. Can't do it. It's too big a stumbling block to our well-being. We can't devote a moment to batting orders or who's on second or why the WBC will come crashing down upon the Mets and no one else (as is widely assumed because that's what we as Mets fans do) if we don't take our ace's availability as a given.

Pedro Martinez will be fine.

Pedro Martinez will be fine.

(Excuse me while I chalk that 98 more times on a blackboard.)

Natch, Sunday's papers were peppered with big, young, strapping, impressive Mike Pelfrey looking big, young, strapping and impressive. From his arm to God's ear, or something like that. I have a murky recollection that Philip Humber's first session a year ago was dynamite. So was Tim Leary's. If the kid doesn't get hurt in his first six outings, it will be a victory. Hide him away somewhere in the minors and don't let us obsess on him too much. For now.

I saw a picture of Billy Wagner making his way to camp the other day with a bag from McDonald's. Man, I thought, how can these guys eat that stuff? They're athletes, they should know better. Then I read Billy Wagner left camp with a stomach virus. Never mind facial hair, Willie. Enforce a policy against Quarter Pounders.

My eyes didn't deceive me Saturday night during my six o'clock St. Lucie fliparound (when the local sportscasts suddenly become vital). I did see a Met wearing 42 and it wasn't Ron Hodges. Jose Lima first showed up in 99, which had been retired in honor of Turk Wendell — or common sense — then he slipped on his old Astro number, which was thought to have been worn last first by Butch Huskey and then Mo Vaughn. Should Lima be allowed to wear Jackie Robinson's sacred and otherwise out-of-circulation digits? Frankly, I'm more concerned that he's wearing a uniform that says Mets.

Other unavoidable rite of spring: En masse fussing over of mercenary-turned-Skank For Life who (gasp!) dons striped pins for the first time in our collective presence. This year it was Johnny Damon, getting his “we” and his “our” on, as in “we have a great team” and “our goal is to get to a World Series.” Quite a business, this baseball.

How ya think Pedro's toe is? Really?

Yes, Happy Anniversary, Blog Brother. So what's been keeping me up nights, other than Pedro's toe and the fact that our rotation's old and fretting that Willie might actually hit Lo Duca second? It's what anniversary gift to get you.

Finally I thought of the perfect thing and went down to the Baseball Store.

“I want to get a no-hitter for my friend and Blog Brother,” I said. “He's never seen one — well, not one that mattered.”

“No problem,” said the clerk. He typed for a moment, then looked puzzled.

“Did you say you're a Mets fan?” he asked. “Huh. Sorry, my computer system doesn't seem to have a SKU for METS NO-HITTER.”

“OK,” I said, not particularly surprised. “Wow. How about that big shiny World Championship over there on the wall?”

The clerk sized me up for a bit. I could tell he was wondering if this scruffy old bald guy could really pay for it. Then he typed some more.

“We're not stocking that right now,” he said. “That's just a floor model.”

“But you could get a new one, couldn't you?” I asked. “I know it would make my Blog Brother pretty happy.”

“There's a waiting list,” the clerk said, and when I looked dubious he pointed to his monitor. I took a peek.

“RED SOX? They just got one! WHITE SOX? They did too! What gives? YANKEES? They've got like millions of them, and they don't even really care anymore, the spoiled weasels. DEVIL RAYS? Yeah right, like that check will clear. CUBS? Well, OK, it's been a while, but they don't deserve one.”

“Do you want a spot on the waiting list or not?” the clerk said. “Sometimes things happen and people drop off of it.”

“I want one, but I need something more tangible. How about a new stadium?”

“We don't have those in yet,” the clerk said. “Check back in a couple of weeks.”

“You've been saying that for years,” I complained.

“Couple of weeks.”

And now I was stymied. I looked around the room. There was another bunch of new uniforms in garish, horrible colors, but I didn't think you'd like those. There were escalator repair kits, but a sign warned the installation was strictly DIY, which kind of frightened me. There was a CD of ballpark hits, but it was crap like “The Best” and “Lazy Mary” that I couldn't imagine anybody would want to hear more than they had to.

“Sir, there's a line,” said the clerk.

“What's the '162' package?” I asked.

“You get 162 games, plus a certain number of extra innings at the discretion of the Department of Fate,” the clerk said.

“Are they good games?” I asked, because I had friends in Detroit and Kansas City and Pittsburgh and other outposts who'd bought this plan and wound up enduring it more than enjoying it.

“We guarantee some very good ones and even a few unforgettable ones,” the clerk said.

“Like what?” I asked.

The clerk shook his head. “Further details only available upon purchase.”

“But they're not all good games, are they?” I asked. (I've been coming to this store for a fair number of years now, and I'm getting wise to its tricks.)

“Of course not,” the clerk said. “That's the way it goes.”

“Just 162?” I asked.

“There are March diagnostic tests that some people enjoy watching,” the clerk said. “And the Department of Fate may extend the subscription, certain conditions being met over the first 162.”

“Extend to what? I asked. “What are we talking? 163? 165? 167? 181?”

“Yes,” the clerk said, smiling mysteriously.

“I don't know,” I said. “I got this for my Blog Brother last year for us to watch and comment on, and there weren't any extra games and we barely won more than half of the basic package.”

“And did you enjoy it?” the clerk asked.

“Yes. Why, yes I did. I enjoyed the hell out of it, in fact. OK, I'm in. Sign me up. And while we're at it, put me on the World Championship waiting list, and put me down for a new stadium too. And I want to talk to the manager about that missing SKU.”

“Sure thing, sir. Enjoy your 162 package.”

“I will. I'm pretty sure Greg will too. In fact, I can't wait until we get to rip this thing open.”

“Welcome gentlemen to New York Mets spring training for pitchers and catchers. We have already checked in Lo Duca comma Paul, Castro comma Ramon and the many other catchers we are going to require so each of you pitchers can display to us what you are made of. Please form a line, single file, and step forward one at a time for your instructions. Start now…

“Last name?”

“Martinez.”

“First name?”

“Pedro.”

“All right, Martinez. Here's that shoe you wanted. Put it on and don't ever take it off. Start throwing and don't leave camp. You're a member of the New York Mets from this moment forward. This is your nationality, this is your flag. Don't hurt yourself and save your strength. We're gonna need you for the whole season, maybe longer. You're our man…next!

“Last name?”

“Glavine.”

“First name?”

“Tom.”

“Glavine, we're gonna need you to age as slowly as possible. Says here you did a good job of that the last few months of last season. See if you can keep it up. We'll do what we can to help you achieve your personal milestone, you do what you can to help the whole organization. Remember, if the team wins and you don't, it's still a win. Everybody here's trying for the same thing…next!

“Last name?”

“Zambrano.”

“First name?”

“Victor.”

“Zambrano, you can do some marvelous things and some not so marvelous things. We strongly recommend you concentrate on the former and forget about the latter. We like your talent. What we're not crazy about is the cut of your jib. Recut your jib this year. There are a lot of people counting on you. The sad part is there are going to be a lot of people counting on you to fail so they can feel better about themselves. Those are the people who didn't want you here in the first place, the people who it secretly pained to see you doing well for a while last year. Don't let them get to you. Do your best. And throw strikes…next!

“Last name?”

“Trachsel.”

“First name?”

“Steve.”

“Trachsel, you look familiar. Oh yeah, you've been here before. In fact, you've been here more than anybody else. You must've been doing something right to have lasted this long, though sometimes it's hard to remember. I'll tell you what I told Glavine, son. It's a team game. Don't sulk if things don't go well for you personally, we're all in this together. And take it easy on the back. We need you the whole year. Don't wanna have to go out and get another Ishii…next!

“Last name?”

“Heilman.”

“First name?”

“Aaron.”

“All right, Heilman. We're gonna send you over there with the starters. Think you can handle it? Your agent sure seemed to think so. Just keep doin' what you were doin' last year except more of it. This ain't no two good innings and out situation anymore. This is about length. Go stretch and good luck…next!

“Last name?”

“Lima.”

“First name?”

“Jose.”

“Lima…Lima…do we even have a file on you? Oh, here it is. What is this? Lima man, this thing is all over the place. You're good, you're bad, you're good, you're bad, you're an Astro, you're a Tiger, you're a Royal a couple of times, you're a Dodger, you're something called a Newark Bear. And you're a flake. A little personality is fine, Lima, but don't be a nut about it. See if you can be more like the Dodger you were than the Royal you've been. Maybe we can use you…next!

“Last name?”

“Iriki.”

“First name?”

“Yusaku.”

“Iriki, I don't know if you're going to understand a word I'm saying, but if you've got some funk, we like that sort of thing around here, provided it's good funk. You've got the power of the unknown going for you, not a bad thing for a pitcher. I won't lie to you, though. We haven't had much luck tapping the talent pool where you're from. May be a coincidence since we haven't had a lot of luck tapping a lot of talent pools. Go throw and maybe we'll come up with something…next!

“Last name?”

“Pelfrey.”

“First name?”

“Mike.”

“Pelfrey, it appears you're a blank slate. You won't be for long. A lot of folks who have never seen you and couldn't pick you out of a crowd are going to be pinning all kinds of hopes and dreams on you. I can hear the pencils sharpening. One wrong move by one of the older fellows and they're penciling you in. It's probably not going to be that easy. It rarely is. Listen carefully to the coaches here. Find out what they've told all the other prospects who have come before you and do the opposite. All of our other prospects suffered serious injuries listening to the coaches. Get advice from somewhere else. It has to be better. Have a good career, kid…next!

“Last name?”

“Bannister.”

“First name?”

“Brian.”

“Oh, a legacy. Hope your dad is well. You're not gonna make it here on your name, son. Just keep working hard and stay under the radar as long as you can. Get a little too well known, you'll either get hurt or get traded. Keep on pitching and you may get a chance…next!

“Last name?”

“Soler.”

“First name?”

“Alay.”

“Soler, you're overdue like a library book. Make sure your paperwork's in order before we worry about you pitching. I find it hard to believe you're actually here…next!

“Last name?”

“Maine.”

“First name?”

“John.”

“Maine, the main thing is you're a warm body. Your job is to become a hot body. Not like that sassy little number who ya got traded for — and ya know I'm not talkin' about her husband, heh-heh. Looks like you've got some stuff but you haven't really shown it. Well, here's your opportunity. You're young, Maine. Forget where you've been and show us where you're going. You may not figure in our plans right away, but our main, or should I say primary guys aren't getting any younger…next!

“Last name?”

“Julio.”

“First name?”

“Jorge.”

“Julio, you've got some problems besides having two first names. You've got experience but not much of it is good. Funny how everybody seems to know that about you. You've been compared to another guy who came here from Baltimore. Things didn't work out too good for him in the end, but I'll letcha in on a little secret. That fella pitched pretty well around here for a while before he imploded. What you've gotta do, Julio, is start fresh. When you hear 'New York,' remember you're on New York now. You're not pitching against some other outfit from New York anymore. We're gonna have your back here. I'll tell you what I told Zambrano: throw strikes and the rest'll take care of itself…next!

“Last name?”

“Bradford.”

“First name?”

“Chad.”

“Say, Bradford, you're that pitcher with the funny arm angle. I always get a kick out of that. I also read you're not too fond of big crowds. Well, we can use the arm angle but not the hangup about noise. People here like to hear themselves yell. But you've probably overcome a lot of that stuff. We don't necessarily have anybody to get lefties out, so if you can figure out a way to do that, you'll probably have yourself a role. I know how you bullpen guys like knowing your roles…next!

“Last name?”

“Schmoll.”

“First name?”

“Steve.”

“Another sidearmer, eh? Listen Schmoll, I'm not sure where you're gonna fit in around here, so you should probably try to make the most of spring training. You can open some eyes. This is no exhibition exercise where you're concerned. Every year we grab a couple of walk-ons and put 'em on the traveling squad. We had a fella last year, Roberto Hernandez, nobody thought they'd have much use for. He had himself a good year and got himself a nice contract in Pittsburgh. Maybe you've got something like that up your sidearmed sleeve…next!

“Last name?”

“Padilla.”

“First name?”

“Juan.”

“Padilla, I should just toss you a ball and say 'go get 'em' because you earned it. But things are never that simple in this camp. Look around here and you'll see we've brought in all kinds of competition for you. It's nothing personal, it's just business. Try and remember what helped you break through last year and just keep doing it. You'll be fine. But go see the eye doctor to make sure those specs are prescription…next!

“Last name?”

“Sanchez.”

“First name?”

“Duaner.”

“Sanchez, you've got a lot of promise. I like the way you filled in for that Gagne character in L.A. last year. I know a lot of people were upset we let go Seo to get you, but I wasn't one of them. You and I know what a difference the eighth inning can make in a ballgame. You've got filthy stuff, and though that sounds disgusting, we like filthy stuff. Stay focused and you'll be all right…next!

“Last name?”

“Bell.”

“First name?”

“Heath.”

“Bell, you're here again? Well, why wouldn't you be? Seems like we've seen you every year for about a decade but I guess it's only been a couple of years. Bell, you seem to have an unnatural number of supporters out there, folks who don't think you get enough of a shot to make it. I'm not sure I'm one of them, but spring is a good time to impress me and impress everybody. I know what you're thinking: 'I was great last spring and I didn't make the team.' Well, guess what, Bell? It's a new spring. Hasn't been the modern team that can't use another talented arm in relief. Careful with the rollerblades…next!

“Last name?

“Ring.”

“First name?”

“Royce.”

“First Bell, now Ring. What is this, some kind of gag? Apologies, Ring, if I've slurred you in any way. I see you're a lefty. Well, Ring, that's not a bad thing to be around here. You don't see many lefties, do ya? But Ring, you're gonna have learn some consistency. You had a clear field last season and you couldn't stick. We don't know what to expect from you anymore. But we didn't know what to expect from Heilman a year ago and now he's one of our big keys. Be a ring, Key. I mean a key, Ring. I mean…next!

“Last name?”

“Fortunato.”

“First name?”

“Bartolome.”

“Fortunato, says here you pitched pretty well for us in '04 but didn't throw a dadburn inning in '05. I'd prefer to think of you in '04 terms. Seems you made a pretty decent impression. But that was suddenly a long time ago. Work hard, kid, work hard. You never know…next!

“Last name?”

“Feliciano.”

“First name?”

“Pedro.”

“You again? Over there with the lefties…next!

“Last name?”

“Oliver.”

“First name?”

“Darren.”

“Oliver, you're not the Darren Oliver who's been around forever, are you? I guess you are. Good luck, old-timer…next!

“Last name?”

“Parra.”

“First name?”

“Jose.”

“You've been here before, you know the drill…next!

“Last name?”

“Santiago.”

“First name?”

“Jose.”

“You heard what I told Parra…next!

“Last name?”

“Koo.”

“First name?”

“Mister.”

“You're not pullin' that again, Koo. Frankly, I don't how you made it back here, but go grab a bat and make yourself useful…next!

“Last name?

“Perisho.”

“First name?”

“Matt.”

“Over there, lefty…next!

“Last name?”

“Gonzalez.”

“First name?”

“Jeremi.”

“Sigh, must be February…next!

“Last name?”

“Humber.”

“First name?”

“Philip.”

“You must have something in your contract, because otherwise you don't belong here, at least not yet…next!

“Last name?”

“Wagner.”

“First name?”

“Billy.”

“I see you're the last pitcher here, Wagner. I guess that's appropriate. You're the closer, so we're not going to need you until things get late, though they do have a tendency to get late early around here, so stay alert. I know you're going to represent our country in the World Baseball Classic and that's a very nice thing, but so help me if you strain one ligament, you're not going to hear the end of it. Obviously Wagner, you've been a pro's pro, a star's star in this man's league a mighty long time, so there isn't much I can tell you. I'd like to tell you nobody's expecting you to be perfect, but really, they are. You and I know you won't be. Just minimize the damage when you aren't and move on. You don't have to worry about following in the footsteps of the old closer. He didn't leave any footsteps behind. Watch those guys on your old team. There's a bunch of 'em our relievers never could get out in a tight spot. Otherwise, relax, have fun and did I mention throw strikes?”

Time's propensity to march on leaves so much in the dust. People and issues that we focus immense amounts of energy on matter less and less until they matter not at all. They become history. History's a blast, but it's not the same as being vital in the here and now.

Hence, it comes as a creeping surprise on February 14 that the subject of Bobby Valentine is not dripping with vitality. We almost never talk about him anymore.

Sure, the date is a rather obvious hook on which to hang a discussion of our old skipper, but with the slightest step back from the contemporary, it's amazing that he doesn't come up more often. Bobby Valentine was at the center of our thoughts and our lives as Mets fans for so long…and not all that long ago. We devoted who knows how many cubic yards of gray matter to figuring out what he meant, what he was doing, what his next move would be. He was as fascinating a character as we've ever had in our midst. Stengel-fascinating. Strawberry-fascinating. Hernandez-fascinating. Leiter-fascinating.

Say, when was the last time, outside the prism of nostalgia, that we gave those guys any deep thought either? Or Charlie Puleo? Exactly. Time does its number on everybody who's not connected to the 25-man roster, whether they're making it or managing it.

For my money, nobody ever managed one of those babies on our behalf like Bobby Valentine. When the Mets solicited our opinions in 2002 to create an All-Amazin' team, there were four legitimate candidates for manager. Casey Stengel all but created the Mets as we think of them. Gil Hodges is our eternal paterfamilias. Davey Johnson was simply the most successful of the bunch.

But I voted for Valentine. I knew Hodges would win (not altogether undeservedly by any means) and I always thought Johnson was criminally underrated, but I went with Bobby V. I'm not sure that he was the best manager we ever had, but I always felt he inhabited the job like nobody else.

Bobby Valentine loved being the manager of the Mets. He groomed himself for the role from the time he arrived via Kingman trade and once he got it, he ran with it.

I'm not sure what's more jarring, that he's been gone from the organization for nearly 3-1/2 years or that he became Mets manager a decade ago this August. He had one of those tenures during which you all but forgot who came before him and couldn't believe anybody would actually follow him.

Why such love for Valentine? I mean besides his late, lamented restaurant hard by the Grand Central? (Mets cards embedded into the tables, Tom Seaver book covers on display, a menu brimming with Toca Taco Salad and Ribant's Reuben Sandwich…I think I'm going to cry.)

Like I said, he wanted to be here. This wasn't Art Howe shocked out of his mind that somebody would hire him. As soon as Bobby was entrenched, he talked about a Mets way of doing things, about bringing back old Mets to instill a Mets spirit in new Mets. He wasn't close to Mookie, but he embraced having him as a first-base coach. He lured Keith to St. Lucie as an instructor. Rickey will be in camp this year in part, it is said, because Willie knew him from the Yankees. Davey Johnson was part of Cashen's Baltimore cabal. Gil Hodges and Rube Walker were Brooklyn Dodger heroes. Valentine got that we cared about a Mets connection. Maybe it was just lip service, but it made me happy.

Bobby V spoke his mind from the get-go. In Rey-Rey's first year, for example, the Mets had a coach, Rafael Landestoy, whose job was to serve as translator for the rookie shortstop. First spring under Bobby, no extra help. Ordoñez was told no more being an “independent contractor.” Learn English. Communicate with your teammates. Grow up. It's hard to swear that it took, but Bobby took a step.

There was little politic about how he expressed himself. He could have done the Howe thing when it came to the losing streak that greased the skids for his dismissal in '02. He could've said nothing (“we battled”) but he emoted. “It's killing me, it's killing my family, it's killing my dogs,” I believe was the litany of complaints. When asked to elaborate on why things were going so badly, he said he lost his disciples. What manager would admit to that? In happier times, he uttered stop-you-cold stuff as well. When he finally led a team into the playoffs in 1999, a reporter wanted to know if this was the most fun he'd ever had. Surely he'd say, “yes, this is the most fun I've ever had.” Not Bobby. His answer was along the lines of “no, it's not fun. Fun is skiing with my family.”

At least once a year, Bobby Valentine would put Mike & The Mad Dog in their place. He'd as much as tell them they were clueless idiots who couldn't manage a concession stand let alone a big league ballclub. Natch, they reciprocated by sniping at him and kissing Torre's ass that much more, but what savvy listener wouldn't tell Ego & The Idiot the same thing if given the chance?

I once heard Bobby rip into FAN management while on the FAN for not paying him nearly enough to do a manager's show, throwing out the figures that he was getting versus what Bruce Bochy was getting in San Diego, “San Diego” never sounding so contempt-filled as when he said it. That one outburst was more thrilling than anything Jeff Torborg ever said when he was in Jeff From Flushing mode.

Bobby V made enemies, as many on his own club as among the opposition and the media. I suppose that's not a desired attribute, but it was entertaining. Who didn't hate him by the time they were done being managed by him? When he identified one of his missing disciples as “Todd,” a gentleman named Zeile insisted he didn't mean me (no, Bobby said, I meant Pratt). Harnisch hated him immediately. Gilkey hated him eventually. Lance Johnson wasn't crazy about him. Todd Hundley famously feuded with him. And that was after one year! Franco — who with Hundley shoved his face into a heart-shaped cake as a “joke” around this date in 1997 — and Leiter almost certainly helped get him fired. I guess Mike liked him. And I would think those who owed their second chances to him didn't despise him.

That's another thing. Look at all the scrap heapsters Bobby Valentine revitalized. Rick Reed, Matt Franco, Todd Pratt, Benny Agbayani, Melvin Mora were the kinds of guys who were going opportunityless when Bobby decided to give them a shot. They all repaid him (and us) by contributing to the building of a contender. Bobby's the reason I stopped looking at names like Brian Bohanon with a smirk and a roll of the eyes. Bobby got a good year and change out of that guy. Every little bit helps.

And Bobby Valentine won here. He took a team that was demoralized by Dallas Green and turned it into something exciting. The Mets of '97 and early '98 were the eighth wonders. They were rarely out of a game and they were more dangerous than anybody when things got late. When he got some talent, he got to the playoffs. He steered a completely defeated bunch in '01 to a near miracle, all while expending himself to serve countless children of 9/11 victims.

That should be the best part, but to me the best part was that Steve Phillips hated him. Anybody Steve Phillips hates must have it goin' on.

Bobby V was, to invoke an overused invocation, larger than life. I was devastated when he was fired. It was as if he had been impeached by a hostile Congress. The combination of his and Alfonzo's dismissals (speaking of players maximized by the manager) left the worst taste I'd ever experienced in my Mets mouth. Art Howe was an insult to his memory.

Then time marched. It and life went on. Howe went off to wherever Howe went. Willie Randolph came in. He was OK. I don't love him, I don't hate him. When he was hired, it was reportedly instead of Valentine among others. By then, the fall of 2004, it had already seemed a mighty long time since it had been Valentine's day. It's only longer now. I don't miss him on a going basis anymore. He is history. Mets history, the best kind — but still history.

Funny how quickly that happens.

Some amateur psychology is applied to the New York baseball psyche at Gotham Baseball.

Thanks for the silver lining, pal — it so happens I was already feeling sunny. There are Eddie Gaedel-sized drifts of snow in my backyard. Big whoop. Do your worst, Old Man Winter. Because you're going down.

Warm winter or no, this is the kind of storm that, had it arrived in early to mid-January, might have sent my usual mild case of seasonal-affective-disorder-induced grouchiness spiraling into something deeper and darker. But today? Ha. Pitchers and catchers report on Wednesday Thursday, and once that happens, any statistics winter should accumulate will go into the books with an asterisk.

Sure, there'll be another big storm in March — there always is. So what. A month from now, we'll be solidly into spring training and whatever additional delights/worries/novelties the WBC brings us. Mike Pelfrey will be looking good, Bret Boone will be in the best shape of his life, Kaz Matsui will have a new attitude, Billy Wagner will have found acceptance in a new clubhouse. Or maybe you'll see different names paired with those phrases, but we'll be repeating them nonetheless, seeking to wring whatever meaning we can out of them. (My Blog Brother, on the other hand, may be camped out in Eliot Spitzer's lobby by then, since this year, alas, looks like it'll be his turn to suffer the wickedness of the Dolans and Cablevision's flying monkeys.)

And two months from now? We'll have ridden spring training straight into the '06 schedule, eight games deep — deep enough to no longer quite be able to rattle off the outcome of every contest. The full roster will have taken the field, with the possible exceptions of a fifth starter, bullpen specialist or someone they can't decide to DL or not. Someone will look great, filling us with overconfidence. Someone will look decidedly less than great, filling us with agita. It'll be here before we know it.

Such predictions hardly make me Nostradamus (or his infinitely more entertaining descendent Metstradamus). These things happen every year, regular as clockwork, predictable as morning following night, which is simultaneously the delight of baseball for those who hear its call and the barrier to entry for those unfortunates who do not. It's just a roundabout way of saying winter is on the ropes, whatever tricks it's got left to throw at us. 26.9 inches in Central Park? Whatever — gimme 269 inches of slush and mess if you want, oh vilest and most useless of seasons. Because come the day after the day after tomorrow, we'll have won through your kingdom once more, to the place where real life begins again.

Well, at least your recurring gripe that it's warm enough to play ball so let's play ball is inoperable this morning.

Just looking for the silver lining inside the blizzard.

Snow on a Sunday morning, especially so close to moundsmen & receivers, takes me back to April 9, 2000. We were going to that game to get our Amazin' Again (amazingly bad, as it turned out) 1999 highlight cassettes. But it snowed big, wet, chunky flakes and we got snowed out. “Aw, it's not so bad out there,” I heard myself repeat again and again. In a rare fit of marketing acumen, the Mets actually put said tapes on sale in their Clubhouse Shops. Should you be driven to watch it again, note that the many and varied contributions of Darryl Hamilton and Kenny Rogers in an August game against the Brewers are spotlighted far more than anything John Olerud did in 1999. (Speaking of recurring gripes.)

Not a lot of snow-driven baseball memories otherwise. The '71 opener got cut short by a blizzard the Mets and Expos managed to play through…at Shea, not Parc Jarry. M. Donald clear wanted to hold on to his M. Oney. The doubleheader Tim Corcoran got to play in June '86 was made necessary by snow that wiped out the second game of the season in Pittsburgh; Doc said that was the first time he had seen snow. Gads, I wish it had been his last. When the Yankees opened their home schedule in flakes in April '96, I have a middling recollection that we got snowed out that night in Cincy. Or maybe it was just colded out.

Doesn't seem like they'll postpone a game for unbearable chill anymore. Nor would we have them do it.

Need something to look forward to besides the obvious. A piece of good news from Jon Heyman in Newsday. He reports that besides Ebbets Field, the Mets are modeling Shea's successor after my stadium crush, PNC Park. Jeff Wilpon says he'd take it whole if he could. Damn, it's not like the Pirates are doing anything with it anyway.

It's supposed to warm up late in the week when hurlers & backstops report. The temperature is predicted to rise as well.