What you saw, I only heard.

Today was a day for what would normally be called errands and chores, except these were no ordinary errands and chores. These were errands and chores the way a pitching assignment is a pitching assignment when you're, say, brought in to pitch to Derrek Lee with the game on the line. Lots of painting — painting cabinetry that's already been painted, painting in pain-inducing positions so that one doesn't get paint over all the other freshly painted things drying too slowly in a too-small room, cleaning up with paint thinner and trying not to pass out, removing stray paint from…well, from most everything in sight because I kind of suck at painting, or more properly I'm pretty good at painting but suck at paying attention to painting all the time, kind of like the way Jose Reyes and Carlos Beltran are darn fine baseball players but need to focus on taking ball four and not pulling everything. Respectively.

And it was a day for plugging up the burrows in the yard recently and probably still being used by rats who are supposed to have eaten bait and be bleeding out internally, a fate they don't really deserve except, like Marlins and Phillies and Nationals and Astros, they want to live where we want to live but we want to live there all alone, so sorry fellas. (The Jason-Emily homestead, much like Shea, is showing its age.) Not that you asked, but filling rat burrows is a loathsome task best left to structural engineers, and not liberal-arts majors who know how to use Google and are tackling this task with steel wool and DAP and cement patch and hardware cloth and loose dirt, applied in somewhat random order, kind of like the way the Mets construct a bullpen. (Steel wool? Feh. Send this down to Virginia. Let's see if these Koo-and-Graves brand aromatic wood shavings stop their chewing!) Sticking your fingers into the darkness of subterranean rat burrows to shove in agglomerations of rodent-inconveniencing stuff is a close-your-eyes-and-bite-your-lip-horrible task I'd rather not ever do again, kind of like a West Coast swing. (Say, what's on the calendar next w– oh, shit. Didn't we just go there?) Oh, and throw in a bunch of hoofing back and forth to the hardware store on the other side of the neighborhood, replacing the wrong tool with the right tool, getting more paint, and generally being infuriatingly inefficient while not finding anyone else to blame for it. Kind of like yo-yoing endlessly around .500.

Well, that was my dreamworld, with the paint- and rat-fearing mind seeking escape in idle thought about the Mets. Because everywhere I went, there were Gary and Howie riding shotgun. Goofing on Koo's interpreter, as you noted. Offering hosannas to Cliff Floyd for introducing “courtesy run” to the lexicon. Reminding us that Greg Maddux's first start was against a 1986 post-clinch team of JV Mets, with the varsity sleeping off a deservedly long night. Noting that Lee Mazzilli, John Gibbons and Terry Francona, AL East managers present and very recent, played in that game. Keeping you thinking and laughing and nodding as they always do. (I caught a very little of FOX, including being patronized by a talking cartoon baseball, which made playing blindman's bluff with the biting end of Norway rats seem briefly less terrible.)

Sometimes I wonder if I'd love baseball on the radio as much if I hadn't been spoiled for so many years by Murph, and Gary, and now by Gary and Howie. Probably not — but then again, to me baseball and radio were made for each other. It's a long season and each game is pretty long too — too long for even an uber-fan to stop his or her life for every game, too long to pay laser-like attention to every inning. But you don't need to: Once you've got the game down to where you can translate the word picture painted for you, you can go about your business with the game whispering in your ear. And, really, isn't that what it does anyway, whether or not there's a game unfolding over the airwaves? Every day of every year, whether you're wondering about the rest of the schedule or if Pedro could win 20 or how the hell Benitez could have walked friggin' Paul O'Neill or if Fonzie will ever come back or how they let Vince Coleman hit Doc with a golf club or when you'll next see a game as amazing as the 10-run inning or if Lastings Milledge is the real thing or what Mike Phillips is doing right now or when we'll see blueprints of the new park or how many up Houston is, the game is whispering in your ear. Whether you're running errands or at work or looking numbly out the window at the snow, there's the game.

I hear we've even got one tomorrow. Night game. Zambrano vs. Zambrano, ain't that funny? Looper'll be rested, that's good. Minky should be back in there — another good day and he might have to shave his head. Think Reyes can extend his streak? Think we can sweep? And hey, have you looked at the wild-card standings tonight?

Can't wait to hear how it unfolds.

Ever have one of those days that feels perfectly normal while it's in progress but is totally bleeping surreal once you take a step back from it?

I went to the game today. I have the ticket stub to prove it. The Mets won 2-0. It's in my Log, so I'm duck positive it happened. But everything about it, which proceeded in seemingly ordinary fashion, may have actually taken place in the corners of my subconscious.

Consider:

• I only get a few hours of sleep and relentlessly hit my snooze button until 11:47 so I come close to missing my 12:15 train. (I'm usually up and at 'em when a game is on the line but today I rush like Reyes to get ready).

• Despite worrying that I would cut it close, I find the time to get all three of my papers, including the last Newsday at the convenience store next to the train station (I'm always dreaming about stores selling out of newspapers; it's also worth noting that the Saturday edition of Newsday is a little hard to come by because they try to push an early Sunday version that I have no use for…and I got the last one).

• I'm on the 12:15 with my plan working to a tee — get off at Jamaica and board the train that immediately follows to Woodside, just as I've done several times before this season. Except it's the 11:15 that has a Woodside train trailing behind it; if I wait for the Woodside connection at Jamaica now, I'll be very late in meeting my friend who has the tickets — it's an uncharacteristic commuting mistake, the kind I deep down fear making.

• So I get off at Jamaica and search out the E to Roosevelt Ave./74th St. (something I've never done for a Mets game) where I figure I'll get the 7 to Shea.

• On that E, I'm sitting and reading that Newsday when a pregnant woman steps on and seems to have nowhere to sit. Years ago I read an article in which one expectant mother after another complained that nobody on the subway has the manners to give up a seat. Since then, I've always remained on the lookout for a with-child passenger and today, on a train I had no intention of being on, here's my opportunity. I scoot over. She smiles. My good intentions are rewarded.

• When the E gets to Roosevelt, I wind my way up to the 7 platform (often wondered about connecting this way but had never done it before; it seems to take forever).

• The 7 arrives and the first thing I notice is someone in a Chicago Bears jersey with a name I don't recognize: TERRELL. Then I see a Cubs t-shirt with RAMIREZ 16 on the back. There's even a girl wearing shades and affecting the Ditka look. I see far more Cubs fans than Mets fans. This is displaced déjà vu to last September when I arrived at Shea for what would become The Victor Diaz Game and was overwhelmed by how many Chicagoans had alighted in Flushing. It was spooky then and it is spooky now.

• As we hit Shea, it is inching toward game time. I told my friend I'd meet her around 1 and it's nearly 1:15. I had wanted to swing by the advance ticket window but realize I will have to wait (everybody from Dorothy to Toto has had the dream of being thisclose to a desired destination but not quite making it).

• I meet my friend and she's wearing a black Mets cap from the 2000 World Series and a navy t-shirt that says CHICAGO on the front and MADDUX 31 on the back. Tell me that's not weird.

• My friend reveals she's carrying a Mets shirt to change into once Greg Maddux leaves the game. Tell me that's not weird.

• She has these tickets because her brother got them through work this week. Her brother has the exact same name, first and last, as one of my oldest friends in the world, someone I rarely hear from but did this week because he invited Stephanie and me to a barbecue — which I had to decline because I'm going to a baseball game at the very same time he's lighting his coals…with tickets supplied by somebody with the same name as his.

• We go through the turnstiles and they're handing out Mets binders to kids, but not us, another dreamlike disappointment. What makes it stranger is instead of merely ignoring me, the girl who's handing them out tells me to enjoy the game. I reflexively say “thank you” and she cheerily says “you're welcome!” Now could that really happen at Shea?

• Our seats are on Field Level. Now it's totally a dream because I've been to eleven games this season and every one of them has had me in Mezzanine. Not only is it Field Level, but it's as close to home plate — aligning with the pitcher's mound on the first base side — as I've been in years. Plus, it's in the second-to-last row of boxes, so it's a view I haven't really seen of Shea. After 300-plus games, there aren't too many of those.

• We arrive just as the game is starting. There are lots of people surrounding us but nobody seems all that interested in the Mets. There are scattered applause for the Cubs, but it's nothing like last September. These people just aren't into baseball. They're talking on cell phones and yakking about their jobs and playing with their hair. There's this one woman in particular who's squawking like a barnyard bird about everything but the Mets. She sounds like this horrible person named Myra we used to work with. My friend makes me all the more aware of these people by pointing out how annoying they are but for some reason it doesn't bother me that much. Strange, I'm usually sensitive to non-Mets talk at Mets games.

• My friend in the Maddux shirt and the Mets cap won't quite root for the Mets but won't quite root against them as they build a run in the first. She seems to be on both sides of the aisle but without a foot planted firmly in either. Not too many people root the way she does.

• She hands me something from her bag. It's a plastic cup that with a holographic image of the 2004 World Series trophy, and the cup says the Red Sox are World Champions. What's this doing at Shea? Wait, there's something in the cup. It's a t-shirt (oddly, the second time this week that somebody has thoughtfully given me a t-shirt at Shea). It says YANKEES CHOKED: WORST COLLAPSE IN SPORTS HISTORY! I get a big kick out of it. She tells me she got both of these items at Fenway Park. Huh? We're at Shea Stadium. How does a person just go to Fenway Park? She explains that she went with a friend from Minnesota. Minnesota? What an odd state to bring up. They went to see the Twins and the Red Sox. The Twins? But we're Mets fans. What are you talking about? For the rest of the game, she peppers her running commentary on the game and the annoying people around us with what Twins fans think and say and such. I must be imagining this. My friend is a Mets fan. I mean she's a Cubs fan. But now she's telling me about Bert Blyleven and Michael Cuddyer…and Fenway Park!. It's so weird!

• Jae Seo is pitching for the Mets. Jae Seo? I last saw him at RFK Stadium. He isn't even on the team anymore, is he? Why am I dreaming about Jae Seo? But Jae Seo is pitching brilliantly. He's outpitching Greg Maddux. For a while, he doesn't give up a hit to anyone except to Greg Maddux. (How freaky!) And then Greg Maddux steals a base on Jae Seo. (How freakier!) When Jae Seo finishes another strong inning, the DiamondVision shows a whole section of fans waving ThunderStix with Korean writing on them. (How freakiest! I remember seeing those the only other time I was here for a Jae Seo start, but where did all those ThunderStix suddenly come from?)

• Aramis Ramirez, the guy whose shirt was being worn on the 7 train, fouls off one of Jae's pitches. It's coming back toward us. It's landing in the Loge boxes above us and some guy is about to catch it in his glove, but he drops it and it falls in behind us. Who should get it but that squawking Myra woman? She immediately starts babbling about how she needs to get it autographed or it should come autographed or something. OK, this is too bizarre. It HAS to be a dream.

• I suddenly realize I'm on the Field Level, an area that always seems so forbidden when I'm in Mezzanine. I want to get something to eat, but not just anything because I know they must sell really special food on this level. So I get up to walk around and see what's available. I find the Daruma stand. It's the one that has Japanese food. I love Japanese food! It's my favorite! I remember this place from seasons past. It used to be in the right field food court. Then it was in the “international” food court in left field. Now it's just standing by itself. Hmmm… I look at the menu and the prices are all obscene, except for one. The Bento is $10. I love Bento boxes! Who'd have thought they'd have them at Shea? So I ask the lady for one. I expect it to come out from a refrigerator, but she just hands me the one that's on the counter and tries to interest me in some shumai. I decline and take my Bento, worried that it's been sitting out too long.

• I bring the Bento Box back to my seat and my friend warns me that I may have made a bad choice given my delicate constitution. She may be right, I think. I'm always choosing the wrong thing to eat at the ballpark. I always regret it. But I say, no, Japanese food has never steered me wrong before. Yeah, she says, but it's Shea. Hmmm…

• I start to eat the contents very fast. It's a very unusual Bento Box. It has a big chunk of salmon. I don't notice any chopsticks (which I can't use anyway) and I didn't think to ask for a fork, so I start to eat the salmon with my hands. I start to eat everything — some fried chickeny thing, some vegetables, some grapes (what are grapes doing in a Bento?) — with my hands. And I eat fast because although we are in the second to last row of this section and it's now 3 o'clock, the sun is suddenly beating down and I'm beginning to worry about the salmon and everything going bad in the heat. I finish quickly and my friend hands me a tiny bottle of Purell, that hand-sanitizing lotion. I pour a little on my hands but she tells me to use a lot, that she has two big bottles at home. I don't ever recall discussing Purell at a baseball game. Or using Purell.

• As I shove the mostly empty box back in the bag, I find a fork was in there the whole time. Where did that come from?

• Although the Mets are winning 2-0 and Jae Seo is beating the great Greg Maddux, all I can think about is how I may have made a terrible mistake in eating what I ate. I just want the game to be over. All at once I hate all the people my friend hates. The Myra woman. The hair twirler. The cell talkers. There's a guy a few rows ahead of us wearing a Piazza shirt and he gets up every few minutes to stretch which blocks my friend's view of Greg Maddux warming up. She points this out each time he gets up. Then she shows me the shirt she brought to replace her Maddux shirt is a Piazza shirt. And Mike isn't even playing.

• “Look,” she says. “Fred Wilpon is throwing Cracker Jack to the fans from his luxury box.” And he is. What is Fred Wilpon doing in my dream?

• I can't concentrate on any of this anymore. I have to wash my hands and get more water. Both will keep me from getting sick. I take my radio with me. Dae-Sung Koo is replacing Jae Seo. Koo? The guy who didn't pitch for two weeks is now pitching every day? HUH? Gary Cohen says something about how the Mets' Korean interpreter, a man named Lee, is sure to be a busy man after the game. Who is Gary talking about? Lee? Like Carlos Lee? Derrek Lee? Usually you clear things up, Gary. Now you're just confusing me.

• I wash my hands and drink my water. I feel a little less anxious, a little less restless. Koo gets an out but with Derrek Lee due up, Willie replaces him with Roberto Hernandez, appearing for the first time since pitching so poorly earlier this week. Out of nowhere, one guy in our section, a section notoriously not interested in the Mets, stands up. He's wearing a blue Mets cap and he too looks a little like Ditka. He starts screaming at Willie to not bring in Hernandez, that he stinks. And in a manner I can't imagine I would affect in real life, I start passively-aggressively yelling back ostensibly at nobody but essentially at him: “JESUS CHRIST! HOW CAN YOU GET DOWN ON ROBERTO HERNANDEZ? HE HAD A BAD WEEK? WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” I'm completely incensed. Even the Myra woman notices my shouting but that guy doesn't. Regardless, I don't get this way.

• Hernandez strikes out Derrek Lee. He preserves the lead so Seo can still get the win. I take a few steps down from my seat so I can be parallel to the guy who was yelling at Willie and I start screaming “NICE CALL WILLIE!” Truly, I don't do that sort of thing.

• Braden Looper works a 1-2-3 ninth and the game ends, but the dreamlike quality of the afternoon doesn't end with the win. I now insist to my friend that we have to go to the advance ticket window. It's been in the back of my mind all afternoon. I was going to buy tickets for one game, but now decide to do it for two — one of them is Umbrella Night, something the Mets haven't held in years. Our tickets to today's game, the one we just saw, include Diamond Club passes. We've never been to the Diamond Club, not really. Just earlier this week I wrote something about the Mets Hall of Fame and how it's near the Diamond Club but I say, no, we have to go the advance ticket window now. After games, it's become my custom to make haste to the subway so I can get to Woodside. Today that would be helpful because Stephanie will be taking a train home from the city and if I play my cards right, I can meet up with her and we can go home together. But no, the advance ticket window is more important than anything. I must go there now!

• There are two lines when we get there. One is long. One is short. The long line is filled with Cubs fans. We get on the short line. The short one moves quickly but just before I get to the window, my friend points out Fred Wilpon again. He's leaving through the executive entrances and is being escorted to his limo. Two Fred Wilpon sightings in one day — two more than I've had in my entire life up to now?

• I buy two pairs of tickets, one for Umbrella Night and one for the night before. It's tremendously discounted. Seriously, there's an LIRR discount. And now I have to go to the LIRR. I have to get on the 7 and get to Woodside and reach my wife and see if there's any way we can go home together. Yet I don't move all that fast because I don't want to deal with the clock. I didn't want to deal with the clock when I was supposed to wake up and I don't want to deal with it now even though the railroad runs on a tight schedule.

• We get to the 7 and get on a car that is to the right of where I almost always make sure to get on when I'm going to Woodside. I try to grab us two seats but can only find one. I give it to my friend. When she gets off at 74th St. (where I got on earlier for the first time ever), I'm about to sit down in that seat but see a woman who, except for not being pregnant and being older, looks like the woman I scooted over for on the way to 74th St. earlier today. So I say, “please, sit down,” and she does. She's wearing a blue Mets cap adorned with all sorts of Mets pins. I start to tell her how much I admire her collection. She tells me all about it, how she changes them constantly. I ask if she takes out the pins for the players who have been traded. She says yes, except for Tom Seaver and Darryl Strawberry. The I start telling her that I have a pin collection but it's in a frame. I'd tell her more, but I have to get off. Woodside is here.

• At Woodside, I look at my watch. My guess is Stephanie is on a train that is about to leave Penn Station. I will call her in a few minutes. But before that, I'm going to leave the station and go across the street to get some ice cream at Baskin-Robbins. I've never done that in Woodside but I reason that if there's any problem from the Bento Box (and none has revealed itself) that ice cream will soothe it. Did I mention I'm wearing my 1997 ice cream cap — the style modeled by Bernard Gilkey and John Olerud if you scroll down far enough — for the fifth game in a row that I've gone to and the Mets have won all five and now I'm buying ice cream in Woodside instead of being upstairs on the platform? That same friend who was with me today, incidentally, was with me the day I bought the cap more than eight years ago.

• I choose Rocky Road. One scoop. I get back on the escalator to the LIRR. It's a long ride. I stake out a space on the platform, finish the ice cream and call Stephanie. It rings several times before she answers. She is indeed on a 4:36 out of Penn Station. It's about 4:42. I tell her where I am and that I'm waiting for a 4:50. I also tell her that her train should probably whiz by me any minute. It does. She tells me she can see me and she waves to me. But I can't see her. Hey, I say, I know — instead of you going home now and me coming home later, get off at Jamaica and I'll meet you there. Sit in that spot where we sat a couple of Sundays ago when we took the Wolfs to the game. It will be great! She agrees to do so.

• I briefly turn my radio back on. A caller to WFAN is going on about the 1992 World Series between the Blue Jays and the Phillies (it was 1993) and how the Phillies let Wild Bill pitch so much (it was Wild Thing) and his point was that pitching coaches like this guy on the Mets, Anderson (Peterson) don't know what they're doing. I shut off the radio.

• The 4:50 comes to Woodside. I get out my ten-trip ticket. I remember that earlier, because I got off at Jamaica for the E, they never punched that trip a second time. This means if I can avoid a conductor, I can save a trip, so to speak. It becomes the most important concern in my world at this moment. But shortly before Jamaica, they call for Woodside tickets. I reluctantly give in to the system. Then, moments before we arrive, another conductor shows up and asks for the ticket again. No, I say, you already got me. (They never ask for a ticket twice between Woodside and Jamaica.)

• I get off at Jamaica. I'm making my way to where I told Stephanie to wait for me. As I approach the escalator, I see two people. They're not Korean. But they're holding those Korean ThunderStix.

• I come up the escalator. As it rises, who do I see sitting and reading a book but my beautiful wife. It's the best sight I've seen all day in the least likely place. She and I have been through Jamaica countless times in our lives together and separately but never have we decided to meet like this. It's so new. It doesn't seem real, but it is.

• And we head home and get home and here I am, only now noticing how surreal a seemingly normal day can feel sometimes.

Especially the part about Looper working a 1-2-3 ninth.

It was the ninth inning and to be honest I wasn't paying that much attention. We seemed to have it in the bag (which I understand is different from having it in the bag, but it felt OK) and the only mystery remaining was to see who would be pitching the final frame. I was delighted that the starter had preserved the bullpen even though he gave up five runs. Not a terrible night to give up five runs, so I was feeling good about things where that was concerned.

I glanced up at the screen and saw a lefty delivering the ball and as he lunged forward, I saw a 7 on his back. He induced a tapper back to the mound from Jeromy Burnitz, which was a delightful first out. I said to the screen, in appreciation, “way to go, Tommy…”

Tommy?

Did I just say what I think I said? Did I refer to the icy and eternally detestable presence known as Tom Glavine in terms both familiar and indicative of endearment? Did I just call Thomas Michael Glavine “Tommy”?

I don't believe what I just heard.

Technically, I had just called Dae-Sung Koo “Tommy” — told ya I wasn't paying close attention — but the reality of the situation is I have, after 2-2/3 grudging years, accepted Tom Glavine as a Met.

I tried to wriggle out of it. I tried to morph “Tommy” into “Tommyister Koo!” but it was no use. I've finally given up. I no longer hate Tom Glavine the Met. I still disdain Tom Glavine the Brave and everything he did on the field and off it while he was One Of Them, but I can't hold history above the present day any longer. I have neither the energy nor the luxury to keep spitting at a relatively dependable starting pitcher who plies his trade for New York's National League franchise.

This has been developing all year. In 2003, I couldn't look at him. In 2004, I couldn't argue with his making the All-Star team but I didn't exactly embrace it. When he had that cab accident I sort of felt sorry for him but only as a human being, not as a Met. And as documented here from time to time, I've been to slow through 2005 to unclench my jaw over the concept of Tom Glavine identifying himself as One Of Us.

What paved the road to acceptance was my businesslike approach to the whole thing. A couple of months ago, I decided we needed the best Tom Glavine we could get. His goals and our goals were largely mutual. What do I care if he gets 300 wins? I mean that in the sense of why should I mind if he ties Burleigh Grimes for thirtieth place all-time with his 270th victory as he did last night? W's for him are also W's for us.

Eureka!

So I stopped rooting against Tom Glavine and started rooting for him. First nominally. Then sincerely, if not terribly enthusiastically. When he'd fall apart, I could always lean on the crutch of “aaah, it's Glavine, whad'ya expect?” But you can only relish somebody's failures in your favorite laundry for so long before you realize how counterproductive it is.

Of late, there is little to complain about where Tom Glavine's pitching is concerned. Since the second half commenced, he has turned in an admirable start every time out. Friday night's was not hot stuff on paper (8 IP, 5 ER) but it was just what was required for a game when we scored nine and needed to keep Roberto from telling Willie how good he felt.

Tom Glavine did the job for the Mets. He helped get us a win, a commodity we'd lacked since Tuesday.

Way to go, guy wearing 47 in the home pinstripes.

It's only a long season if you don't break it into shorter ones. Thus, the idea behind our co-opting of Joe Gergen's old Short Season Awards concept. He did it in the early '80s for Newsday when strikes loomed early in the year. We did it for the first sixth of the season and liked it so much, we decided to treat each sixth of the season as a unit — a small unit — unto itself.

(For those of you who missed the fun the first three times around, check out the first, second and third sixths.)

Enough ancient history. On to some recent history. The short season in question is the fourth sixth of the 2005 season, encompassing games 82 (July 4) through 108 (August 4). The abbreviated time span allows us absolutely no perspective, which is what makes it fun.

Kings Of Queens

1. Pedro Martinez: His shoulders aren't even sagging after carrying this team every five days for four months.

2. Mike Piazza: BOOOOOOO…we mean YEAAAAAAA. Who's fickle?

3. Ramon Castro: Nice of him to let Mike play once in a while.

4. Jose Reyes: Is there anything this kid can't do? Besides get on base a lot?

5. David Wright: He completed his first year in the big leagues as if he were a six-year veteran.

Flushing Flounderers

1. Carlos Beltran: Seriously, you were a starter in the All-Star Game? Which year? This year? REALLY?

2. Kaz Ishii: Curse you Rube Walker and your vile five-man rotation.

3. Roberto Hernandez: He pitches like an overworked 40-year-old in 95-degree heat.

4. Braden Looper: His ERA, which started at infinity on Opening Day, dipped below 3.00 for the first time since June 23 on August 2. And bounced right back up the next night.

5. Cliff Floyd: Even Monstas need to recharge their batteries.

Topics Recently Relevant But No More

1. Should we trade for Manny?

2. Should we trade for Soriano?

3. Should we trade washed-up Mike to some unwitting American League stooge team?

4. Should we hail the Nationals on their unstoppable march to the playoffs?

5. Should we clear our schedules for October?

Unassailable Facts That Have Revealed Themselves

1. We're suddenly unbeatable on Sundays (4-0).

2. We're just as suddenly impossible to lose to on Fridays (0-4).

3. Willie doesn't have confidence in 29% of his bullpen.

4. Trade rumors get under players' skin.

5. The Mets don't like games west of the Mississippi (2-5 lately, 3-10 overall)

In Vogue

1. Curtain Calls

2. Pinch-Hitting

3. K Signs

4. Visits from the Padres

5. Pitchers who say they feel good and are thus allowed to pitch

Jose Reyes Nicknames

1. Tom Triplehorn

2. Do You Know The Way To Third Jose?

3. On-Reyes Percentage

4. Three Times Fast (JoseReyesJoseReyesJoseReyes)

5. David Geddes (run Josey run Josey run…)

Six Feet Under Episode Titles Most Pertinent To The Mets' Situation

1. Ecotone (where two worlds overlap, such as being at or around .500 and in the wild card race)

2. Falling Into Place (in our case, last)

3. Out, Out Brief Candle (remember when we were 3-1/2 back?)

4. A Coat of White Primer (which is all we could've realistically expected from the trade deadline)

5. I'm Sorry, I'm Lost (poor Victor)

Scarier Than Any Six Feet Under Death Scene

1. That ninth inning in Pittsburgh

2. The Astros' pitching

3. Carlos Lee

4. Not scoring much at Coors Field

5. “Warming up in the Mets' bullpen, No. 17…”

Ex-Mets Who Got Our Attention

1. Jeff Kent

2. Brady Clark

3. Dan Wheeler

4. Al Leiter (figures)

5. Carlos Baerga (cleanup????)

My Own Commandments That I Broke

1. Think Before You Think (I predicted a Beltran HR in the tenth the other night and compounded the sin by lending voice to thought)

2. Manage Your Quirks (I can't shut up about “my record”)

3. Don't Root For Injuries (call it the Rafael Furcal exception)

4. Sweat The Small Stuff (I stopped worrying about Brian Daubach as soon as he disappeared)

5. Believe In A Place Called Hope (after yesterday, I just don't know)

Still And All, This Stuff Ruled

1. The cast of characters, on the field and in the mezzanine concourse, that made July 14 a very special evening

2. Coming back on Milwaukee one, two, three…FOUR times Tuesday night

3. Cameron & Co. busting loose in Houston as the clock said everybody was staying

4. Sticking a pin in Washington's balloon

5. Alex Wolf is 1-0

What a difference a couple of days makes: Mike Piazza packed his bags for Denver and Houston with 390 home runs to his name, having passed some guy named Bench and drawing within sight of #400 — making his onrushing twilight cruise around the Shea harbor look like it might be one to remember very fondly. And now, hey, he was going to two of the National League's more-ludicrous parks: arena-baseball home Coors Field and Minute Maid Park with its short porch in left field. Mike could return with 393 or 394 dingers. We could return six or seven games over .500. October? Why, we can't make plans, honey. We'll still be whooping it up about #400 for Mike and watching the division series.

Of course, Mike returned home with 390 home runs. (And we went 2-5).

Maybe he just needed the challenge: #391 was one of those Piazza classics, a high, arcing moon shot that probably came down with ice crystals on it. #392 wasn't as beautiful, but it was still a line drive over the center-field fence at Shea — and one that tied up the rubber match of our series with the Brewers. (A game we'd lose, but welcome to the 2005 Mets.)

I've accepted that this team most likely has too many holes and works in progress to make October plans. OK, so be it. What I want out of this heartening, frustrating, topsy-turvy year is to see #400 sail over the wall at Shea and cheer for Michael Joseph Piazza as he puts his head down and stomps around the bases.

For psyche-up purposes, here's a list of 10 Memorable Piazza Blasts, in reverse I-got-something-in-my-eye order:

10. July 14, 2005: We may stink, but Mike — as today's game demonstrated — is not going gentle into that good night. Maybe it's that trip down to the No. 6 hole, or the days off Willie has given him. (Which have got to be good for Ramon Castro too.) Or maybe it began with this game, with someone named Blaine Boyer coming into a tie game in the 8th and throwing an 0-1 meatball to Piazza. Which a few years ago would have brought to mind the old line about the throwing of lamp chops past wolves, except age has shaved a few precious slivers of a second off Mike's reaction time, and he misses it. So — and this is the part where a sly grin creeps onto the storyteller's face — Boyer tries it again.

9. June 9, 2000: In the twisted annals of the Antichrist, this home run is a symbol, the equivalent of the railroad car in which seething Germans signed the Armistice Treaty. First game of the 2000 regular-season Subway Series at Yankee Stadium, and at this point Roger Clemens was already a psycho headhunter, but not one we had any huge personal aminus against, beyond his spray-painting his initials in Shea in October '86 (how'd that turn out, Rocket?) and the general affront to humanity that he represented. In the third inning of an 0-0 game, Jason Tyner (remember him?) reached on a Posada error and Clemens walked Bell and Alfonzo. BOOM! and it's a grand slam over the center-field fence, into that annoying stretch of Yankee Stadium batter's-eye bleachers. 4-0 Mets, and it got even better after that, until Torre finally came to get the Antichrist in the sixth with the good guys up 9-2. Whereupon reptilian urges to murder started to crawl through the slightly swelled nodule of spinal cord huddled somewhere inside Roger Clemens' skull. We know the rest, from the beaning in the Worst Doubleheader Ever to Todd Pratt looking crazed as Hampton avenged Big Mike to the splintered bat to Shawn Estes winning the war (aided by another Piazza home run) but losing the battle to last year's All-Star Game. But it all started here. Oh, and fuck Roger Clemens.

8. May 16, 2004: Revenge is a dish best force-fed at scalding temperatures while your enemy screams and begs, but failing that, the important thing is he winds up eating it. When Clemens unretired to play for Houston, the whole beaning/bat/Estes brouhaha got revived and moved to the NL. Clemens had won his first seven starts of the year and looked ready to win #8, striking out 10 in seven scoreless innings and even collecting an RBI single. (Just to annoy us, it scored Jeff Kent.) Mike, meanwhile, went 0 for 2 with a walk against the Rocket. Two outs on the ninth, down 2-0, Valent on second, Piazza as the tying run against old friend Octavio Dotel. 1-2 count — but wait! There it goes! We've got a brand-new shiny one! Which turned into one of those rusty grinding one until finally Jason Phillips won it in the 13th, making for a not-perfect but still quite satisfying day. (Strange how this is a somewhat shrunken copy of another Mets-Astros game to be discussed in a moment.)

7. April 28, 1999: I was at this game with two friends — Danielle, a Met fan through and through, and Tim, a neutral along for the ride who happened to be a former college-baseball player. I remember that it was cold, though that might be the memory of Armando blowing a 2-1 lead in the 8th. In came Trevor Hoffman, and the kind of muttering associated with seeing the hanging judge march into his courtroom in a particularly foul mood. Two out, one on, Piazza at the plate. CRACK! and Tim is up and out of his seat before the ball even clears the second baseman's head. “That's gone!” he yells as the rest of us in the mezzanine are just starting to get our bearings. And so it is. Guess sometimes watching something really isn't a substitute for doing it. Bobbing out of Shea on the outgoing tide of happy fans, I'm just marveling at how five seconds can turn a cold night with scattered Benitezness into a great night.

6. June 17, 2001: The Yankees had beaten us in the first two games of the Shea leg of the Subway Series, and it was beginning to dawn on us that the irritating drawbacks of the 2001 team weren't some passing thing. 7-2 Yankees, eighth inning, and we look as dead as dead can look. Ventura reaches on an error by Derek Jeter — Schadenfreudish snickers. McEwing HBP. Relaford RBI single makes it 7-3. Ordonez walks, causing thousands of fans to pinch, punch and set fire to themselves to confirm such a thing really happened. Mark Johnson strikes out. Randy Choate exits for someone named Carlos Almanzar. Agbayani singles to make it 7-5. Hope lifts its weary head, looks around, blinks, sees Yankees, awaits execution. Shinjo hits a grounder, slides into first to demonstrate that this thing about Japanese players and good fundamentals is a myth — but isn't doubled up. Ordonez scores: It's 7-6 with two outs and Piazza striding to the plate. Hope begins to scamper about wildly, still pretty sure it's gonna get its head bashed in with a shovel, but what the heck. On an 1-0 pitch, Mike destroys an Almanzar pitch for an 8-7 lead and the salvation of our honor. Hope does a drunken jig, goes into the fetal position when Armando tries his hardest to blow the save, begins dancing again when he somehow doesn't.

5. Sept. 16, 1998: The one day we all thought the idea of Mike Piazza behind the plate and Todd Hundley in left field might work. Having been muzzled by Mike Hampton, we had to face Billy Wagner in the ninth, down 2-0. Two outs, one on and Piazza connected — a jaw-dropper of a drive that paved the way for Hundley's pinch-hit shot in the 11th. The postgame interview was startlingly awkward — rarely have two players on the same team standing so close together seemed so far apart — but no matter. It meant a series win against the Astros, who were running away with the NL Central, and left us just a game behind the Cubs in the loss column for the wild card. (Great series: The previous day we lost when Derek Bell led off the 12th with a dinger off Jeff Tam, a terrific game that just ended up wrong.) We had all sorts of wild thoughts about a Piazza/Hundley combo that turned out to be silly. But after this, you made sure you were at your station in front of the TV if Mike Piazza was batting. Phone ringing? Watch the game, dummy. Gotta pee? Watch the game, dummy. Just spontaneously combusted and should really get to a New York Hospital? Watch the game, dummy. Can't you see who's at the plate?

4. July 10, 1999: One of those days that makes newcomers into baseball fans, and that stopped a city. It's the Matt Franco game, the 9-8 win with Rey Rey leaping in the coach's box and Mariano finding out that an 0-2 strike doesn't always end things. (Next time you're cursing Angel Hernandez, which every Met fan should do at least weekly, stop and have a kind word for Jeff Kellogg.) The friggin' Yankees hit six home runs: two by Posada, two by O'Neill, one by Ledee, one by Knoblauch. Big whoop: None of them went 482 feet, bouncing off the tent in the picnic area. No matter what team you rooted for, you talked about the one Mike Piazza hit off Ramiro Mendoza. Hell, dogs who saw it got up on their hind legs and began howling in terrified awe. Later in the day, Brandi Chastain was so moved by the memory of it that she tore off clothing after some other sporting event. Six home runs? Feh. Those weren't home runs. When a well-struck baseball makes dogs howl, tents buckle and women spontaneously undress, that's a home run.

3. October 19, 1999: Sure, this one ended with Kenny Rogers making like Julio Santana against Andruw Jones, igniting a simmering rage in the Gambler that would finally find release six years later against the nation's cameramen. More ups and downs than a thousand rollercoasters, but no up was up-er than Piazza — playing with one thumb, for Chrissakes — bashing a John Smoltz pitch over the fence to right-center in the seventh to make it 7-7. That one shot erased all the horror and frustration that built up in watching the Grand Slam Single victory curdle into a 5-0 hole with Leiter not recording an out. Sure, Franco would fail and Benitez would fail and finally Kenny would throw Ball Four, but it was Piazza who erased the hurt and the rage and ensured we'd walk away defeated, but proud nonetheless.

2. June 30, 2000: We've written about it before. We'll write about it again. It's rivaled only by the Grand Slam Single as the most-emotional game I've been lucky enough to attend — I have an MP3 of the climax of the 10-run inning that I still listen to every so often, grinning like a damn fool as Alfonzo comes up with us down 8-6 and the crowd finally daring to believe. The night before had been John Rocker's return, with pleas for sportsmanship and cops everywhere and us losing, so the pasting we were taking the next night was doubly depressing. So Mulholland pitches to Piazza with the score tied and 50,000+ baying and it was like somehow Mike knew that there was no need for unnecessary drama. First pitch, WHAM! on a line out by the retired numbers, and Todd Pratt's leaping over the dugout rail and even Piazza can't go around the bases stoically on this one, pumping his fist in un-Mike-like jubilation. Leaping up and down in the stands I thought I might be having a heart attack and briefly paused, then decided I didn't particularly care and started leaping around again, because how, really, could life get much better than this?

1. Sept. 21, 2001: A wounded city, a shocked nation. It seemed childish and even callous to talk of baseball, and 41,000+ streamed into Shea tense, frightened, wondering if we were there to watch a baseball game or just huddle up together until we figured out what the hell we were supposed to do next. We stood silent during a 21-gun salute, cheered for cops and firefighters and emergency responders and soldiers and even for Braves, who broke out of file along the third-base line to shake hands and trade hugs with Mets. And then Diana Ross and Marc Antony and Rudy Giuliani and finally a baseball game — a taut, terrific baseball game on a night we would have forgiven the two teams a half-awake mess. Which almost felt like a shame, because at first it was difficult to focus on the game that night, to settle into its rhythms and greet it with the enthusiasm it deserved. To my astonishment, it was Liza Minnelli — in my mind a generation-ago joke — who first broke through to us in the seventh-inning stretch. She chirped how happy she was to be there, and up in the mezzanine I remember we kind of eyed each other, then shook our heads as she assembled an impromptu kick line of firefighters and policemen to accompany her for “New York, New York.” It didn't seem appropriate, this happy show-bizzy playing to the cheap seats. But on second thought the firefighters and cops didn't seem to mind, and if they didn't, who were we to object? And no sooner had I thought that than I realized she was singing the heck out of the old chestnut, making it bittersweet and urgent, and by the halfway point we were all 41,000+ singing along feeling the same way, and we ended it roaring as Liza found a way to make it hard-fought and triumphant. (And then Benitez let in the go-ahead run, and hey, that was old and familiar, so we could get used to grousing again. Armando, he always did his part.) Bottom of the 8th, down 2-1, Steve Karsay (a Queens boy) on the mound, and Alfonzo coaxes a one-out walk. And here's Mike, 0-1 count, and he connects for an absolute no-doubter over the center-field fence, and in that second we were plunged back into pure baseball, into the joy and euphoric release it can bring. We weren't going to forget about bigger things — that would be impossible. But with that swing, Mike made it OK to lose ourselves in baseball once more, gave us permission to turn a little thing like who won or lost a baseball game into a big thing again.

Thanks, Mike — for those and all the others. Now how aboout eight more, memorable or not, to discuss before we bring the blue-and-orange curtain down?

Done.

Very done.

Don't mean well done.

Done like Mazz.

Mets lose.

Mets suck.

Lots this time.

Such bull.

Can't take this game.

Can't bear this game, even.

They suck!

They also blow like wind amid that logy Shea heat.

When they lose, they look very bush.

Brew Crew? Phew!

Also, evil.

Mets? Lame.

Damn noon game.

Long, damn noon game.

Mark-tyin' long, damn noon game.

Bert gave back five runs.

That hurt.

Real hurt. Isn't fake. Ride that pony?

Sure, Skip. Sure…

Ouch.

Hope seem just 'bout gone this year?

Yeah. Very gone.

Let's face that fact just once.

Pity.

Have some good news?

Bits.

Like Mike.

This Mike? That Mike?

Both. They went deep, each shot very nice, very long.

Many RBIs.

Jose kept goin'. Base hits each game. Good stat.

Much else?

Nope.

Same auld same auld.

Crud!

Lots.

Wild Card?

Back five. Plus half.

'Stro roll goes, goes…they just keep goin' also.

When this year gets late, will they then stop?

Will they ever stop? Will they ever lose?

'Stro wins…ever more 'Stro wins.

They don't lose much. Even some.

We're just goin' down.

Some days suck more than some.

This game more than most.

Don't know what else will come.

'Cept Mets play them Cubs next. Must-wins. Each game.

Then, like…what?

Wish? Pray?

Word.

Have hope. Can't ever tell when we're done.

Ain't over till true end's here.

That damn math just don't look very good.

Plus this damn team don't feel very able.

Good gosh, we're last.

Damn.

Just damn.

Ciao.

Well, they weren't saying “LOOOOO” tonight.

Still, the fans were booing the wrong guy. Looper was clearly tired before he even arrived, with no life on his fastball. Not a big surprise after throwing 35 pitches last night in melting-lead August heat. By the same token, Roberto Hernandez (40 years old, 34 pitches last night, a lot of mileage this season) should be given a pass, considering the home run he gave up to Carlos Lee (known to hit a few) was just the third he's surrendered all year.

So how about the manager? Well, no, not in my book. Sure, there are lots of second-guesses to be made: Should Pedro have stayed in? I vote no: Not when apparently he's still healing, he's somewhat fragile, and it's August. (But a mild boo for Pedro for saying he never questions a manager's decision but felt like he could have finished, which is just Glavinesque syntax for questioning a manager's decision.) Should someone else have been in there for the 8th or 9th? Well, that's obvious now — but who? (Though enough with the idea that relievers are assumed to be ready to go unless they tell the manager otherwise. This is pro sports — guys don't beg out, even when they should.)

So should other guys have been pitching last night, when Looper and Hernandez's tanks got drained so thoroughly that they were close to “E” tonight? Again, who? The only guys we didn't see last night were Dae-Sung Koo and Danny Graves, and that was just fine with us, as I recall. Willie doesn't trust them. Neither do I. Neither do you. Neither does any sane Met fan, nor most of the insane ones.

Ah, but those two names make me think I see the person who should be booed. And it's not Carlos Beltran, though his season is edging perilously close to debacle status and he didn't run hard on the final out, which is certainly an offense worthy of leather-lunged punishment, even if the rest ain't. No, it's somewhere higher. Up past the dugout, the field boxes, the loge…there we are.

Hello, Omar Minaya.

For some time I've talked of Koo and Graves as dead roster spots, though noting that since they aren't used for much of anything, it doesn't really matter. But I was wrong. It does matter — and these two nights show why. Willie was right not to go to Koo or Graves last night, but Omar was wrong for keeping them on the roster. (I'm assuming Willie doesn't have much input into these things — because if he did, why would he waste two bullpen spots?)

Neither's presence was a blunder from the get-go: I don't know anything about Koo's past, but I assume those scouts saw something, and trying to resuscitate Graves was a worthy experiment. But Koo is unreliable and Graves is all too reliable in terrible ways. Neither costs much of anything. Neither should be here. What I now realize is they're not just dead roster spots, but holes for their tired teammates to stumble into. We should be arguing about whether Willie should have saved the wear and tear on Hernandez and Looper by going to Ring or Bell or McGinley or Scobie last night. Or somebody else who might possibly have value. I don't know if any of those guys is the answer, but it's been demonstrated beyond any reasonable doubt that Koo and Graves aren't. So why are they still here, when they increase the load on everybody else at a time when everybody else can't take it? You can pin tonight's loss — and possibly more from the same mold, given that there's a lot more August on the calendar — on bad roster management. And that gets laid at Omar's feet.

It's August, and you can't play games in August with a 23-man roster.

Boy, that escalated quickly. I mean, that really got out of hand fast.

It jumped up a notch!

I've been home for quite a while now but even after a refreshing shower, I'm still shvitzing. Sweaty Shea felt that much more humid given the deficits — 3-0, 6-2, 7-4, 8-7 — that had to be surmounted along with the sense of endlessly impending disappointment that hung over The Flushing Baths all night. All parties sweated this one out. As we concurred continually throughout the four hours and twenty-eight minutes of action and conversation, this crept determinedly from “oh well, whaddaya gonna do?” to “what an absolute bitch! this will be to lose” to “ball four — yea!”

Given what today is the first anniversary of, it is indeed apropos to say the Mets won the damn thing by a score of 9 to 8.

We've certainly blown our share of damn things this season: Opening Day; Friday night in Pittsburgh; at least two Subway Series fiascos; more Braves boners than I care to remember; so on and so forth…but we haven't had a lot of victories snatched from the jaws of certain defeat. This was that, at long last. Maybe things have turned around now and switched to our side. Or maybe the Brewers really are as bad as the Brewers appear to be.

By the way, I own them. 8-0 against Milwaukee since they started coming to Shea in 1998. And 4-0 since reviving the ice cream cap the night after the break. Funny that I even bothered to worry about the outcome. (Yeah, hilarious.)

Still, that's quite the lineup the Brewers trot out there. Carlos Lee, for whom my undying devotion for hitting me a foul ball in Comiskey six years ago pretty much evaporated Tuesday night, is a serious monster. Geoff Jenkins has been bad news since Brett Hinchliffe's calamitous cameo. Weeks looks like a player. Overbay is underrated. Jose Hernandez…wait, he's not a Brewer anymore, but it felt like he was lurking in the on-deck circle all night. On the other hand, Tomo Ohka couldn't hold a lead and their bullpen was no bargain.

Not that we have a lot to brag on in terms of starting pitching. Or was that BP? Are you there God? It's me, Victor. I don't know why these things happen to me. I pitch beautifully and they don’t score for me. I pitch dreadfully and they hit all night. I'm a good pitcher God. Why do you make me feel like a Devil Ray all the time?

The Mets overcame Zambrano's uncharacteristic gopheritis thanks to a team effort. Everybody contributed. Yeah, everybody, even the centerfielder Shea was dying to embrace in response to Yahoo City, TX's treatment of him. And Carlos did drive in a run, one run being the margin of victory, so don't sneeze at it. But he also batted six times and produced eight outs. Ouch. I thought he'd foster a new era of Mets baseball. Instead, he's merely Foster. A little, anyway.

On the other hand, the rightfielder showed why Boston was interested in him. Maybe if the Red Sox had offered Ramirez and Ortiz, we would've thought about trading them Cameron, but sorry, no deal. Like Sandra Bernhard, Mike Cameron has defiantly announced, “I'm still here, damn it,” and is playing like it. Four hits including that tie-it-at-eight homer in the ninth and the just-sharp-enough liner Bill Hall couldn't handle in the eleventh. Welcome back Cammy. Glad you never left.

We can feel good about Mike C. and Mike P. and his pinch-hitting brethren and the pen that erased all of Victor's turmoil and Mister Koo getting to celebrate his birthday without being asked to pitch and Ramon Castro staking his claim to the starting job for 2006 (interesting idea you presented there). Still, not an awesome display of baseball. The teams combined to leave 26 men on base. 26 LOB! If this evening of August Angst had been March Madness, the Mets and Brewers would have been the play-in game. Having barely survived and advanced, our reward would be to take on St. Louis in a 1 vs. 16 mismatch.

But let's not be too cynical. How about that guy DiamondVision fixed on at the right field edge of loge holding up the I BELIEVE sign? If you can swim in your own perspiration, avoid drowning after being submerged on the scoreboard four separate times and come away soaked in glory, why the heck not?

Believe, that is.

“Cammy”

(as sung by Cliff Floyd, July 31, 2005)

March down in F-L-A

Skip said music couldn't play

Going mad in Port St. Hole

Till you cranked the stereo

You couldn't come north

Right field it went to

Victor, but he didn't stay

Packed him off to Triple-A

I've been hittin' bombs

But Omar's looking

One and five on this trip

We gotta start cooking, oh Cammy

Remember in Denver stop taking

Gotta put it in play, oh Cammy

On the way to Min' Maid I was shaking

Would they trade you away, oh Cammy

Now I'm standing here at the plate

Glare at Roy and feel the hate

If I charge the hill with bloodlust mounting

Will you be throwing hands

Two hours and counting, oh Cammy

Playing right is a fright I ain't faking

Don't make me change my ways, for Manny

Forgets outs and he pouts while he's jaking

Hope he stays in Fenway, oh Cammy

We're still just five out Nats falling fastest

Come on drive me in

The deadline's past us! Yo Cammy

Hey now pard the wild card's for the taking

Fifty-seven to play, oh Cammy

Well our pitchin' it's bitchin' start raking

Raise that ol' OBA, oh Cammy

Hey now pard the wild card's for the taking

Fifty-seven to play, oh Cammy

Well our pitchin' it's bitchin' start raking

Cause we need YOUUU…

(All apologies to Barry Manilow)