Last night: Ninth inning, two outs, two strikes, the Giants up 4-2 on the Padres. One more strike, and they'll sweep San Diego. They'll be only four out with Barry Bonds back in the lineup. Wheeee! Dare to dream, San Francisco!

Except the closer gave up a two-run double to Sean Burroughs. Fella by the name of Benitez. Pads won in 10.

With Giants fans feeling a bit raw today, we thought we'd pass along this handy letter. Fill it out and email it (or print it and snail-mail it, if you're feeling retro) to that Giants fan of your acquaintance who needs to know he or she isn't alone. Because around these parts we're as much about Helping and Healing as we are about Faith and Fear. Kumbaya, everybody!

Dear [name of Giants fan],

On behalf of our hundreds of thousands of members, let me welcome you to the Armando Benitez Survivors Support Group. We have a host of services available to help you through this difficult period in your life.

Here at ABSS we understand what you're going through. Whether you're an avid fan of real-life baseball or just one of those chalk-white obsessives who tinkers endlessly with a fantasy roster, Armando Benitez can be a powerful, destructive force in one's life. We understand the anguish of watching triumph turn to tragedy with a single brainless heave of a ball. We know the false security one gets from seeing unimportant games saved and big ones go down the tubes, and how naked and alone one feels when this false security is stripped away. We understand the terror of knowing one's happiness and/or statistics are in the hands of a volatile man-child with an uncanny ability to hear every taunt from the crowd and a propensity for off-field problems, including shacking up with self-described witches who put hexes on him.

At ABSS we pride ourselves on being nonjudgmental. We too have been lulled by single, never-to-be-repeated seasons of glittery stats and saves piled up during garbage time. We too were once seduced by 98-mph fastballs and the whisperings of the bloated tempter. We feel your pain, and we're here to make it OK.

We understand that you may be crying out, “How could I have been so blind?” We know you are likely regretting your cavalier dismissal of our members' warnings. That's OK — this is the first day of the rest of your life, [name of Giants fan]. You'll find that as with so many things, acceptance is the first station on the path to recovery. So until you and some of our hundreds of thousands of other members can join hands at one of our nightly meetings, please consider our cyberhands joined with yours in fellowship and understanding. It's OK. You're among friends now. Let it out.

Yours in ulceration and eventual recovery,

[Your Name]

New York City Chapter, ABSS

Armando-free since July 16, 2003

P.S. Please note that ABSS has no Miami chapter. See “single, never-to-be-repeated seasons of glittery stats” above.

P.P.S. Want Looper?

Your movie this week stars nobody and features nothing.

—Pearl Forrester, Mystery Science Theater 3000

The Mets are now little more than time chasers. I got to Shea at some point Wednesday night and some three hours later I left. I returned home from whence I started when it was over. Baseball was apparently played.

But I was there. This, I told my companion, who freely admitted there was no way he'd be there without my advance ticket buy (made when we eyed this as one of dozens of potential showdowns for the…nah, don't even say it), is what we will look back on next year, or perhaps the year after that, or some distant year beyond that one, when the Mets are titlebound. “Yeah, remember that game against the Nationals in September '05, how we went and there was nobody there and the Mets lost? Yeah.”

Yeah.

Me, my buddy Dan and 24,047 other lost souls have an alibi as to where we were on September 14. If we're suspected of any crime, we can honestly plead insanity.

24,049 was the announced attendance. I'd say a good 12,025 of our fellow ducatclutchers decided to cut out the middleman in order to cash in the “Get a Sub With Your Stub” offer on the back of the ticket. Think about it: If somebody bought a $5 upper deck jobbie and, instead of using it, took it directly to Subway to buy any 6″ Sub at regular price and receive a second Sub of equal or lesser price FREE with the purchase of any 21 oz. drink, that person came out ahead.

Like the Nationals. Again.

Nobody cheered. Nobody booed. Nobody except Jose Guillen reacted to anything. Three Nationals converged on a pop fly and none bothered to catch it. They were rewarded with a double play grounder.

And a win. Again.

Even the Pepsi Picnic Area, on a “bring your empty can, get in for free” Wednesday, looked unpopulated.

“Hey, if ya finish that soda now, you can see a Mets game for free!”

“Nah, that's OK. I'm enjoying it and don't want to tarnish my memory of it with an unpleasant association. Plus I'd really like to get my nickel back. I will take one of those Subs though.”

Is this even the same season we started in April? I don't much care for 2005 Version 2.0. I liked the prototype much better.

To be fair, Dan and I had a marvelous time in very reasonable weather. Until recently he worked a night shift so this evening was three years in the making. (The Mets apparently no longer work nights.) We agreed that going to an implications-free baseball game that turned into the 14th loss in 17 games was better than staring into space come November and wishing we had such a diversion.

But of course the Mets suck, so let's not give them a free pass for providing green grass and fertile topics of conversation. Dan and I decided we could've done this in a bar, but then we'd have to keep badgering the bartender to turn the channel to the Mets game. And you know he wouldn't.

Did you know that the Mets haven't won two in a row in three weeks?

Did you know that no Mets team has ever been over .500 as late as 139 games into a season as this one was and finished under .500 as this one seems determined to do? For that matter, no Mets team has been anything like eight games over in late August only to finish — lemme check to see where they are right now — a hundred games under.

Did you know The Log hates when I inflict games like this one on it? I'm now 9-7 for the year with three more visits to the periodontist…I mean Shea scheduled. This was Lifetime Regular Season Game At Shea No. 298 for me. It was my goal to get to No. 300 in 2005 which is what I'd be collecting on Closing Day if not for my adding this one. Now The Log is angry that, barring rain, I will finish with an odd number for the season and may punish me by making me go 9-10 which would piss me off in ways that the Omaha Leon Brown card did you. Plus, at No. 301, I'll wind up commencing a whole new page at the end of a season, something The Log considers bad form. The Log can get very cranky and may force me to fit in an extra Rockies game if I'm not good to it this weekend.

Maybe the baseball gods are exacting a toll on me for getting sick twice this season when I held tickets for games that turned into wins but couldn't go. Dan, however, is probably right when he says the baseball gods aren't really paying attention to the Mets these nights.

Why should they be any different from the rest of us?

From John Harper in the Daily News today:

Because Hernandez is not on the 40-man roster, Mets' brass apparently was debating the idea of releasing one of their players to open a spot for him.

“We haven't decided what we're going to do yet,” assistant GM Jim Duquette said. “We're still talking about it.”

To quote those water ballerinas from an old AFLAC duck ad that last year's Mets broadcasts rammed into my cerebellum, never to be removed: Huh? Wha? Come again?

How about releasing Jose Offerman, who was useless even before performing his cranial-anal docking maneuver at a crucial point in last night's game? How about Gerald Williams, about whom no more needs be said? If we're worried about a glut of middle infielders, why not send Miguel Cairo packing? (Heck, he'd probably get picked up by the Yankees and kiss Omar and Willie on his way out.) How about one of the pitching staff's failed experiments? Dae-Sung Koo's been a flop and the brass are pissed at him for refusing to warm up last month anyway — why not send him home early? How about Danny Graves, who has exactly as much chance of collecting his $5 million option for 2006 as I do of receiving it through some spectacular bank error? How about Kaz Ishii, solidly locked in at the bottom of any starting-pitching depth chart we could construct?

With the exception of Graves's utterly hypothetical option, none of these guys is signed for 2006. I can't imagine any of them would get us compensatory draft picks. None of them has any conceivable future with the Mets. (Of course, I said that last year about Ice Williams.)

Seriously, what am I missing? This doesn't seem like anything requiring some huddle o' suits. From my point of view, figuring out which 2005 Met to release is like figuring out which chucklehead political appointees to boot out of FEMA: Candidates aren't that hard to find.

The 2005 New York Mets, beloved Wild Card contender and object of irrational obsession to thousands, passed Tuesday evening.

They were 144 games old.

The cause of death was termed offensive futility exacerbated by an attack of executional ineptitude.

A coroner's report indicated there was little heart left at the end.

The 2005 New York Mets were best known for their sound starting pitching and a five-game winning streak late in life, most notably a pair of contests in Arizona in which they scored 32 runs.

“That's how I'd like to remember them,” said Mr. Met, self-identified “mascot” for the deceased. “Hitting and running and what not like they were really good at it. It seemed so unlike them but they seemed so happy.”

Mr. Met admitted he has a lot of thoughts rattling around in his head, “and there's room for lots more.”

The 2005 New York Mets gave new meaning to the term “.500 club,” a designation that seems appropriate in light of the deceased's wish to be cremated and scattered in 500 equal fragments over Citizens Bank Ballpark, Dolphins Stadium, Robert F. Kennedy Stadium and Minute Maid Park.

“They really wanted to be a part of the Wild Card race to the end,” said a National League source. “This way they'll be somewhere in the post-season.”

A viewing will be held at Wilpon & Son Funeral Home, 123-01 Roosevelt Ave., Flushing, September 14-22 and September 29-October 2. September 14, 15 and 29 are Value Viewing Dates.

“Come on out to Shea,” urged New York Mets eulogist Fran Healy, “and watch the Mets lie in state.”

Rest easy, soul of Fred Merkle. New York baseball has a new, much more deservedly crowned Bonehead for all time. It's one thing not to advance from first to second on the winning base hit in an era when that was generally accepted practice. Bonehead Offerman has come up with a whole new interpretation of Section 7.00 of the rulebook.

Rule 7.13(j): A runner occupying first base is entitled to second base when the batter hits the ball safely into centerfield unless the runner's head is occupying 50.1% or more of the inner portion of his own ass.

It's not like Jose Offerman hadn't give us warning that with his help we'd be forever blowing ballgames. But back when he was making awful plays in the field, he was just being the Jose Offerman I'd heard about. Since then, I've come to if not respect him then at least ignore him.

But really. Thrown out at second on a single to center? I've seen Met baserunners (what other kind?) get picked off during intentional walks, but they at least had the excuse of getting distracted by a pretty moth or something. What was Offerman looking at? Doesn't the Players Association have a pretty bitchin' vision plan? Hasn't sitting in the first base dugout for almost three months allowed him the time to read every ad on the third base side of Shea? What else was there to watch but the ball whiz past the pitcher, the second baseman and the shortstop?

I shouldn't pick on Jose Offerman. This loss wasn't all his fault. Let's face it, when you're trotting out the likes of Wilson Delgado, Edwin Almonte and Pat Strange, you're bound to lose a lot more games at the end of the year than you're going to win. Therefore…uh, hold on…

Hello?

Wow, I couldn't tell the difference. Thanks for letting me know.

Correction: It only seems like Tuesday night's game included the likes of Wilson Delgado, Edwin Almonte and Pat Strange, all vagabond ghosts of Met fantastically futile finishes past. Sadly, the stunning conclusion to 2005 bears a little too much resemblance to the three that preceded it.

DEFINING LATE-SEASON SWOONS, 2002-PRESENT

2002: 3-17 (8/10-9/3)

2003: 4-19 (9/4-9/28)

2004: 2-19 (8/22-9/12)

2005: 3-13 (8/27-9/13)

SOURCES: Retrosheet; accursed memory

There's no telling where this could end.

If indeed it does.

While the Mets come up small, some players — one we love, one we don't — remain larger than life. Find out who they are at Gotham Baseball.

I dunno, man, they look pretty undead to me.

Nothing like soothing a fan base that's not very forgiving in the first place by playing nine innings of pathetic, lead-ass baseball. The bottom of the 7th was particularly disgusting: terrible pitch selection by Jose Reyes, Jose Offerman managing to break back to first on a line-drive single up the middle and then jog to second to be forced out (leaving me making the Dallas Green face at the television), and then Carlos Beltran ensuring he'll continue to have “disappointing” surgically attached to him by once again trying to pull anything and everything. Then we had to prove we weren't one-suck ponies by putting together a ninth inning of typically wretched pitching by Braden Looper and a jaw-dropping error by usually reliable Ramon Castro. And if that's not enough, through in some typically strange/stubborn decisions by Willie: Why on earth was Reyes bunting? Why on earth would you throw Looper into a nest of lefties down only a run? (And by the way, I officially don't care if Looper's hurt. He wasn't that good when he was healthy.)

And why was Offerman even in the game? Why switch out Mike Jacobs for Chris Woodward? Enough of Offerman and Miguel Cairo — let the kids show us what they might have, instead of taking another look at useless veterans who should be released and spare parts for next year's bench. Where's Heath Bell? Royce Ring? Angel Pagan? Anderson Hernandez? Where's somebody you wouldn't be shocked to see as a 2007 Met? Omar, it's over. Willie, we're done. It sucks, but we've accepted it, so you can too. Please God, let's not have another Indian Summer of Ice Williams. Oh wait, we still have Ice Williams.

(Pause to bash forehead repeatedly against desk.)

I've seen enough Septembers unravel into playing out the string to be familiar with the emotional Stations of the Cross: anger, then disappointment, then a desperate clinging to what baseball there's left, because all too soon it's going to be bandwagon time and all too soon after that it's football and snow and other forms of depression. Please, you Mets, at least let me cling. I'm not asking for the wild card. I'm not even asking for .500. Just give me games it looks like you're interested in playing, and we'll call it even. Don't leave me seething during what little time we have left.

I just gandered a glance at today's papers and saw something about how we're going home and there's still time and we're only 5-1/2 out and nobody's pulled away and you never know…

Stop it. Sometimes you do know.

Even if it's just Pedro and the headline writers saying it, why must they do this to us? I realize games have to be played as if something larger is at stake, but just win a game and shut up and win another one. Stop fostering the myth that those crazy Mets are wacky enough to pull this thing off. If you truly wanted to pull this thing off, last week would've been a fabulous time to have started pulling.

I like hope as much as the next Mets fan, but they annihilated mine in Atlanta and entombed it in St. Louis. It's going to take more than one win following six losses to resuscitate hope.

Think the Mets are having a bad September? Well, they are, but somebody had one for the ages 97 years ago. Find out who at NY Sports Day.

Watched the Mets finally beat, well, some of the St. Louis Cardinals today, and remembered how cruel baseball can be. No, it wasn't knowing that the season's done, we're cooked, etc., though that stank. It was the matter-of-fact way the calendar had turned to 2006. There were the Cardinals, resting up for October. There was the shocking sight of football, played for keeps when it's still 80 degrees out. (And a few innings after my initial outrage, I was hitting RECALL to see how the Saints were doing.) But mostly, there were the verb tenses. Like O'Brien and Seaver discussing Carlos Beltran hitting another home run for Pedro, and how that had been an early storyline of the season. Tom pointed out that's not such a bad deal, since it would work out to 35 or 36 home runs for the year. Dave acknowledged that but noted that it's not going to happen.

Hey, I thought, whaddya mean it's not gonna happen? Carlos just hit No. 15, so…oh, yeah. He's right. Shit.

'Twas the day of past tenses. Didn't make the playoffs. Failed to catch the Braves. Didn't justify his big contract. All suddenly inarguable, leaving us with nothing more than agate-type goals to arrive at, or to miss. Can Jose Reyes break the single-season mark for steals? Can David Wright beat Gilkey's doubles record? Can he drive in 100? Can Braden Looper retire a lefty in 2005? Can Piazza somehow hit 400 in our uniform? With the exception of the last question, which does hurt (particularly since the answer is “no”), the only sane response is: Who the hell cares?

Well, I care. And so do you. And so do 100,000 or so other souls, to varying degrees. But we all care in such a small-'c' way, compared with what we had to care about less than two weeks ago.

Remember? Ramon Castro smashed an Ugie Urbina slider over the fence for a 6-4 win and we were half a game out of the wild-card lead? Win the next day and we'd enter September as an if-the-season-ended-today playoff team? Yeah, that was August 30th. August 30, 2005, not 2002 or 1996 or 1971 or 1840, though it sure feels like one of those dates now. August 30th. Christ, that's a paycheck ago. It's still getting over a bad flu or a case of shin splints. It's the same fricking haircut.

What the hell happened to us? Look at the schedule and you might say doom actually arrived a bit earlier, when we got on a plane out of Phoenix and apparently left the bats behind. But still, the offensive slumbers of the San Francisco series would have been forgiven if we'd beaten the Phillies on August 31. We didn't, of course. We lost that game and have lost all but two of the ones since. How many games out of the wild card are we now? I don't know. How the hell can I not know when less than two weeks ago I could do the honors for the top five teams in the hunt?

It's not unfair — baseball's grimly and totally fair — but it sure is cruel. Twelve days ticked off the calendar and it's garbage time. Hell, we can't even have little victories: No sooner do we get Piazza back to continue his last hurrah, even if it's just for sentimental reasons now, then he gets knocked out of the lineup by a deranged reliever.

Twelve days. Twelve fucking days turned summer into winter. What the hell happened to us?

[T]he schedule has a little party up its sleeve for us…We have struggled (and thus far failed) to maintain mediocrity without facing a single game west of Addison Street. There are three trips pending that carry the Mets into Pacific Daylight and Mountain Standard: OAK-SEA in June; SD-LA in August; ARZ-SF slightly thereafter. The American League entrants are awful but they are awful far away, too. Long distance has always been enough of an excuse to scramble the Mets' equilibrium. The N.L. West teams are all sorting themselves out but none appears to be cake.

There's no rule saying the Mets have to go, say, 10-20 out in the great wide open. But would you bet on much better having seen how this team plays away from Shea and knowing what they do as a rule when they travel that far? Without looking up everybody's docket, I know Atlanta has already been to San Diego. Washington has played in San Francisco. Florida's seen Chavez Ravine. Our divisional rivals have already had to take at least a little bite out of their western obligations. We haven't. That's what worries me.

—Me, May 26

By beating the Cardinals on Sunday, the Mets finished the Dirty Thirty I harped on over and over at 11-19. So it turned out there was no rule that they had to go 10-20.

But it did kill their season. Yes, the city of Atlanta killed their season, too, but that's always been widely reported (“always” being the operative word). I knew coming in to 2005 that every time the Mets have a wacky starting time, like 8:05 or 2:15 or 9:40 or anything after 10 o'clock, it seems to be trouble.

And it was. It drives me crazy. I don't understand why they couldn't win one extra game against every opponent west of the Mississippi River. OK, not Arizona — they took all four games in Phoenix. But everywhere else? Consider:

Oakland 1-2

Seattle 0-3

Colorado 1-2

Houston 1-3

San Diego 1-2

Los Angeles 1-2

San Francisco 1-2

St. Louis 1-3

What gives? Besides us? Win one more game in each of those series (and they each included maddeningly winnable losses) and suddenly we're 79-64. We could still suck at Turner Field and be the clear Wild Card leaders. It would be the best of all Met worlds!

But no, the Mets insist on traveling poorly at any distance. When we pack up the last bit of regret from this season in whatever receptacle we choose, be sure to slap a tag on it and ship it to the wrong destination. Because when it came to road games, the 2005 Mets played like lost luggage.

We really shouldn't have to play the Gas-House Gorillas anymore.

Wham! Another homer!

It was a one-sided, knock-down, drag-'em-out ball game right from the very first inning.

Seven hurlers pasted our pathetic palookas with powerful paralyzing perfect pachyderm percussion pitches.

One…two…three strikes…we're out!

One…two…three strikes…we're out!

One…two…three strikes…we're out!

It was a shellacking we'll never forget.

Albert Pujols could lick us in a ball game with one hand tied behind his back all by himself.

Gerald Williams is only 93-1/2 years old.

Was this trip really necessary?