Alex Wolf is 1-0 lifetime at Shea Stadium. I'm 169-131 there, including the post-season, something I don't normally take into account when discussing my Log, but if the 1998 Yankees can claim 125 wins in one year (the regular schedule not nearly expansive enough to contain their self-aggrandizement), then I can stretch my truth just a bit. The point is, Sunday afternoon was my 300th game* that counted inside the big, blue thing. It was a personal statistical milestone for three reasons besides:

1) It was my tenth game of the year (6-4 in '05), marking the ninth straight season I've reached double-digits, eleventh time overall. It's been a rich, full life.

2) This was the first homestand in which I saw the Mets beat three different teams and not suffer a loss at all — one win apiece against Atlanta, San Diego and Los Angeles. Mr. Piazza homered in all three. And I resuscitated my 1997 ice cream cap for each game. If only all that mattered was lucky headgear…

3) At this moment and for the first time ever, I have a .500 or better record against every single National League opponent…except the loathsome Atlantans (12-20 when counting Game 3 of the 1999 NLCS). I have never held a winning mark versus the Braves; my best was 2-2 after a 4-3 victory on July 22, 1987. Lawdy, I hate them.

Today snapped a four-game losing streak to the Dodgers that I'd been schlepping around since 2001 (a schneid which culminated in another friend's son's far from auspicious debut) and brought me to 9-9 where they're concerned. The other night made it 7-7 against San Diego. So this homestand has been a real threading-the-needle experience in the land of Log.

I'm 12-9 against the American League at Shea — considering all Interleague foes as one jumble is the least unpleasant option vis-à-vis breaking out the records against each Junior Circuiteer, if you get my drift.

As for Game No. 300, it proved one of the most relaxing in recent memory, even given the exhilirating aftereffect of moving us to within 3-1/2 of first. Get a lead early and let Mr. Benson do the rest. It allowed me to talk Alex and his dad through any and all questions posed. Alex wanted to know what that was out there beyond right field (the Mets' bullpen); if home runs break car windows (not usually); and if that guy batting first for us was indeed the shortstop (he was). His dad was a little vague on the concept of pinch-hitting and how a pitcher gets credit for a win, but we covered that, too. They're both quick studies. Alex's mom told me she once got a pennant autographed by Tug McGraw, Tommie Agee and Cleon Jones at a store-opening. She also inferred the Dodgers were pretty lame today. I think I see where Alex gets his baseball bug from.

*It has come to my attention that the third game I ever attended, on June 28, 1975, was delayed by rain for nearly an hour-and-a-half at its start. I remember leaving, at my sister's behest (she was sure they wouldn't resume playing), during that delay but have always recalled the tarp coming out in the middle of the second inning, meaning I had to have witnessed at least a little of that affair. But what I'm remembering being stopped by the umpires, I now have to admit, was the Old-Timers Game that preceded the “real” game. That's what was interrupted by rain. Apparently I never saw any of the Mets-Phillies action in person that afternoon. The question then becomes, should it still count as part of my Log? In 1999, when you and I attended the twinight doubleheader in which Ventura hit two grand slams, we missed most of the opener. I decided then that as long as I see one pitch of a game, I can say I saw the game. Since that ruling came 24 years after the game I didn't see, I've decided 6/28/75 will remain on the books, grandfathered in prior to the '99 decision, as a game I went to. I did go to it, after all. Thus, today was indeed my 300th game, 169th win and I can continue to say — now and forever — that I was at Shea Stadium at least once when Randy Tate started. It's always been a point of pride for me. (I'm not a particularly prideful person.)

The Dodgers obviously haven't heard about our roll. That, coupled with San Diego's refusal to stay classy, allowed the Phillies to elbow us back into fourth. Plus, Clemens, the ol' evildoer himself, has Houston ahead of us for the Card that runs Wild. On the other hand, the Astros kicked Washington in the Nats; the Giants kept the clock ticking on McKeon; and Alex Cintron proved one dandy Diamondback (the Braves lost in the tenth a game they all but won in the ninth? Unpossible!). Ergo, we're still 4-1/2 back if not quite as roly-poly as we were Thursday afternoon when the world was our bag of oyster crackers.

This was a horrible, horrible game to not win. It was so much like lice, I said it twice. And really, we lost it twice. We lost it early when Victor didn't have it (no crime there, except for pitching to Kent) and we lost it later when after Beltran got us to within 6-5, Floyd, Wright and Piazza let Weaver off the hook on like five pitches. I have no witnesses, but after Zambrano left — shame on anybody who booed him and still calls him or herself a Mets fan — and Bell gave up the hit that made it 6-0, I muttered, “great, now we'll lose 6-5.” Sometimes the gift of clairvoyance is pretty annoying.

As is Merengue Night every year. I hate Merengue Night with a fiery passion. I have hated Merengue Night with a fiery passion going back to the second one. The Mets lost that night. Ya hear that, Gary Cohen? Mets PR Department? THE METS LOST ON MERENGUE NIGHT, 1998!

Sorry if I sound a bit cranky and irrelevant about this but every year Gary mentions this incredible record the Mets have posted on Merengue Night, particularly the first several, and it's just not so. I saw the press notes from which he derived this erroneous information a few years ago, so Jay Horwitz's staff isn't getting it right either. They listed the wrong date for 1998; I don't remember the date they listed but I do remember when Merengue Night actually was.

It was July 10, 1998. It was a complete Mets disaster. First off, it took place in that stretch of 1998 when almost every loss was a tear your hair out with your teeth debacle. The night before, for example, the Mets lost 9-8 in eleven; Todd Pratt was picked off second, I think, after delivering a pinch double. The game before that, right before the All-Star break, was the Angel Hernandez game. 'Nuf said.

Frustration was in the air. And the Expos were in the park. These were unvarnished Expos, not reconstituted 40% Natspos. In 1998, Montreal took eight of twelve from the Mets. The Mets finished one game behind San Francisco and Chicago for the Wild Card. The Expos' record that year was 65-97. You do the math. You think Mark Grudzielanek, Shane Andrews, F.P. Santangelo, Rondell White, Chris Widger and a couple of kids named Orlando Cabrera and Vladimir Guerrero cared that they were overmatched against the big, bad Mets?

Oui, right.

Not only were the Expos continually rising to the occasion of playing and beating the Mets but thanks to Felipe Alou, they had an unnaturally large following among New York's Dominican community, which was already sending a sizable contingent to Merengue Night. Music was the main attraction. Alou and his Dominican superstar-in-the-making rightfielder provided an opening act. And the Mets? To what must have been at least half the crowd, the home team was no better than a nuisance.

There I was, already in the throes of a bad summer of Mets-rooting. One night was more aggravating than the next. And in “my house,” I had to put up with oblivious, obnoxious strangers. Again. Two weeks after withstanding the initial invading force of Yankee fans, there were suddenly Expo fans, actual or de facto. A sizable portion of Shea was rooting against the Mets. And, worst of all, the Mets were playing to their interests by falling behind 4-0 and, after tying it in the sixth, 5-4.

The Mets fought back to take a 6-5 lead in the seventh, sparking some hope among the bare plurality that was under the odd impression that this was a Mets game. Silly us, we forgot our bandanas and flags. We came to root for the home team. But we were shouted down by Expo fans and, more gallingly, non-baseball fans. Forget what the paid attendance reads. The gates stayed open all night to accommodate a flood of showgoers. Not only did they have no interest in the game, they had no interest in finding their seats. By the ninth inning, the front row of loge reserved, where I sat, was no match for those who decided to ease on down to the field boxes for a good view of the post-game extravaganza. Those folks didn't bother with those messy ramps. They just streamed right down from the loge boxes, where blue practically meets orange, while the game was in progress.

While we poked our heads over the steadily flowing masses of Merengueans, John Franco was blowing the business at hand. Did I mention the game? Oh yes, that loss that never gets reported as part of Merengue Night lore. Leading 6-5 in the ninth, Johnny gave up three runs to the fothermucking Expos. As the Dominican flags waved in salute of the team from Canada, Uggie Urbina shut down New York in the bottom of the ninth. We lost 8-6.

The place went wild. Expos win! Merengue's starting! Mets lose their fifth in a row and ninth of their last eleven!

We didn't stay for the concert.

As my companion for the evening and I exited, turning our seats over to whoever was determined to take them, I seethed. Seethed like I never seethed before at Shea and only a few times anywhere else. In the dark concourse, I found the first thing available, an almost full bottle of Pepsi with its cap off and flung it as hard as I could at the side of a trash can. Like me, it exploded. Still cursing and still unsatisfied, I found a half-drunk cup of Budweiser. I lifted it above my head and slammed it to the ground. Most of it splashed on my pants. That cooled me off slightly, at least in terms of my instinct to raise the stakes and search out a bottle of Jack Daniels to destroy. Didn't make me feel any better though. My companion, who by this point in the evening would usually be reciting chapter and verse from his scorebook (“at least Wayne Kirby scored a run for me”) was frightened into silence. It was a good — good, being a relative term — ten minutes before he said a word to me, and when he did speak, it was to inquire into my well-being.

I attended three other Merengue Nights, all because the tickets were part of my or somebody's mini-plan. The Mets won all of them. The first one was against Sammy Sosa and the Cubs which was an even bigger sop to the Dominican community but we won, so I didn't care. The second one was secured by Timo Perez, who was cheered by all attendees given his background and uniform. By then, the Mets had established enough of an identity for themselves with New Yorkers of all heritages to be confident enough to have Merengue Night against some non-descript band of Marlins who weren't led by a Dominican icon.

Before the Mets had their first Merengue Night (which, if memory serves, came after the Mets split a doubleheader with the Dodgers in 1997, a harbinger of things to come in that Shea was packed with Dominican fans of Raul Mondesi and Korean fans of Chan Ho Park, with Mets fans of Mets from all over kind of left out), I'd never heard of the genre that was being celebrated. I have nothing against it musically. I have nothing against it culturally. I have nothing against people who seek it out.

But don't enjoy in the face of a Mets loss at Shea Stadium with so much enthusiasm seven years ago…and don't rewrite history to pretend it never happened. Because it did.

Boy, did it ever.

“If everybody doesn't write negative things about me, this will probably feel even better” — Kaz Ishii

Sorry, Ish. While everyone in the Kingdom of the Blue and Orange is extremely happy to see that “W” next to your name this morning, here comes some writing of negative things. Though you seem to have mostly gotten your wish: Many of the New York papers acted like you were the author of a masterpiece, when I saw a whole lot of errant brushstrokes on the canvas.

I mean, my goodness. Rick Peterson was out on the mound after just six pitches in the 1st. Then again in the 3rd. And the 5th. And for good reason: Five walks in six innings. Of 97 pitches, 49 were strikes and 48 were balls. In the first, Ishii sandwiched walks around a crucial double play — that came on a 2-1 pitch. (Way to work a count, Mark Loretta!) In the third, Loretta was once again in a giving mood, somehow managing to bunt into a double play with two on and none out. (And Ishii then promptly walked Brian Giles.) In the fifth, Eric Young (who'd walked on four pitches) ended the inning by getting caught stealing on a 2-0 pitch. (On the other hand, it was poor Loretta at the plate again.) And in the sixth, with one out and two on (one via a leadoff walk), Xavier Nady drove a 3-2 pitch to deep left — where Floyd made a terrific running catch.

Six innings, no runs — but absolutely everything went right for Ishii. If Loretta hadn't had the day from Hell, think about what the score might have been when Nady came to the plate. I think in a lot of parallel universes, Nady's drive goes over Floyd's head to make it Padres 6, Mets 5 — assuming Ishii's even still around.

That didn't happen, and of course I'm glad. Heck, I hope that W calms Ishii down and he presents us with a very interesting problem once Trachsel comes back — in the same way that the good Victor Zambrano seems to have conquered the bad Victor Zambrano and started trusting his excellent stuff. (Now let's get the poor man some runs.) But let's not fool ourselves that Ishii had a good outing — he danced through a thunderstorm and somehow came out dry. Sometimes it's better to be lucky than good, but a wise man doesn't count on it twice.

Administrative Note: Anonymous comments have been disabled, because I'm tired of deleting online-poker comment spam. Apologies for any difficulties this causes.

I've been cruising Retrosheet on party-pooper patrol.

Through 107 games in 1991, the Mets were 57-50, 5-1/2 out of first in the N.L. East.

Final record: 77-84.

Through 96 games in 1992, the Mets were 48-48, 4 out of first in the N.L. East.

Final record: 72-90.

Through 94 games in 1996, the Mets were 46-48, 4-1/2 out of the Wild Card.

Final record: 71-91.

Through 106 games in 2002, the Mets were 55-51, 4-1/2 out of the Wild Card.

Final record: 75-86.

Through 94 games in 2004, the Mets were 47-47, 3 out of first in the N.L. East.

Final record: 71-91.

In 1969, when we made the playoffs, we were 55-40 through 95 games.

In 1986, when we made the playoffs, we were 65-30 through 95 games.

In 1988, when we made the playoffs, we were 58-37 through 95 games.

In 1999, when we made the playoffs, we were 54-41 through 95 games.

In 2000, when we made the playoffs, we were 52-43 through 95 games.

Through 95 games in 2005, the Mets are 49-46, 4-1/2 out of first in the N.L. East and the Wild Card.

Just sayin'…

On the other hand, in 1973, when we made the playoffs, we were 42-53 at this point.

At heart, I'm no party-pooper.

If the Mets were in the National League West, they'd be a half-game out of first. And the commute home would be a bitch, so never mind. But we just did a pretty neat job of sweeping a first-place team on the back of the most foreboding pitching matchup since Heilman vs. Beckett.

This game of baseball — one never knows, do one? A blowout in your back pocket before three o'clock in the afternoon…at the expense of an All-Star starting pitcher, no less. It was a bad day for assumptions. It was a good day for the previously damned.

Ishii lives! (But if he misses the plane to Denver, that wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.) Willie suggested Kaz got the start because he's had some success against the San Diegoites in the past. You mean that studying precedents and planning around them actually works?

Benito Santiago has abandoned his Norfolk post knowing that the backup catching juggernaut known as Ramon Castro is powerful and unyielding. He could use a blow, though. Maybe Piazza can fill in for Ramon for the next four days.

Ted Robinson told a sweet story about how a righteous Gerald Williams stood up for a callow Bernie Williams against a taunting Mel Hall in a tense clubhouse situation long ago. His “great teammate” attributes continue to trump his “washed-up” qualities where Willie (who witnessed the aforementioned morality play) is concerned. If the GW bridges some unseen gap between Mets and makes 12-0 wins possible, then I will cease mocking him as the human white flag of surrender. Until we lose four in a row.

The heretofore rusty Doug Mientkiewicz got well against some chump named Peavy…oh crap, we play them out there next month and I just provided him with bulletin board material. Go take it out on the Phillies, Padres. Then forget about us.

Thus unfurls the complexity of a league full of competitors. Today's enemy is tomorrow's ally. I have just rooted home Odalis Perez and the Dodgers in Philadelphia so we could touch down in third for the night. By the time the 5 o'clock whistle blows on Friday (and everybody's working for the weekend), Los Angelinos will be the objects of our disaffection. And, yes, we'll need those can't-dress-themselves Friars to cook on our behalf.

You stay classy, San Diego. And thanks for stopping by.

I know, I know, from Throwing in the Towel to Too Excited. But I want this game.

Oh, it'll be tough to do: Kaz Ishii vs. Jake Peavy isn't the kind of matchup that sends you running to Vegas. And hey, it's not out-on-a-ledge time if we take two out of three instead of sweeping. But this team is playing well and about to play a patchwork Dodgers team before starting five weeks of crazy yo-yo-ing back and forth across the country. We don't need this game, but in six or seven weeks it could stand out as a game we sure wish we'd had. It's not quite time to say all-in or go home, but it's getting there, and this is an excellent chance to get off the .500 treadmill and aim at a bad stretch of road with some momentum.

But OK, enough. No need to anger the baseball gods. Games are reduced to plays are reduced to pitches. So here we go, Mets: This pitch. There's gonna be about 290 of them, but they'll come one at a time. So let's take 'em that way.

Kaz Ishii and those who follow him, what are you trying to do with this pitch? What are you gonna throw? Where are you going to throw it? What's the purpose of it in approaching this hitter?

David Wright and everyone else in the field, are you positioned properly for this pitch? If the ball comes to you, what are you doing with it? If it doesn't come to you, what are your responsibilities?

Carlos Beltran and everyone else walking to home plate, what's your goal on this pitch? What's the count? What's Peavy got? What's he thrown you in this at-bat? In previous at-bats? What will the runner (or, hopefully, runners) be doing? What do you need to do with the bat?

Focus on this pitch. Then do it again until there are no more. Let's go. Let's get this game.

The Mets are playing the way they're supposed to and have won three in a row. They're two games over .500, a half-game out of third, five from the Wild Card, 5-1/2 away from first.

To reluctantly paraphrase a Yankees fan overheard in the upper deck six years ago who was desperate to downplay the significance of what Matt Franco had just done to Mariano Rivera, t'row a pahty — the Mets are in fourth place.

It's all very nice, but I won't be wondering who let the dogs out for at least a little while. Excellent game, don't get me wrong. The Mets are warming up and the weather at Shea, like its primary tenant, proved bearably hot. Good stuff. But Dr. Freud would caution us that sometimes a three-game winning streak is just a three-game winning streak. Let's make it four before breaking down the Doors.

'Twas another Six-Pack night, a fantastic merchandising gimmick. Without them having been slipped in among the Braves, Yankees and Home Opener, I can't imagine 31,000-plus would've shown up at the end of a 90-degree day to watch the Padres no matter what the standings say about them. I wouldn't have gone out of my way for San Diego. Six-Pack partner and FAFIF Comments doyenne Laurie surely wouldn't have. “What am I doing here?” she asked after attacking…

• the Padres as worthless adversaries and human beings

• the pukey Padre road togs as something out of a diaper

• our various Section 9 neighbors for their steady, two-fisted support of your local Anheuser-Busch brewery (indeed, we were a sober sandwich between two slices of drunk)

• the guy in the next row who last week thought Jose Offerman was Marlon Anderson

• the heat

• the humidity

• the tobacco industry's clientele

• and the Texas Rangers

All valid targets. I was impressed.

“You're a one-woman show.”

“That's not a compliment, is it?”

“Sure it is.”

We had fun. We had seven runs of fun. We should've had eight. That balk business was loopy. Jose dancing off third was something out of the Bobby V playbook, which made me slightly misty for (everybody, all at once) Steve Bieser. Whenever a dispute with an umpire gains steam, I grab for my radio. By the time I untangle the earbud cord, Gary is halfway through explaining all that went wrong. Then I parrot it like I really heard everything he said and really understand what I'm talking about.

“Meriweather made a horrible call! You can't reverse a balk! You can't consult on a balk! You can't argue a balk! Bochy should be thrown out! C'mon Willie! C'mon Jose! Fight! Fight!”

Honestly, I had no idea, but Gary Cohen is my rabbi. I would rely on him to interpret the Talmud if I had any desire to know anything about that austere document. I just know that a Mets run disappeared without the Padres doing anything to erase it. Somebody should've paid dearly. I'd wanted Glavine to dust the first Padre hitter he saw. What that had to do with Chuck Meriweather is still not apparent to me, but it was kind of warm and all I was drinking was water.

Which reminds me…concession tip for non-Friday night/non-Saturday afternoon games: the Kosher hot dog stand beats Nathan's hands down. I have the most gruesome ketchup-mustard stain to prove it. The creepy Jews For Jesus pamphlets (which include a New York Baseball Trivia Quiz chock full of misspellings) that have been handed out of late by earnest zombie types — the ones not hawking credit card applications — on the 7 extension can be used to soak up your dripping condiments.

Where was I? Oh yeah, Glavine didn't hit anybody but the Padres didn't do much to Glavine. Maybe he's an older version of Barry Zito at this point of the season, a good pitcher who has found a way around whatever was bothering him. I'd hate to show Glavine that much appreciation except he is here and is wearing whatever combination of shirt and cap that marks him a Met. We're paying him, he may as well earn it.

Juan Padilla may just turn out to be this year's Bartolome Fortunato. Bartolome Fortunato turned out to be last year's Jose Parra when Jose Parra couldn't handle the pressure of being Jose Parra for very long.

Hence, the Pythagorean Theory of middle relief suggests Juan Padilla may already be Jose Parra. As long as nobody's DeJean, we'll be fine.

Carlos Beltran has gotten it through his head that he wasn't playing behind Tom Glavine Wednesday night. He was playing behind Pedro Glavine. Thursday's starter is Pedro Ishii, followed by Pedro Zambrano. Whatever it takes, CB. Whatever it takes.

And dear old Mike, driving in three runs, homering and answering another cry of “Encore! Encore!” It seems to have dawned on everybody all at once that Piazza is a dish likely served not at all next year, so he's getting a hero's reception every time he shows the back of his head. (Laurie didn't mind Heilman's extended stint of relief because, she let on, where there's crouching Mike, there's hidden pleasure.) Surely grateful Mets fans will continue to shower their all-time great with the love and respect he deserves for the rest of the season.

Until he grounds into a couple of double plays. I think they'll give him a pass on the first one. But he'll hear it once he fails twice. That's love and respect Shea Stadium-style in 2005.

I'm not sure it's rising (let alone risin'), but at the very least it's fluttering suggestively.

Reyes was so good tonight they had to give one of his runs back. Carlos showed more signs that quad is finally just another muscle. Floyd bashed and ran and did all manner of good things, Wright played some sparkling defense and Piazza once again looked like a mountain of pressure has been taken off his shoulders in the #6 hole.

And then there's TMB. Some of my anger at Glavine's failings this year has been due to my assessment — no doubt highly accurate through a TV screen — of why he's been failing. It's been hard to blame Kaz Ishii for screwing up because watching him you got the feeling he couldn't change, and being mad at Kaz Ishii for being Kaz Ishii seems kind of pointless. Watching Glavine, though, was different: I got the feeling he wouldn't change, and that was getting pretty close to unforgiveable, considering how poor the results were as Glavine hunted for the outer edge of an expanded plate that no longer existed, then gave in and threw mushy fastballs on hitter's counts. But not since that debacle in Seattle, and particularly not during his last two starts — he consistently pitched inside against the Braves last time out, showed some guts, and deserved better. This time he did the same — pitched inside, mixed in curveballs, and received better. (Sure, he wilted early, but that's eminently forgiveable. It's beastly out.) Bravo, Tommy. We might just come to like you yet.

Apologies for the '99 reference. If I ever work the Baha Men into this blog (and no, that doesn't count), feel free to put a price on my head.